Poetic Justice - Issue 24, Volume 3 by Wellington High School Literary Magazine

Poetic Justice Issue 24 Volume 3

Editor-‐In-‐Chief Stacy Kappel Assistant Editor Sarah Workman Production Editor

Copy Editor

Managing Editor

Amanda Capote

Erin Bryant

Kara Flanders

Head Poetry Editor

Head Prose Editor

Head Art Editor

Amaris Fairchild

Sami Torres

Presli Palozzola

Associate Poetry Editors Erin Bryant, Rachel Formanek, Diana Hauter, Kait Lavecchia, Sinclair Sadovic, Lia Mar Turner, Gisele Wilkerson Associate Prose Editors Savannah Edwards, Gabby Grove, Marisol Hansen, Zac Jacobson, Joshua McGovern, Emilie Sal Associate Performance Poetry Editors Grace Gilsinan, Elana Marcus Associate Art Editors Elizabeth Deuschle, Jasmine Linares, Mariam Mikhael, Marilene Rivas, Gabriel Sabol, Madeleine Venere Advertisement Kait Lavecchia, Elana Marcus, Elayna Whitten Scapegoat Elayna Whitten Faculty Advisor Mr. Laubscher

Editors’ Page

Editor-In-Chief Stacy Kappel I’m extremely thankful for having the privilege of producing this magazine. The creativity and hard work of my peers in Lit Mag continue to inspire me and truly represent the essence of this magazine. I am honored to have been able to work with Sarah on this magazine; her thoughtfulness and attention to detail are far beyond extraordinary and I’m so thankful we could share this experience together. Our Lit Mag class is blessed to have Mr. Laubscher as our teacher and supporter. He has done a phenomenal job with the program this year and I know he will continue to improve and embellish this program in years to come. These last two years of Lit Mag have been an enriching and fun experience and I want to thank all of you for your dedication and support in my progression as a writer. #LitMag2k16

Assistant Editor Sarah Workman I am extremely humbled to have taken part in the production of such an amazing magazine. I am so relieved it’s complete, and I’m psyched to hear about people’s reactions to this magazine. I’d like to thank Stacy for putting so much work and commitment to this magazine! I’d also like to thank the Lit Mag class for their amazing pieces put into this magazine, and Mr. Laubscher for putting up with the Lit Mag class for a year. I wish him luck with the Lit Mag program as the years go forwards. I’m so thankful to have been a part of Lit Mag the last two years, and it was truly an amazing experience. I hope you all like the magazine!

Table of Contents Poetry P.8 Dance the World Away by Elana Marcus......................Art by Gabe Sabol P.9 Magma by Sarah Workman....................................Photo by Presli Palozzola P.10 Tomorrow’s Promises by Stacy Kappel......................Photo by Presli Palozzola P.15 Vows to My Best Friend by Emilie Sal.....................Photo by Sarah Workman P.16 Breathless by Amaris Fairchild...........................Photo by Sarah Workman P.17 What I Remember by Savannah Edwards......................Art by Madeleine Venere P.18 Memory by Rachel Formanek................................Photo by Zac Jacobson P.21 Where I’m Headed by Diana Hauter.........................Photo by Zac Jacobson P.22 Loving and Living by Elayna Whitten......................Photo by Stacy Kappel P.24 Little Do You Know by Marisol Hansen.....................Photo by Stacy Kappel P.27 Tomorrow by Kait Lavecchia...............................Photo by Stacy Kappel P.29 Delicate Hands by Lia Mar Turner.........................Art by Madeleine Venere P.32 Internal by Lia Mar Turner...............................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.34 What Makes Us Human by Savannah Edwards..................Photo by Grace Gilsinan P.35 January 19th by Sarah Workman.............................Art by Erin Bryant P.37 Tsunami by Jasmine Linares...............................Art by Madeleine Venere P.38 Rose by Sarah Workman....................................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.41 The Forgotten by Stacy Kappel............................Photo by Presli Palozzola Prose P.11 Till Death or Divorce Do Them Part by Amanda Capote......Photo by Stacy Kappel P.12 December by Sami Torres..................................Photo by Rachel Formanek P.14 Monster by Gabby Grove...................................Art by Gabe Sabol P.19 Excerpt from The Western Ward by Mariam Mikhael..........Photo by Zac Jacobson P.23 Emergency by Jasmine Linares.............................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.25 Five Kind Folks Stranded at Sea by Elana Marcus..........Photo by Erin Bryant P.26 Hero by Gisele Wilkerson.................................Photo by Stacy Kappel P.28 Wilting Heath: Part Twelve by Madeleine Venere...........Photo by Marilene Rivas P.30 Fedortopia by Kara Flanders..............................Photo by Zac Jacobson 5

