Will Road 5th Edition

WILL ROAD ISSUE 5

Will Road Issue 5 A journal of Creative Writing from the students of English 270/271, Winter Semester, section D01 and Winter Semester, sections D01 and DY1, Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Editor S. L. Schultz

Copyright 2021 Washtenaw Community College and the individual authors.

Republication rights to the works herein are reverted to the creators of those works.

The works herein are chosen for their literary merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

A note from the editor: This first edition of Will Road, Issue 5, reflects the thoughts and emotions of writers moving through the world, in a year unlike any other. While some pieces capture the impacts of the pandemic itself, others prefer to reminiscence on better times, more innocent states of being. You may laugh a bit, cry a little, and in the best scenario, relate.

S. L. Schultz

Table of Contents S. L. Schultz

When Pond and Sky Collide…………………………Cover

Wrenn Staton

Be the Change………………………………………………..2

Savannah Warner Where the Curly Haired Boys Run……………………….3 Theodore Graves

The Bus Stop………………………………………………….6

Kimberley Zigulis

Prisoners……………………………………………………….8

Haeji Jung

Fragile 2……………………………………………………….9

Zabrina Yannella

Uncertainty………………………………………………….15

Samantha Allen

Colors…………………………………………………………16

Giovonna Dyson

I’ll Try Again Tomorrow…………………………………17

Sharyl Martin

Platypus……………………………………………………..19

Jenna Dalton

The Game…………………………………………………… 20

Nevada Abraham

Dad……………………………………………………………22

Hannah M Howard Lovers………………………………………………………..23 Valerie Lammers

Silence……………………………………………………….24

Andie Klisz

American Girl HELP!................................................25

Caroline Murrel

A Leaf of History……………………………………………28

Claire Vogel

01/1/21………………………………………………………29

Catherine Baker

Blotted Moon ……………………………………………….30

Diana Malinovskiy

Untitled……………………………………………………….36

Esther Han

Emotional Displacement………………………………….38

Hugh Mason

The Sailor……………………………………………………..43

Kimberly McIntyre A Spring of Loss……………………………………………..44 Laura Chinchak

Beautiful………… ……………………………………………46

Lili Leier

Anxiety…………………………………………………………47

Lillian Lepper

I Am a Tsunami………………………………………………49

Linzy Costello

Sheltered……………………………………………………….50

Elizabeth Baker

Neither Happy, Nor Sad……………………………………..54

Madison Conforto Tiny Black Box…………………………………………………55 Makayla Sapienza What If…………………………………………………………..61 Maya Keeney

In Circles We Walk Solemnly………………………………67

Morgan Wilder

More………………………………………………………………72

Myles Wagstaff

Things in Life……………………………………………………73

Natalio Alvarado

Carefree in the Desert Apocalypse………………………..74

Nawal Chishty

Love……………………………………………………………….76

Omar Hernandez

Food in the Right Places……………………………………..77

Sara Stoelton

Follow Me: An Excerpt from Her Diary…………………..78

Sydney Sweeney

The Mask…………………………………………………………81

Taylor White

Exaltation to the Body………………………………………..82

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Be the Change Wrenn Staton There’s something forsaken in Detroit Deep seeded oppression Pretending like it’s not in every street Ignoring prevents depression Born into poverty, education is poor Political sovereignty, money no more Only way to escape is dollars But they’re poor even as toddlers We care about the opportunity that fell in our hands But never think of the kids that never got a chance We go to class thinking life is rough, another paper due There's a child that would do anything just to be you Kids told they’ll never make it Teachers don’t even have teaching degrees “I hate kids but I guess I’ll take it” Student with no chance to succeed.

A War On Drugs was a war on minorities Selling a bag of narcotics to feed your family Targeted directly by profiling authorities A month for white, 5 years for ethnicity I don’t think we pay enough attention Some even joke about the imbalance We don’t notice the racial oppression Nothing’s funny about cruel malice Think of the ones that you cannot see Stand up for what you know is right Have a voice for the ones that cannot speak It’s been a long battle, we must win the fight

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Where the Curly Headed Boys Run Savannah Warner On the corner of S Lake Michigan Dr And W Niagara St There sits a stone wall A stone wall that holds memories Kids arguing The start of a friendship Watermelon dripping The start of lunch 7 kids become a family Where the boys run We follow Down the beach Feet splashing through the shore To a sand dune High above the clouds Climbing and crawling to the top Flipping and flopping back on down Where the boys run We follow Back to the stone wall Flames are flying Smores are roasting Breeze is blowing Sun is setting In a circle, we are compiled From a birds-eye view, it’s

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Curly hair that springs each way 3 are blonde 3 brunette 1 is right in the middle Sometimes there has been one extra A special someone But not one of the seven No matter the number We love one another Just like we love the lake All are watching The fire burn The smoke rises to The dark sky is filled With tiny specks of burning light What a beautiful starry night Where the boys run We follow

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The Bus Stop Theodore Graves CHARACTERS MAN WITH RED HAT MAN IN GREY COAT Character descriptions: Man with red hat: a tall, thin older gentleman with gray beard, wearing a red cap to protect his balding head from the cold winter air while waiting at a bus stop.

Man in grey coat: a short and stout, cleanshaven older man, wearing a large grey coat who sits down next to the man with red hat.