P.33 Silver Lining by Elizabeth Deuschle......................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.36 Anxiety by Sami Torres...................................Photo by Presli Palozzola P.39 The Desert of Stress by Gabby Grove......................Photo by Erin Bryant P.40 Baby Blue by Josh McGovern...............................Photo by Madeleine Venere Art P.6...........................................................Photo by Presli Palozzola P.6...........................................................Photo by Marilene Rivas P.7...........................................................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.13..........................................................Photo by Stacy Kappel P.20..........................................................Art by Mariam Mikhael P.31..........................................................Art by Erin Bryant Front Cover Photo by Presli Palozzola Back Cover Photo by Madeleine Venere P.3 Masthead P.4 Editors’ Page P.42 & 43 Staff Photos P.44 & 45 Poetry Live Feature by Elana Marcus P.46 & 47 Spring Lights Feature by Amanda Capote

Art by Mariam Mikhael

Art by Gabe Sabol

To the left of me, everyone is dancing. They’re all smiling and swaying and holding each other close like a giant family group hug and their moves are so in sync with the sound it’s like their hearts are predicting the beat and they keep insisting to one another that this is the best time of their lives and they insist that the world outside doesn’t exist and the only conflict that concerns them is the one between their feet and the dance floor and they’re complementing each other’s looks and they’re complementing each other’s moves and they’re converging into a circle around the best dancer in the room and they insist he is their savior and he insists he can do anything and they don’t care that they’ve heard this song a million times before and they don’t care that the DJ is so sick of his job that he is falling asleep to the very playlist

Dance the World Away

he created to make people feel alive again and they’re all glowing a million shades of metallic and they’ve never looked more beautiful than they do tonight and they’ve never had more friends than they do tonight and the only possession they feel worthy enough to own is the night and they’re all dying on the inside.

by Elana Marcus

Photo by Presli Palozzola

It starts in your gut. It stirs and churns as pressure continues to build and rises up through your mouth until words spat in spite erupt like hot lava. Spreading to your hands, your feet, burning every artery and vein with rage. It cracks your bones, it clenches your teeth. It’s wrath. It’s pain. It’s the thought that I let you make me feel this. You did more than scratch the surface, you disintegrated the whole entire plain.

Tomorrow’s

We throw polished stones across vast oceans spelling "HOPE"

Promises

with the expectation that someone on the other side will understand

by Stacy Kappel

what it's like to be able to peruse the prayers that are bound by each heartstring or to read your diploma hot off the press on your predestined graduation day. Billions of children across the globe will never be given the liberation of experiencing the unshakeable sensation of caressing waxy book pages until their plump fingertips are engraved with tomorrow's promises of foreign students donating a single book for social media glory. Words are merely strings of consonants and vowels to many but are cryptic enigmas to penniless children whether across continents or down the street. letters form words and words for sentences, sentences form ideas and ideas spark a passion that can light a million embers encrusted within our souls.

Photo by Presli Palozzola 10

The beat up pair of black Converse sneakers tangled in the telephone wire seems like a metaphor today. The day is a mess of tangled relations and missed connections, and in the middle of this nest lies a funeral for the lovers’ youth. From the attendees understanding, weddings are supposed to be a joyous affair; the joining of two souls, till death or divorce do them part. This sham of a wedding does not fit the profile. It’s filled with unresolved tension and hateful glances. The bride’s father keeps sneaking sips from his silver flask filled with whiskey, becoming less and less subtle as the night progresses. Everyone has conveniently been avoiding topics of consummating the marriage as the bride and groom can hardly stand to share a glance let alone a bed. The children dressed in frilly dresses and starched suits are the only ones having fun. Running off a sugar high, they dance around the ballroom and sneak pieces of cake whenever their moms aren’t looking. They don’t believe marriage is an old, useless tradition, like their parents. Marriage is for uniting the prince and princess at the end of the storybook before their ride off into the sunset on horseback for happily ever after. No, only some guests have the notion that marriage is about hard work, compromise, and signing away your freedom; it’s more like a ball and chain around your ankle rather than a ring around your finger.