[The play begins as the stage curtains unfold to reveal a brightly lit, albeit aesthetically dull bus stop in early winter. There is no snow on the ground, but the lighting suggests an overcast, cold day. Behind the bus stop are various brown, nondescript urban townhouses showing the scene takes place in a large city. This is furthered by a plethora of sounds typical to an industrial setting, such as construction work and distant car alarms. At the bus stop sits a man with a red hat, waiting for the bus to arrive so he can get to his unspecified destination. Another gentleman wearing a grey coat similar in age comes out from offstage on the left side and walks towards the bus stop before stopping] Man in grey coat (GC): is this seat taken?

[GC points at the seat next to the man in the red hat] Man with red hat (RH) [looking up at GC while pointing at seat]: This one? Right here? No, it’s not. Have a seat if you’d like.

[GC sits down next to RH, and both men look away in an awkward silence for a few moments before GC strikes up conversation] GC [turns to look at RH]: This city has changed a lot since my youth. Matter of fact, right over there [motions diagonally offstage towards audience] used to be my old elementary school. They tore it down a couple of years ago to put in that new community center. It’s a shame, really.

RH [turns to GC, surprised]: Elementary school? You mean John Edwards Elementary? I went there too!

GC: Really? What a coincidence! Which years?

RH: ’75-79. What about you?

GC: ’75-79, too!

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RH [grinning]: That’s amazing! It really is a small world!

GC: I guess it is. Say, do you remember Mrs. Crabinch? The teacher who used to give out cookies during recess to any kid in school who could sing the alphabet backwards in under 10 seconds?

RH: The one with the red hair who always wore those big yellow glasses? Sure do! I could never sing it fast enough, though.

GC [contently]: This is such a pleasure to reminisce with someone! Do you remember that big broken swing set the kids used to dare each other to climb?

RH: Yeah, the rusty one the principal always warned us over the school announcements not to play on?

GC: What a hard-ass! Remember when he fenced off that big mud pit everyone used to play in? What a joke!

RH: Yeah, and he’d give any kid with mud on their clothes after recess a week’s detention! God, I almost forgot about Mr. Bensfield. Every time I think back to when that kid Jimmy Hoffield put a tack on his seat during assembly, I burst out laughing [begins to chuckle].

GC [laughing with RH]: He was a such a dick! He was almost as bad as that kid Andy… Wakerson? Now, that kid was a real pest! Remember how much of a teacher’s pet he was, always telling on the other kids over nothing? Everyone hated that kid so much!

RH [shocked look on face]: Um… no, not really. I don’t remember him; was there anything else about him you can recall?

GC: No, not much. But I do remember egging his house with my friends every time he snitched on us. [smiling] Now, those were some good times!

RH [taken aback]: Well… I mean he sounds pretty annoying, but he couldn’t have been as bad as that little Stevie Ashford. That kid used to steal from everybody!

Teachers, janitors, the other kids; you name it! Now, that was a kid everyone hated!

[GC stares blankly at RH as his face goes white and eyes bulge] RH [continuing on gleefully]: Remember that time in the locker room after gym class when the boys rubbed poison ivy on his underwear, and he didn’t come back to school for a week? It was hilarious! [begins to chuckle].

[GC looks shocked as the sound of a bus from down the street interrupts the conversation] RH: Well, looks like it’s coming this way. It was fun talking to you… um… I actually didn’t catch your name.

GC [embarrassed]: Steven… Ashford. And you?

RH [shocked]: Um… Andrew Wakerson.

[The two men stare at each other before turning away embarrassed as the curtain closes].

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Prisoner Kimberley Zigulis I am a prisoner of my mind Consumed by thoughts Unwilling to pause or slow down.

I am a prisoner of my anxiety Consumed by worry Unwilling to break free of this cage.

I am a prisoner of my depression Consumed by dark thoughts Unwilling to see the silver lining.

I am a prisoner of my fear Consumed by the unknown Unwilling to take a chance.

I am a prisoner of my shame Consumed by guilt Unwilling to let go of the past.

But I am stronger than my demons I fight them every day And every day I’m one step closer To shaking off the chains.

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Fragile 2 Haeji Jung I sprinted across the room and tackled her so hard that the noose snaps from the rafter. We fall hard, and I grab my pocketknife and get the tightened noose off her neck. She gasps for air and I pull her in for a bear hug.

The End. …

Or is it?

Ladies and gents let me explain this. I’m pretty certain that most of you are like, “Uh… what’s this?” That little paragraph right there is part of the ending in Fragile. You see, it isn’t the real ending. It had to end like that. Like seriously… My friends are Blaine and Claire. They’re married so I nicknamed them Blaire. Claire sounded well, ew. I did cross paths with a Brittney. …

What? You guys already freaked out? Don’t be. I don’t think you should… I hope… maybe… >:D I crossed paths with her once, at a clothing store. That was it though. Nothing else happened. I don’t know why my story went so… morbid… It was so cheery, light, and so full of life! Then it got morbid…. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Let me…. restart….. guys?..... can…. hear… me?...... ….

This is how my story goes. The REAL story. Hope you enjoy. *evil soft laugh.

Also fading into the background until you can hear it no more* FRAGILE

“…Katrina, Blaine, and Claire.”

I looked up to where Katrina was sitting. I slightly twitched from anger. (Blaine

and Claire huh? I wasn’t assigned to her group. I fucking DESERVE to be in her group!)