Till Death or Divorce Do Them Part by Amanda Capote

Photo by Stacy Kappel Photo by Stacy Kappel 11

Sometimes when it is dark and the sun comes from behind the snow-‐ burdened Mahogany, one can hear the trees desperately cry out for relief. It’s a howling, like the chilling calls of a wolf in the night. They echo against the magenta mountains as daunting shadows decorate the floor. The once feather-‐light flakes are now overbearing on the mighty wooden branches. Tense wooden limbs creak in the silence as the world carefully watches. A single snowflake finds its home on the tip of a branch, and the ruby wood cannot struggle to stand upright anymore. A deafening bang unsettles the earth as the wood releases its hold on the white debris and shakes itself like a wet dog does its coat. The howling is gone, and the cold night air is silent.

December by Sami Torres Photo by Rachel Formanek 12

Photo by Stacy Kappel

Monster

by Gabby Grove

People say the only monsters are the ones with thousands of shark teeth and slime oozing out of their skin. Monsters that drip evil and sweat danger. Monsters that come alive in the dead of night when only the insomniacs are awake. Monsters that hide under beds and hidden crevices in the corners of rooms. Monsters that are vanquished permanently by the hero, never to be seen again.

People are liars.

The monsters I know are invisible. They don’t wait for the cover of darkness to appear. They’re everywhere all the time. The elements have no control over them. They laugh in the face of heroes and swat them aside like cockroaches. They take refuge inside your skull and scramble up everything in sight. Monsters in my world tend to talk a lot. But they’re like parrots in that sense: They repeat what they hear.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Stop asking me the same question.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re annoying.”

“Get over it.”

My monsters live in the world as much as I do. They hear what I hear. They see what I see. They rob my senses and distort the pictures, warping them with acid and fire.

The scariest thing about my monsters? I don’t know where they end and I begin. Art by Gabe Sabol

and you’re drowning in your fears,

I promise

I promise to pull you to shore.

to always sing

I will jump on a moving train,

at the top of my lungs

push my way across the Rocky Mountains,

when I hear our favorite song, even if you’re in the passenger seat of a different car. When my kids ask about the pictures, I promise

and tread through treacherous waters. I promise that no matter which path we may find our feet leaving fresh prints on,

to tell them about you-‐

the girl who was meant to have wings, I will always find my way back to and how we taught each other to dream. the one If you find yourself

where we walked side by side.

with water rising to your neck,

I promise

that you will always be

my best friend.

Vows to My Best Friend by Emilie Sal

Photo by Sarah Workman 15

Breathless

Photo by Sarah Workman

by Amaris Fairchild

I’m suffocating. My lungs still pull in air, but it’s not the same. I’m drowning. My clover-‐colored eyes spill tears in an endless stream. I’m breaking. My mouth forms the same smile, but it’s a lie. Dead girl walking.

What I Remember

Art by Madeleine Venere

by Savannah Edwards

how the maple brown cabinets fit so well with the I think of your kitchen, crème colored walls. how on earth could I remember us standing there, I think of your kitchen always cramming our when it came to you? I forgot your big brown eyes, faces with food. always being lined and powdered, But eventually instead your lips a pomegranate red hue. of it just being us, your kitchen filled I always thought that with beer cans, you must have been the most people we never even knew. creative little girl, wiping her face with different I watched you spill your drinks, colors you didn’t too happy to care. even understand. I remember your kitchen, But your kitchen, why? and how it came with innocence. I remember the look, But innocence can’t last forever. 17

Wood-‐paneled walls, patchwork quilt,

Memory

bookcase stuffed to the brim, and lemon yellow countertops, the two-‐bedroom apartment that held the five of us. I watched it get emptied out one summer day. Our furniture carried down the stairs, and my toys passed through the open window. The huge truck waiting outside for us. I did not realize this would be the beginning of the end. I would be leaving my concrete city behind me. I did not yet know that the Florida heat would eventually seep its way between my parents.