On impulse I banged both my fists onto the dirty, worn out desk. I twitched again as I saw Katrina look for her group mates. I let out a muffled growl. “… worth at least 40%... due in four weeks. Have a good weekend everybody!”

I let out a ragged breath and got up and began to stalk towards Katrina. I hadn’t even gone five steps towards her when I stopped moving. Claire got there before I even had the chance to get there. (Fucking stuck up goody two shoes cunt. How dare

you fucking cut me off when it was damn clear that I was going to her. You are going to fucking pay for what you did you damn hoe! Mark my goddamn words, Claire. I will make you pay for this. YOU FUCKING CUNT!) I was so lost in my thoughts of cursing

Claire that I hadn’t realized that the classroom was empty.

I balled my hands up into fists as my whole body filled and shook with rage and anger. I scanned the empty classroom and my gaze stopped at Katrina’s desk. My gaze softened and my body stopped shaking, and I glided over to her desk. I ran my fingertips gently over her desk but didn’t touch it while doing so. I sighed from frustration. I knew better than to lay my hands on her or anything that she deemed

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was hers. I was just so grateful to be this close to her. I gripped the chair in front of her desk and flung it across the room angrily. The room hummed a bit and then stopped just as quickly as the hum came. I brushed off the minuscule dust that was on my skirt and blouse and straightened myself.

“Next time Katrina. Next time.”

I looked around but couldn’t decide. I held up the brightly colored shirt and the soft colored shirt. I let out a defeated sigh and put the shirts back on the rack. I came to the store to find a present for my darling sibling. I couldn’t decide if a dress was appropriate or a shirt.

Across the street, Katrina walked with a hop in her step. She had on headphones and was listening to her music. Speechless (Part 2) by Naomi Scott was ending and Rise

by Jonas Blue came on. Katrina knew that today was her day. She knew it was a good day. All the right songs came on and she only had to skip one song, mainly because she got over that song before the chorus. She began to mouth the words and slightly dance to the music. She then stopped and all of a sudden broke into a dance.

People that were walking by on the other side of the street, the few people that had yet to pass her, and the people in the cars driving by were staring at her but she didn’t care. She didn’t have a care in the world. They didn’t know what beat or music she was dancing to, but some of the people became mesmerized by her dancing. The dance itself was so beautiful that those who had witnessed said that her dancing style was “ballet,” “break dancing,” “tap,” “jazz,” “hip hop,” “contemporary,” etc. But truth be told, it was a little bit of everything, and it wasn’t. It was so beautiful that there were people who captured the moment on video or on camera.

I happened to look out the window deciding to give up when I saw her. I was awestruck. I was so awestruck that I had forgotten to breathe and what had me gasping for air was when our eyes met. It wasn’t for just a mere split second either. It felt like eons had passed by. Then she smiled and looked away. I gasped for air.

“Oh my god…” I whispered under my breath.

My legs decided that it was a good time to buckle underneath me. My hand reached out to hold onto the pole to my right. I had just barely held onto it before my tail bone crashed down on the floor. I plopped onto the ground softly. (Oh my god…

She was so beautiful and her smile! GAH!!!! I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest! (O/////O)) I stayed where I was for a while since I was still processing what had just happened.

“Hey. You alright?”

I froze in place for a moment before my body turned around to see who was speaking. I just about screeched my head off. (OMG!! OH, MY FUCKING GOD!!!! IT’S

THE GIRL! THE GIRL I JUST SAW! THE GIRL THAT STARED AT ME AND SMILED THAT SINFUL SMILE OF HERS! OMG!!!! SAY SOMETHING YOU FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING GODDAMN IDIOT!!!!! But don’t say something stupid. Be smarter than that.)

“Pie!” (… Yup. I’m an idiot. A lost fucking cause. I can’t believe I just said “Pie!” Jesus H Christ. I need to die…)

The girl giggled and then let out a twinkling laugh.

“You look nervous as hell. Did you drop something on the ground?”

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I was so dumbstruck that I’m pretty sure my mouth was opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. I managed to shake my head.

“No. I uh, fell. I’m uh… clumsy?”

The girl laughed. Her laugh sounded so twinklingly and made me feel like I was in mid to late Spring. (I think I’m in love with her… Fuck…) A hand suddenly appeared in my face. I blinked and blinked three more times. I looked up and I saw her smiling at me.

“Well? You gunna let me help you up off the floor?”

I nodded my head vigorously. I tentatively put my hand in hers and I shit you not. I felt sparks right after I put my hand in hers. I almost pulled my hand back but as soon as my hand was in hers, she tightened her grip and pulled me up in one fell swoop. I almost swooned.

“So… what’re you doing here?”

It took a second to register that she was still talking to me. I blinked and blinked two more times and found my voice.

“I’m here looking for a present for my sibling. She wanted a really cute dress or a shirt. I was just trying to figure out what style she’d like.”

“What kind of style does she like? Wait. Let me rephrase that. What kind of style does she have?”

I bit my lower lip trying to think of what style she usually has.

“The thing is… She just recently transitioned. Her style was unique and special. I don’t know if she’d like something colorful or pastel colored.”

She was a few paces away from me looking through the dresses on the dress rack. I looked at her. Studying her. She looked like an angel so pure. Her hair was the color of the sun when looked at through a dew in the morning. A pale yet softened yellow with tinges of what looked like white blonde scattered here and there in her hair.

She looked so serious yet focused on the task I had given her. Her eyes were two different colors. One had a soft pale green and grey in it that it looked like a pale emerald. The other was a stormy blue; it mainly would look grey but upon a closer inspection it had tinges of blue in it. She was so beautiful that it kind of scared me.

“What about this one?”

I snapped out of my stupor and my eyes gravitated towards the dress she had in her hand. It was perfect. Exactly what I was looking for. My face lit up with joy.

“Yes! Oh my god! YES!! That is exactly the kind of dress that my sister would love!”

She laughed and I about forgot how to breathe again. I smiled big and I got the dress from her. We got up to the cashier and I paid for the dress.

“Thank you! Please come again!”

The bell above the door rang as I opened it up for us to leave the store.

“Thank you so much for finding the dress! I don’t know- oh wait! Please let me treat you to lunch!”

She laughed and her eyes twinkled in the sun making both her eyes look like forbidden jewels.

“I’ll take you up on that offer....”

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“Brittney.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Brittney! I was actually on my way to get something to eat when I noticed you furrowing your brows looking outside. I had the urge to go inside to help you. When my gut tells me something, I normally follow it.”

She beamed and my heart skipped a beat or three. I meekly smiled at her.

“What’s your name?”

She grabbed her headphones that were around her neck and put it in her bag.

She looked up and smiled with her white teeth showing.

“I’m Katrina. Nice to meet you Brittney!”

She stuck out her hand for a handshake and I shyly shook her hand. (Jesus! Her

grip is so firm and strong. She’s such a strong beautiful person!)

“So, Brittney… what are you craving for?”

I cocked my head to the side and scrunched up my eyebrows.

“I’m not sure…”

Katrina chuckled and gently rubbed my forehead.

“You shouldn’t furrow your eyebrows, Brittney. I was told that you’ll get wrinkles that way.”

I blushed lightly. Her touch lingered on my forehead even though she was looking through her phone. I lightly touched my forehead and smiled to myself. I felt so much at ease with her around me. I felt like this was fate and that I wasn’t going to hate how we had just moved here. Katrina looked up from her phone and looked at me.

“What about The Bakery?”

I looked at her quizzically.

“The Bakery?... Isn’t that a… well… bakery?... Like pastry?”

Katrina giggled and put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards her.

“No silly! I mean, it kinda is but it’s more than that. It also sells regular food!”

“I’m sorry… I just moved here so I don’t know where things are here,” I timidly answered.

We started walking towards the direction in which The Bakery was located.

“Silly Britt! I can call you that right? It’s ok! You have me! I’ll be your guide for today!”

I blushed at how close we were, and I slightly lowered my head as Katrina looked up ahead and had a determined look on her face.

“Yea. You can call me Britt.”

Katrina smiled really big and side hugged me as we were walking side by side.

“Welcome to Bakers Pointe, Britt! I hope I’m your first friend that you made today! I hope I can be friends with you forever!”

That was the last thing she had said to me before the accident. I sourly scowled and roamed the streets. It was dead of the night and I found myself standing at the same exact spot that the accident happened. I looked up and the full bright moon twinkled in the night as I let out a blood curling scream. Then I fell down on my knees and sobbed, with my whole body shaking.

“I don’t know why I keep coming back to this spot…”

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My whole body froze. From the corner of my eyes I saw her. She stepped further until she was a couple steps away from the exact spot. Her once pale golden soft hair was turned into a softened silvery white with her bangs colored into a deep yet creamy periwinkle. Her eyes that held a twinkle in them looked like a raging stormy color, her pale emerald looking more deep pale green and her grey blue looking greyer that had almost no trace of blue in them. She looked tired and defeated. “… I wish I could remember…”

Just then, she turned and looked right at me and her eyes that had a raging storm in them turned to shock and filled with tears. She stepped towards me and I quickly stood up and moved away. “… Britt?... Is that you?... I kept coming back here not knowing full well why…

I… I remember everything now. I’m so sorry I forgot about you… You… You saved me from the speeding car…”

I blinked really fast to hold the tears that were threatening to fall. I shook my head.

“Britt… I had this aching in my heart whenever I came here and now, I know why… I miss you so much. I love you.”

Katrina moved closer to me as I was frozen in my spot. She gently caressed my face and our foreheads touched.

“Britt. My wish for you is… I want you to move on. I hope you’ll wait for me.”

With that she closed the distance between our lips and kissed me softly. When we broke away, the tears that I was holding back fell down my face and my now disheveled look fell away and I looked exactly how I looked before I died.

“I’ll be waiting for you Rina…”

In a blink of an eye, Katrina was alone with tears streaming down her face.

“I love you and I can’t wait to see you again, Britt.”

That’s how the story went. Katrina lost all her memories of Brittney and didn’t regain them until fate brought them back together again. Katrina doesn’t fully remember everything which burdened her greatly. She tried everything to regain all of her memories. Fate was cruel and she was never able to regain them. Life goes on regardless of what tragedy one has going on. She went on with her life, eventually got married, had kids, and had a happy life. Her partner understood how important Brittney was to her and did her best to support her.

The day came when she was on her death bed and her partner, children, and grandchildren came by to say their good-byes. After they said their tearful good-byes, they left, leaving only Katrina and her partner. Suddenly Katrina’s dull eyes lit up and smiled gently.