Photo by Zac Jacobson 18

by Rachel Formanek

Excerpt from The Western Ward

by Mariam Mikhael

…The sun began to sink, and was obscured by clouds. The forest got darker. Clarence sat near the stream, throwing any pebbles within reach and watching the ripples they make idly, taking his mind off his fears. Bored of throwing pebbles, he rolled his sleeves up and neared the stream, cupping its cool water and gently splashing it against his face, rubbing at his eyes as he did so. Upon entering the cooling shade of the forest, Ellen took a left and laid the baggage down near a trio of massive stones that almost formed a small shelter. Clarence had sat back on the stream’s bank and was staring dreamily at a nonexistent object in the distance. He must be really tired indeed, then, she mused as she neared him very quietly, barely making a noise, despite the grass under her feet. Clarence, unsuspecting, began to shift his weight as he sat. He was still daydreaming. As he did so, Ellen roared and nimbly pushed him into the stream, probably scaring him half to death before he crashed into the cool water. He could swim well, she knew. Moments later, his head resurfaced, gasping for air and sputtering all the slurs and curses he knew at her, and her loud laughter almost drowned out his frustrated shouts. When he regained her bearings, he began swimming to the bank, but was interrupted by a wave that rose above his head, drowning him for a moment. He spat a few more curses as he still struggled to make his way to the bank, but more waves seemed to be attacking him from behind. He looked over his shoulder, scowling in frustration, to see Ellen having jumped in behind him and shoving massive waves of water at him. She was laughing ceaselessly. He wondered how fast she could move, and how she could make fun and laugh at almost anything and everything. Being taller than him, she had better footing and continues showering him with wave upon wave. Gathering all his strength and balance, Cliff retaliated and shove some water her way. The woman, still laughing, let out a short meep and slipped as she tried to avoid the shower, then regained her footing once more, officially ending the water battle. They were both painting a little, and cliff saw his chance to swim back to dry ground…

Photo by Zac Jacobson 19

Art by Mariam Mikhael

Photo by Zac Jacobson

Where I’m Headed

just haven’t found the road that

by Diana Hauter

takes me where I need to be,

The thought of what lies ahead has me trembling and I’m not sure I’ll find it anytime soon. like a frightened child Perhaps I won’t know until I’ve already whose eyes cautiously skim the surface gotten to wherever that place is. underneath the bed. As for now, these thoughts remain I despise uncertainty and its room for failure. in my troubled mind. I want the answers as to what I am doing and I can’t say where I’m headed quite yet, where I am going. but I am certain of one thing; I am not lost I will get there. 21

What is there to it?

Loving and Living

Breathing? Being?

You walk on two feet, always forward,

by Elayna Whitten

only backwards to avoid danger. Then I walked right into you and I became attached like glue, like string intertwined into seams.

The beating in my chest and yours act as the thread; they bind perfectly. But I remember what it took to get the thread through our fabric. It took piercing the fabric, and it was reinforced and back stitched. Our love made me realize that just being wasn’t living, that was just surviving. All there was to this was being hopeful, feeling, giving everything my all. But through time, it seems that we’ve frayed; I pull one way as you pull another. The worst is the pain when we realize we are ripping each other. The pain is all too real, but I need to walk on, that’s the deal. So what is there to this? Breathing? Being? How tragic.

Photo by Stacy Kappel 22

Emergency

It’s a Wednesday night in the ER With little to no action. The nurse in The left wing has her hair down, coffee in her hand, and a stethoscope on her side. She’s struggling to keep her eyes open just like everyone else around here. It starts to drizzle and the water crashing onto the clear windows sounds soothing. After the phone rings, I spy the woman’s facial expression hoping for some action to take place. She hangs up and calls for emergency staff to prepare. Thirty-‐four-‐year-‐old male, excessive convulsions, fever, bleeding ears, and body rashes. He is brought into an unconscious state. His hair, brown and short, un-‐brushed gently to the left side. Greasy too, I can tell he had not showered in days. “His pressure is falling and his lungs are failing!” yelled one of the nurses. It was only my third day on the job and the machines beeping were making my head collapse. I reached for the oxygen tank and mask, the clock was ticking. A man’s life was in jeopardy and I had the power to help. “This is my chance.” I thought. Several years in medical school, sleepless nights, countless hours in the library with elderly women complaining; it had all been worth it. After minutes of fast action, yelling, and needles, I felt a wave of accomplishment rush through. The machine was stable and so was the man. I sighed with relief as he was taken to his room for further tests. My heart was happy and I felt at peace, somewhat confident, in what I had just done. I took my gloves off and threw them away just as I caught a glimpse of the doctor, smiling and nodding with approval.

by Jasmine Linares

Art by Mariam Mikhael 23

Little do you know that every time

your little girl a long time ago,

you look at me I crumble,

but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you;

fearing what’s coming next.

I just can’t trust you like I used to.

Little do you know that there’s days that

Little do you know that every time

I’m afraid to come home

you spit venom

because I don’t know how you’ll be

a piece of my heart turns to stone.

feeling that day.

Little do you know that I had to learn

Little do you know that your anger and

how not to hate everyone

hatred has corrupted my little brother,

despite what you told me

far beyond recognition.

when I was little.

Little do you know that when I look at

But…

him it reminds me of you.

Little do you know that you’ve

now I can’t even look at him.

put me back

Little do you know that

together piece by piece.

you’ve moved me around

Little do you know that I’ve

so much that I’m terrified to love again

changed for the best.

because I don’t want to

Little do you know that I’m

have to leave her behind.

learning how to love again,

Little do you know that I once worshipped

and for the record, SHE is wonderful.

the ground you walked on

Little do you know that you

before I learned what a monster you truly are. fueled my love for travel Little do you know that as much

and showed me how to appreciate

as I want to help you

the beauty in new places.

I can’t because you won’t change.

Little do you know you’re the

Little do you know that I stopped being

reason I’ll listen to Sinatra

until the day I die.

Little do you know, I’m trying.

Little Do You Know

by Marisol Hansen

Photo by Stacy Kappel

Photo by Erin Bryant “The final lifeboat on this ship bares only enough capacity for four passengers, and as your captain, I insist that the four of you should go. I’ve given my whole life to this ship, and I’d be a fool not to go down with her. If all of my blood were to be replaced with water, I’d still exist the same way. Let me be at one with the sea, for there is nothing left for me on land. Go now, there’s not much life in us left to spare.” “Pardon me, Captain, but I think I should be the one to stay. I’ve lived a full life. I’ve said all that I needed to say and walked all that I needed to walk. You fine people have so much of this world left to see. I’ve seen so much of this life that even the new chapters feel familiar. And as for you, dear Captain; you can scrape life from the bottom of barrels if you have to. And I promise I will treat your ship with the utmost luxury in its final hours, just as it has provided for us the last couple of days.” “I believe, nay, I know, with utmost certainty, that I will not only stay behind on this shipwreck, but I shall survive it too. I’ve read Moby Dick, I’ve watched Life of Pi in awe, I’ve danced to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” I’ve followed the tales of every great sea venture whose stories have risen beyond sea level, and I shall carry on their legacy. Books will be written about this day, interviews will be conducted in my honor, and tales of my heroism will be passed down for generations. And all you have to do is sit comfortably in that lifeboat and float to safety, and know that your companion will be thinking of you as he makes history.” “Well, that sure does sound like a nice plan, but I’m having trouble finding any substance in it. How exactly do you plan to escape a ship as heavy as this one as it sinks to the ocean floor? And even if you did make it out, what would you float on, and how would you survive from there? Surely, there must be other flotation devices aboard this ship, but you would have to possess a certain degree of expertise in the matter to implement such a plan. In case you couldn’t tell by my skepticism, I am a marine scientist. And this is why I should be the one to stay. I am the most likely out of anybody to survive this; even the captain doesn’t know what I know about the sea. In the short time I have before this ship sinks, I can concoct a foolproof plan for my survival, and that is a marine scientist’s guarantee.” “My apologies to both of you; marine scientist, you seem like a wise man, and you, well, your confidence impresses me, but you’re both buffoons if you think you have a chance to survive this. Whoever stays behind doesn’t stand a chance against these harsh waters, so it should be someone who will appreciate this sacred time before death and who will see the beauty that lies beneath the cruelness of the ocean. This may sound crazy to all of you, but I have never once laid eyes on the ocean before this excursion. I’d only ever seen it before in movies and pictures, and when I stepped aboard this ship those couple days ago, I was in awe. There are no words in any language that are capable of describing this feeling, and I’d be satisfied if this could be the last feeling I’ve ever felt. So do me a favor, wipe your tears away, and allow me to have this moment. But I see that you all have no intentions of giving up this easily, so I’m prepared to argue for as long as I have to, to get you four on that lifeboat.” And so they did. The captain, the adventurer, the hero, the marine scientist, and the ocean virgin continued to present their arguments to one another until the ship crumbled beneath their feet. Some have called it the greatest debate of all time. And so ends the tale of the true unsung heroes of the sea; the ones who were too kind to let each other drown, and so they all drowned together.