“I remember everything now… Britt.”

Those five words were everything that her partner had hoped that she would be able to say. Facing her wife with already tear stained face, she smiled softly and caressed Katrina’s head.

“It’s ok K… I’m ok. You go on and be with her. I hope to be able to finally meet her someday. I love you so much baby. You can let go now…”

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Katrina turned slowly to look at her wife. Her eyes twinkled like forbidden jewels as tears fell down her beautiful yet aged face.

“Britt says thank you. She wants to thank you for looking after me and loving me fiercely. She can’t wait to meet you in person either…”

With that, Katrina slowly closed her eyes and her whole body relaxed, leaving her now widowed wife alone in the room with tears falling freely down her face.

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Uncertainty Zabrina Yannella Locked away like birds in a cage we sit and wait for the day that we can finally be free.

We watch the sun rise and fall day after day.

The seasons change from winter to spring: the season of rebirth.

Waiting for the earth to bloom, like the flowers sitting outside our windows.

When will we be free again?

The future is full of uncertainty.

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Colors Samantha Allen Yellow Yellow is beyond the soft warmth of the sun on your cheeks, behind the tang of banana and a golden lion’s heart. Yellow, underneath the glory, is but a hand, rested under your chin. Careful fingers comb through your hair. Your mouth buried in another’s shirt. You’re cozy. Yellow is the contagious shrill of a baby’s laugh a woman’s voice whispering lullabies as you lay in dew-covered grass. Yellow is the taste of warm biscuits and the feel of butter running down your chin. Beyond vibrance, you are content.

Pink Pink, at heart, is springtime. New life. The sweet scent of roses mixed with the odd, but soothing smell of baby powder. Pink is the mewls of a new litter of kittens, and the happy grumble of your dog as you boop its nose. An innocent feeling of first love and new hope, bursting up from the butterflies in your stomach to the pounding in your heart. A taste of sugary sweetness, so delicious you feel like grinning.

Blue Blue can be as crisp and clear as autumn air or as chilling as the dead of winter.

Every emotion within a single tear trickling down your cheek as you look into the mirror, sobbing. Blue is that ache in your heart when you lose a loved one. The feeling of fresh softness of snow and the swirling feel of shiver-inducing water. Within the swaddles of a newborn baby boy is the sound of a fingernail tapping lightly against glass and the anguished cries of a mother in pain.

Red Red is the color of appetite. Of excitement. Of pain. What a jumbled, constricting knot your heart. A mesh of feeling. Pride and relief toward a soldier returning home, of watching a child pick themselves up after tumbling into the woodchips. Red is the tightening of your lungs as you breathe heavy with anger, the bubbling rage spreading to your arms, curling your fingers into fists.

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I’ll Try Again Tomorrow Giovonna Dyson I am not the writer I once was The pen moves like a laden cheetah shortening the scope between him and its prey. But-me? I am weightless The synovial fluid cracks betwixt my joints It gives me joy, but only for a second I wait for them to fill again In the meantime, I am without ideas, without progress, without words I am alone I am not the woman I thought I could be The 9-year-old girl, playing with Barbie’s, bursting with life, would be exceptionally disappointed of what became of her Oh, how rightfully so. Just look at her Staring blankly at the blue screen Begging for the blueprints Only to be encapsulated by the dark figures in her room Distinct voices, yet they all shriek, distorted, in unison:

You are a failure.

You are such a petulant child.

Why can’t you get anything right?

Why can’t you do better?

Oh, but do, pray tell, What is better? What is better for you? I’m pulling out all the stops Slugging around a pool of mud Aimlessly searching for a solid footing Always looking for a way out

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Only to be met with No. No. You can’t do this. No. You’re not good enough. No. You’re not right. No. You’ll never be right.

No. You never will.

Others move toward the pearly white gates with open arms But I remain fastened in my seatbelt on the car ride to limbo Why? Because- I deserve it.

I always have. I always will.

Blood tends to run warm, isn’t it?

The only way to find out is if I’m brave enough But I’m not.

Ah! My knuckles are finally ready to crack Off to the races again!

CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK But alas, it’s still not enough Click. Clack. Click.

I guess Clack.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

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Platypus Sharyl Martin Peculiar creature, what are you “supposed� to be?

A duck?

An otter?

A beaver?

A duck/otter/beaver?

Your males are venomous, ours can be too.

You like to swim, so do I! You can make your own custard by laying eggs and making milk?

You have no stomach?

Our similarities end.

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The Game Jenna Dalton I am huddling next to the trunk of a tree, my fingers gripping the gun close to my shirt. My heart pounding against my chest as I try to keep my breathing low in order to remain undetected. The leaves crunch around me, but no one seems to realize that their enemy is in their territory. This is it, my only chance to free my friends. If all goes according to plan, I will escape with my friends and the map the enemy keeps hidden.

The footsteps fade away from my ears signaling for me to move onward. I wait patiently for a few more seconds before making my break toward their base. I hold the gun out with my finger over the trigger as I run between the trees, carefully watching my surroundings. I have to make to the base without being caught or all hope is lost.