Five Kind Folks Stranded at Sea by Elana Marcus

She ran because that was all she knew. She hid from authority. The “good-‐cop-‐bad-‐ cop” routine never fooled her. They were just hunting for an excuse to put more of her kind behind bars. It’s not like she asked to be a “hero.” In fact, if someone had said that to her face five years ago, she would have laughed in theirs and then punched their lights out. Now, that wasn’t an option, not anymore. There were no “good heroes” in the world, only demons hiding behind their powers, wreaking havoc across towns and cities, destroying families in an instant. The eradication of their species started before she was born, before she knew what she was, before she was labeled as a hero, a title she never wanted or deserved. Most of the adults have grown weary, resigned to the fact that heroes now populate the world, destroying the masses with their toxic anarchist agendas. The children however, her generation including the young toddlers, they’ve brought back the real meaning of what it means to be a hero. Instead of blindingly using their powers for short-‐term mayhem, fueled by adrenaline rage and teenage angst, they’ve started using their powers to help people. Of course, they’re only a small percentage of the population that acknowledges what their powers could do, how it could harm, and mend people and civilizations. She’s one of the lower-‐ranked heroes, low enough on the radar that she could slip past important figures who’d want to do her people harm, but high enough that she could fend for herself, even if she didn’t have speed and stealth on her side. There are a few reasons why she loves her cat-‐like abilities; even if the urge to cough up a nonexistent fur ball now and again is something she’ll never live down. But for now, she hides away in the shadows, content with her place in this world, with her new superhero identity.

Hero by Gisele Wilkerson

Photo by Stacy Kappel

Tomorrow

by Kait Lavecchia

Tomorrow, smile at someone that you’ve never seen before. Take time to think of others that you feel compassion for. Tomorrow, tell somebody how they brighten up your day. Let random acts of kindness put your feelings on display. Tomorrow, hug your children somewhat tighter than before. Be sure to think of all the things you can be thankful for. Pat your dog a little longer. Hug and kiss your significant other. Thank your God for granting you another day of life. 27

The aging lady had woken up early in the morning. With her deteriorating sight, she nonetheless stared in the direction of the location the boy had gone to yesterday. She fidgeted with her silver braided hair out of anticipation, patiently waiting. He would come today. Her flower motif cup of tea was intact, untouched, and had become cold. Rain tapped the window panes as the translucent drops left a wet trail behind them. Her husband would wake up to an empty, cold bed, her side deserted. The man cried out, as he desperately searched for signs of her. Loneliness is what an old married couple fears the most. To both leave the world at the same time is what they wish. The more he struggled to get out of bed and stand up, the more he’d tangle his legs around the sheets. His efforts were useless as he sprawled face first to the floor. He let out an inaudible wail, his weak voice fighting the sounds of the rain. The lightning struck, and lurking flashbacks of war came rushing back to him. They ended as soon as they had started, when his wife came at the veteran’s rescue. She rocked him softly in her arms, and kissed the inside of his wrist before letting his palm rest against her cheek. “Not yet.” she murmured.

Wilting Heath: Part Twelve by Madeleine Venere Photo by Marilene Rivas 28

Delicate Hands

by Lia Mar Turner

she gleamed at the world with certainty. Certainty. That is all. Oh, how anyone would yearn to know the certainty she held within,

She was peculiar in ways that only and how playful of her to keep her presence could describe.

her thoughts to herself.

The way her dark hair fell

It was as though she tended a

around her pale skin,

garden in her skull that she

with eyes to match each separate

knew the world was not yet

strand.

ready to wander in.

She took, she took.

She had delicate hands with

She never seemed too pleased with

which she only seemed to

what she took from this world.

touch worthy beings.

With eyeliner the same

She had delicate hands,

such delicate hands.

Art by Madeleine Venere 29

Photo by Zac Jacobson

Fedortopia by Kara Flanders

My gaze was fixed on the descending horizon. I could look the fiery sky straight in the eye all the way up on the balcony of my three-‐story St. Augustine beach house. The crystal clear waves of the Atlantic Ocean hypnotized me into a state of unconsciousness as if I was absolutely satisfied with my life. However, a salary of $200,000 a year wasn't making ends meet with my happiness. I needed a person. I needed a man who could be a true gentleman to me, opening doors and referring to me as “M'lady.” Suddenly, my nose took in a strong scent that was crossed between cilantro and sweat. Was it Old Spice? Axe? Crinkling my nose in disgust I begin to search for the source of the middle school boy-‐like fragrance application. I flick the light switch on and a there it was, a black velvet fedora with a neon orange feather sitting on my couch. I look to my left and there's another one on my dining room table, this time solid gray. Convinced there were people in my house, my heart begins to race. Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead as I tried to decide how to quickly defend myself in the spur of the moment. My stomach dropped when I felt heavy breathing on the back of my neck. I turned around and to my surprise I was looking up at a ten-‐foot tall fedora. Soon, I wasn't the only one surrounded by fedoras. They overthrew the government and established their own Fedorian administration across the globe. It wasn't a man's world anymore, but a fedora's world. Thanks to this new Fedortopia, I can finally say I'm the happiest woman in the world. After the fedoras took over, I found my gentleman who treated me like I was the only hat in his life. I finally say my life is a beautifully constructed work of fashionable art with a neon orange feather.

Art by Erin Bryant

You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve met, you’re so ugly. I’m the ugliest girl you’ve met, I’m so beautiful. But you see, you’re worth so much more than I am. Your poetry, your voice, the way your hair never falls into place perfectly. Your skin isn’t clear, your eyes aren’t diamonds, you don’t tower over me. You are more than that. You are the ending of my sentence, he words before I’ve spoken. You are the exhale before I’ve inhaled, the step before I’ve stood up. You are the infinite future, and the perfect timing that doesn’t exist. You are so ugly, but you’re more than society’s figures of beauty, and if they could see the inside of your mind, you’d be on the cover of every magazine.

Internal by Lia Mar Turner

Art by Mariam Mikhael

If each of my tears were woven in a fragile widow’s web, cloud catching rather than watching would have granted me a fortune at my feet. A future would open where I could blame the practicality of fate for my grievances; for every miracle that it neglected to give me for it never came . in my wake. I would never be forced to blame myself instead of existing because the world would have chosen to spit on me instead of I on him. He believed in silver linings, even when he never got one. He put his faith in me, when he only ended up being disappointed. Fate is cruel and so am I. I spend my evenings alone now, weaving the silver linings I managed to grasp in hopes of replacing the silver band you left on my finger.

Silver Lining by Elizabeth Deuschle

The smile on your face when you tie your shoe for the first time, and that heart-‐warming grin you will see from your mother for another forty years and the one you’ll remember in fifty. The first heartbreak, locking yourself in your room, favorite sad song on repeat. The first car, your foot hitting the gas a little too hard. Your dad’s nerves showing through the blood vessels in his bright blue eyes you inherited. It’s the final goodbye to a dear friend, learning that separation from those who cannot be on your path, is vital for your life. It’s curling up in your apartment, wondering how you got so far from the sunshine. Going through your life and wondering how it works. Who created us? How was the alphabet deciphered? Who created the people who created the necessities we have in our life? Wondering how our planet is the only one we can see or know that will sustain life. How everything is exactly perfect and if i were a little less or little more, We wouldn’t be here. We do live in a perfect world with perfect air, perfect water, and perfect atmosphere. But what makes us human? That is finding imperfections in a perfect world.

What Makes Us Human by Savannah Edwards 34

Photo by Grace Gilsinan

Your cold hands placed themselves on my hips, sending me into a jerking reaction, like you touching me was something I wasn’t prepared for.

When you told me you loved me,

all I felt was brisk, rigid air.

When you whisked by a tree,

leaves crumbled and fell to the ground.

When you told me you loved me,

January th 19 by Sarah Workman

shivers were sent up and down my body. I started to wear dark colors because it goes better with your season. When you told me you loved me,

Art by Erin Bryant

I had to put my jacket on. When you walked into a room all I could see was overcast. You were like winter, you were everything I thought you would be. Cold, brittle, numb. When you told me you loved me, it was 47 degrees.

Red brick walls hide what the world can’t see behind the closed oak door. Tumblers turn as my key slowly unlocks the gates of Hades. Dad’s screams and mom’s sobs can’t be drowned by the music that blasts through my headphones. The door shuts behind me and suddenly the room began to spin. Purples and blues fade into black and I’m engulfed by the darkness. My breath scraps at the lining of my lungs as I desperately attempt to breathe. My nerves are so shot they leak blood from the entry wounds that are anxiety. Veins apace pulsing with the blue liquid that dyed my organs, stained red when exposed to the world. My hands shake, viscously vibrating towards the San Andreas Fault line that lies on my heart. Salty droplets are glittering constellations that fall from my lashes and onto my cheeks. My breathing is hoarse and ragged as the light begins to fill my eyes. I lie against the ground, my heart clutched in hand. My steady fast heart threatens to beat out of my chest. As my breath slowly falls, I barely noticed the eerie silence filling the house.