Approaching the base, my running slows to a tip toe noticing the lights of their camp glowing between the branches of the trees. I fall behind a bush, peering through the leaves. Two soldiers guarding the prison where two of my friends wait for someone to come and save them. My eyes catch a glimpse of the map rolled up and tucked between two rocks. I hold my breath, knowing that this is it, this could end it all. I sit up on my heels double checking my ammo. My mind races. All the work, all the planning, comes down to this moment. I think about my friends back at home base, anxiously waiting my return. I got this far; I can’t let them down now. This is my chance to prove that I am worth something. I wish to stay tucked between the bush’s leaves all night. I’m tired of all the running, sneaking, and hiding. My stomach aches for food. My imagination brings me to my mom, slaving away in the kitchen preparing dinner for the family. If I wish to return home, I need to complete this mission. Picking up a stone, I chuck it across the woods tricking the guards into thinking I am approaching from the opposite direction.

Both guards look up alarmed from the sudden sound. They slowly make their way toward the sound, their guns ready to fire. One stays behind as the other pursues forward. Lifting my gun up between the branches, I set my aim on the guard in front of the cell. With the other guard no longer in sight, I squeeze the trigger. The second guard stumbles back against the cell doors cupping the wound in his chest before finally dropping to the ground. I run down toward the base, where my friends eagerly wait for me to free them. Taking the keys from the fallen soldier, I open the cell, releasing my friends.

They race back toward home, stealing the gun from the dead soldier. I pause for a moment knowing that I don’t have long before the others come for me. Staring down at the soldier, I feel bad for everything he has just lost from one tiny bullet. Screams from the enemy snap me back to reality. Snatching the rolled-up map, I trail after my friends toward base.

Behind me the enemy gains ground. I sense their guns trained on me. I am so close; I can see the lights from my own base. My soldiers stand outside the base with their weapons ready to shoot. My grasp tightens on the map, crinkling it under the

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pressure. I am not about to lose the map and my life at the same time. A sharp pain wraps around my arm. A cry of pain escapes my lips as I struggle to push forward.

Blood seeps through my shirt. I can’t fail now not this close. Another shot fires, striking me in my leg. I crumble to the ground, just a couple of feet from our base. With the little bit of energy left, I reach out, trying to get the map to my soldier. I may have met my fate, but at least the map will be safe in the hands of my men. Two of my soldiers run forward between the gun shots, helping me up to my feet.

The gun fire ceases as soon as I cross over to our base; my soldiers drop me to the ground as I hold the map high in the air for everyone to see. A loud cheer from my team rings throughout the woods. A sense of pride overfills me. I can’t believe that I did it. I win, we win. I look across the line with a smug smile on my face. More of the enemy emerge from the trees with sour looks.

“You cheated,” Brandon grumbles, tossing his gun down. I stand up dusting myself off.

“I didn’t cheat,” I protest. “I won fair and square.” I cross my arms, showing him that I’m not afraid of what he has to say. He is just mad because all day at school he talked crap about my friends and I and bet his whole week’s allowance that he’d beat us tonight. He scoops up his gun and unloads the contents into me. I stare down at my shirt which is now soaked in water. Taking my friend’s water gun, I return the favor.

Anna and Cole come up beside me, chucking water balloons at the opposing team. Our distaste for these rival neighbors is one that started back in first grade. “Looks like we just won ten bucks!” I announce, making sure Brandon knew this victory wouldn’t be soon forgotten.

“I demand a rematch!” he yells. “Tomorrow night.”

“Can’t, I have a test to study for.” I shrug no longer interested in his demands. I unroll the map, removing the ten one-dollar bills. “Two for you, two for you, two for you, two for you, and two for me!” Distributing the money evenly between my friends so everyone on the other side can envy us. “Looks like we all get a couple of cookies at lunch tomorrow.” Brandon’s evil scowl on his face makes the victory even sweeter.

Our after-game fight is interrupted by the call of my mom telling me to come in for dinner. I chuck the last water balloon at Brandon’s face before racing back toward my house, where my mom stands outside with a towel and a fresh pair of clothes for me. She wraps me up kissing me on the cheek as we step inside.

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Dad Nevada Abraham I hate spaghetti It was the only meal he knew how to make The noodles were always too chewy The sauce too thick, the meat too salty, But, it was the only meal he knew how to make.

Every Sunday was his day to cook dinner And every Sunday, we had spaghetti He would pull all the ingredients out Like he was making a five-course meal, Dressed in his tall chef hat And my mother’s pink laced apron He would clonk around the kitchen Banging pots and pans Making a mess each week bigger than the last.

Everyone seated at the table No exceptions for missing Sunday dinner He would kiss his fingers Bon Appétit he would say, As if he was the best chef on earth As if this wasn’t the Sunday norm.

The first Sunday we didn’t have spaghetti I missed it Wishing for just one more Sunday To enjoy family dinner, There was just one exception To missing family dinner on Sundays I hate spaghetti But, it was the only meal he knew how to make.

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Lovers Hannah M Howard

A soft caress Neither could refrain A passionate kiss Heartfelt words to exchange Holding hands in a public space Touching never felt so relieving Connections finally in place Filling holes so deep they’re bleeding But something changed She always hid He was deranged He drank and blew his lid Hiding the bruises She cries while she uses.

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Silence Valerie Lammers I’ve been touched by imperfection, I am flawed beyond belief.

In every sinner there’s a winner, Who is calling for relief.

It isn’t weights and balls we’re dragging, Or the pressure pushing down, It’s the silence that surrounds the past, Swirling all around.

And as you reach inside this world, I’d like to keep you near.

Because silence never beat a heart, That loved instead of feared.

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American Girl HELP! Andie Klisz Dear American Girl, I have such a bad habit of chewing my nails, and the other day, my crush told me he thought they were ugly! How can I stop biting them?

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Nail Chewer

Get your nails done or paint them a fun color yourself so you won’t want to ruin them! Also, don’t forget that anyone making fun of your appearance may not be the best person to crush on. Find someone that would appreciate you, for you!

Dear American Girl, I have two best friends, but we can never seem to get along together! One of us is always left out of what we are doing, and I feel so bad about it. The other day we had to choose partners for an activity in class, and we all got in a big fight because we couldn’t decide who should be together! Any tips for making a friendship triangle work?

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Stuck in the Middle

Having two best friends can definitely be tricky. It isn’t fun when friendship turns into a competition. First, talk with your friends and see how they feel.

I’m sure no one is very happy with the current situation. Find ways where you can all be together as a group, like at recess or hanging out after school. When it comes to class activities, take turns being each other’s partners!

Dear American Girl, I write to you out of loneliness, perhaps even despair. I have a good heart, but I feel empty inside. I volunteer at my church and the soup kitchen, and I’m the youngest

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person to do so, yet, I have no sense of identity other than that. I do things out of complete selflessness, but at the same time, do I? I’m not one to shy away from a camera when it’s there. For all I know, I am exploitative of others’ situations without at all acknowledging my own privilege. Am I a bad person?

-

Lost Noted.

Dear American Girl, All my friends have cell phones, except me! I feel so left out when they all text each other, but my parents refuse to get me one. What should I do?

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Phoneless

Feeling like you’re missing out on something, especially, technology, is more common than you think. First, try to communicate with your friends and let them know how you feel when you can’t participate. Also, try to see where your parents are coming from. Sit down with them and ask about why exactly they don’t want you to have a cell phone, and maybe make some compromises. See if you could put your allowance towards the cost or put restrictions on what you would use it for!

Dear American Girl, Hello again. I’m not sure you’re understanding me. Being 7, I feel much too young and yet, much too old. I cannot connect with anyone my age even though to do so is my only option. I live inside my head and it’s starting to wear on me. I’m starting to question my faith. The existence of a higher power is the only thing ever on my mind.

-

Lost

Try making some friendship bracelets! Check out the DIY later in this issue where we teach the fishtail braid.

Dear American Girl,

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My friend invited me to a sleepover, but I’m secretly crazy nervous about sleeping anywhere but my own house. I want to hang out with her and not be rude, but I’m so scared! What should I do?

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Scaredy Cat

It’s okay to be nervous doing something new! Don’t hesitate to communicate with your friend and her family about how you feel. Let them know that you are nervous so they can try and accommodate you as best as they can, so you’ll all have a good time! Maybe even try a sleepover practice-run at a trusted family member’s house!

Dear American Girl, My parents just told me that we’re going to be moving. I haven’t lived anywhere but here, and I don’t want to leave my friends! Help!

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Homesick Already

Moving somewhere new is never easy. Express your feelings to your parents so they can support you and help you along the process. Take your time saying goodbye and making lasting memories with your friends. Finally, research the new town you’ll be living in and see what fun new things there will be to do! Try to see the best in it.

Dear American Girl, Am I worthy of love? I know my parents love me, but will I truly ever experience the admiration of someone who isn’t required to do such? At recess, all I can do is hang on the monkey bars and look to my future. Anyway, I’m getting my ears pierced next week and I’m super afraid! What should I do?

-

Lost Try icing your ear lobes. Good luck!

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A Leaf of History Caroline Murrel Some of my fondest childhood memories consist of playing with my neighbors outside of the house I grew up in. We’d play countless games-- kickball, tag, basketball, hide and seek-until the sun set and our parents called us inside. I remember one specific game, where we’d climb trees together and play with the neighborhood cats; we’d pretend we were “runaways” along with our “pets.” I grew up in Forest, Virginia: a small town in the heart of the state, nestled right next to the Appalachian Mountains. My home here sat right on top of the fields which at one time connected to Thomas Jefferson’s summer home.

According to Poplarforest.org, as many as 94 slaves resided at Poplar Forest during Jefferson’s 53 years there. There are three known slave quarters that were located at Poplar Forest: North Hill, Quarter Site, and Site A. The information known about the slaves and the slave quarters have been compiled through various letters and artifacts found by archaeologists. The property was used by Jefferson as a personal retreat and a plantation to generate extra revenue. The slave labor at Poplar Forest generated tobacco and wheat crops.

There’s one object I brought with me from my backyard when I moved homes: a single leaf from the big poplar tree in my front yard. This tree sat near the road, in a direct line from the window in my bedroom. I often spent days under the tree drawing pictures, reading books and talking with my friends. Sometimes I’d admire how massive the tree was and wonder at how long it’s been there, and how many people before me had touched its bark.

My neighborhood friends-- Nathan and Jordan-- and I would often take our scooters and bikes and ride up and down the road in front of our houses. We’d race from one end to another over and over again. Nathan and Jordan also both learned how to skateboard and would spend hours practicing while I watched in admiration. When it’d snow, roughly once or twice a year, we’d go to my neighbor Nathan’s house and sled down his steep backyard all day. Snow ramps would shoot us far up into the air, and then we’d fall right back into the fluffy snow. One time, we got so much snow that we built an igloo in my friend Jordan’s driveway.