Anxiety

by Sami Torres Photo by Presli Palozzola 36

Tsunami

by Jasmine Linares

Art by Madeleine Venere

I look up and I’m blinded. The sand is warming my toes, the water instantly chills them. Glancing back I see the damage that’s been done. I stare deep into the ocean thinking how it could be possible for something so beautiful to be responsible for creating a disaster. Just then, the thought of you pops into my mind. 37

Art by Mariam Mikhael

Rose by Sarah Workman

Worn out combat boots clack with every step causing the concrete to send trembling waves beneath her. With every stride, her flower-‐patterned shirt flows as she marches against the wind. Her deep Lincoln-‐Park-‐After-‐Dark nails run through her blonde hair, while she folds it to the other side of her head. Her dark blue eyes are like the blown glass windows you used to lose yourself in at church when you were still young, with different hues of blue and grey illuminated by the outside light. She’s not innocent. She’s a wildfire that can’t be put out. She’s stronger than a hurricane, leaving behind damage, but no great tragedies.

The Desert of Stress

Photo by Erin Bryant

by Gabby

Please be careful and watch your step when boarding the bus. Our budget is tight, and we can’t afford another lawsuit anytime soon. I’ll be your tour guide, Psyche, today into the Desert of Stress. If you look to your right, you’ll see what seems to be a barren desert that stretches on for eternity under the sweltering sun. If you look to your left, you’ll see more desert and more obnoxious sunlight. Any feelings of hopelessness and despair you may be experiencing are perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of. Passengers, get your cameras ready. Up ahead on the right, you are about to witness what we call the Fantasy Mirage. It’s an image of you sipping pink lemonade on a beach chair without a care in the world. You are free of your responsibilities and inhibitions. If you blink, you’ll miss it. Oh, it’s gone. Better luck next tour, whenever that may be. By the looks of some of you, I would bet soon. I have a late bus to get to so we’re going to have to cut this tour short. I will be jumping out of those doors right there while you buckle up tight. At least imagine a buckling. We haven’t had seatbelts installed yet. You’ll be entering-‐dropping-‐into-‐the Black Hole of Anxiety. Sorry, folks, but what goes through the Desert of Stress can only go deeper. Escape is futile.

Grove

I looked into your specks of baby blue and you stole my voice. Luckily, you were doing all the talking at the time and you found my constant nodding to be a sufficient response. I may not have heard a single thing you said but at least you thought I was acknowledging it. That's the important part. Unfortunately for my sake though, I hadn't noticed you had stopped speaking for five minutes now and I was still nodding. It may not have been so weird had I been having my staring contest with the wall behind you. At least there it would have only seemed as though I wasn't listening (which I wasn't Photo by Madeleine Venere anyway), but no, our eyes were locked. Two blue eyes connected, and one pair starting to become comfortable with the other not looking away. After you looked around the room for a moment, hoping that by the time you looked back I would've found something more interesting to gawk at, you finally spoke up. "You're nodding. I'll take that as you understanding what I'm saying?" All I took from that was, "... Understand..." I understand that your eyes are very blue. I understand that blue is my favorite color, especially as eye color. I understand I should've stopped nodding once you said that, and I understand that that was probably the last science project you'd do with me. I managed to stop my perpetual nodding. I collected my thoughts and found my voice that was once lost. "I'm sorry, I just thought your eyes are beautiful." Then she smiled... And I nodded, and nodded, and nodded.

Baby Blue

By Josh McGovern

Where are the splintered, wooden stakes amongst graveyard sites six feet under that mark “You must be this tall to enter”? Fragile lives kissed by dark angels ascend into the mournful Stonehenge particularly too often. They allow the shadows of the naïve youth to consent their souls to dance together with the Devil and God, etching their freshly-‐remembered first names into weathered gravestones, juxtaposing their bubbly spirits, scabbing knees, and silky ringlets. Rest in peace to the children we have forgotten.

The Forgotten By Stacy Kappel

Photo by Presli Palozzola 41

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“A good writer

possesses not only

his own spirit

but also the spirit

of his friends.” -Friedrich Nietzsche