According to Poplarforest.org, the oldest slave building was North Hill. When archaeologists searched the place, they found burned seeds and animal bones, woodworking and farming tools, several silver Spanish coins, and personal items such as buttons, shoe buckles, and beads. The largest buildings were found at the Quarter Site. Site A was located 100 miles away from the house and was used up until the Civil War. Many slaves were born and also died on the property during Jefferson’s time at Poplar Forest-- the burial sites were never found.

I’ve kept the leaf safe with me ever since I moved to Michigan; it sits safely on my dresser. Long after I left that small town in Virginia, and after I grew up a bit, I realized how important that poplar tree actually is. I slowly discovered the dark history that laid across the land I so innocently played on. That tree has been growing in that spot for no less than 250 years and reminds everyone who sees it that the horrors that took place on this land were not that long ago.

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01/01/2021 Claire Vogel Every year I tell myself This will be the time that the pieces suddenly fit There are no worn-down edges, or jamming to match And no one’s hidden a piece so they can be the one to finish it It will look just like the picture on the box Shiny, Perfect, and Complete And every year the champagne bubbles lose their fizz And the confetti gets swept away And everyone forgets their gym membership And I’ve still got gaps where corner pieces should be And chunks that look like they belong to a whole different puzzle And so many shades of black and blue that I wish I’d left it in the closet But March and April keep their pace And I keep on finding matches And by September I can see a full image here and there I just need a few more to fit And then December’s here again and The tables knocked And the image is all scattered and We start from the beginning

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Blotted Moon Catherine Baker “Lily, you’ve got to go a liitttle faster…” Mia glances up from her task at me, and I do the same. She shows me a small distance between her index and thumb to emphasize her point. I roll my eyes with more sass than necessary. She crosses her own eyes and sticks out her tongue in return. I purse my lips in an effort not to laugh, which amuses her. Her laugh is contagious, and soon both our voices fill the air. They mix with the ensemble of Pentatonix voices coming from the black speaker above the kitchen sink. The smell of warm sugar wafts up from the cookies in front of us.

I know she isn’t trying to be bossy or overbearing, and I know she’s right, but I really am trying my best. A group of cookies she’s already frosted stare up at me blankly. It’s my responsibility to add red and green sprinkles, but for some reason, I’m frustratingly slow today. Four of them are missing their embellishments, and their icing has already dried. It’s obvious because of the way the shine of the frosting becomes dull once it has dried. I’ve missed the window of opportunity to make the sprinkles stick. Annoyed, I try to add sprinkles to them anyways, but they simply sit at the surface. Mia picks up one of these lame attempts and turns it on its side to prove her point. All the sprinkles fall off, and I groan.

She stays calm, though, and quickly adds more frosting. She’s not as easily aggravated as I am. Maybe that patience comes with age-- from being the older sister.

Regardless, I’m grateful for another chance to complete my job correctly. This time, I add the decoration before the icing has time to dull. The sprinkles catch the attention of the glowing kitchen lights above us and make the sprinkles shimmer. They’re a little “globby” because of the extra icing, but it’s not too noticeable-- thankfully, the sprinkles cover up a multitude of sins.

As we finish the last few cookies, Mia only frosts one at a time, in an effort to not leave me behind. After icing each cookie, she patiently waits for my touch of red and green before beginning to frost the next cookie. With the extra time in between, she leans against the counter, tapping her spatula to the beat of the music playing. She scans my work to make sure it's to her liking, nods without looking up, and continues frosting.

The song switches to a fast remix of “Up on the Housetop,” and her drumming matches the song to a T. I watch out of the corner of my eye as her pink spatula flies up and down. This fast tempo encourages me to hurry up. Soon, I’m adding green sparkles to the last cookie.

Examining the four trays of glittering cookies, I reach out my arm to begin to plate them, but Mia stops me. She patiently explains how the last couple of cookies need to completely dry to prevent a mess. We watch the last three cookies, then the last two, and then the final cookie becomes matte as we dance around the kitchen like two of Santa’s elves. We finally begin to place the trays’ contents on four separate disposable plates, and Mia wraps each plate with a special see-through paper. To finish, she uses her nimble and strong twelve-year older fingers to tie each plate closed with a

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ribbon. I leave this intricate business to my sister and jump onto the counter, swinging my legs to the tune and watching the magic happen. I remember a couple of weeks ago, Dad told me there would be a full moon tonight. I wonder, now, how lucky we are and what the chances are of a full moon on Christmas Eve. A few songs later, mom’s warming the car, and we’re securing the plates in the back seat. Delivering cookies on this night to family-friends has always been a tradition of ours. Once the goodies are properly secured, Mom and Mia hop into the car and buckle themselves. I’m also about to enter when Mia notices I’m not wearing a jacket.

She wears her thick jacket over her red Christmas dress made of tulle and satin. She warns me that I’ll be very cold soon, and I grudgingly run back into the house, leaving the car door open. I quickly pull on a puffy jacket over my simple blue sweater. As I leave the front door and step onto the porch, I stand in the cold air, distracted by the sky.

I arch my head back, searching for the full moon, and have to catch my balance so as to not fall backward. It’s not there. Mia has become impatient with the cold air drifting into the heated car and yells at me to close the door. I quickly slam it shut and continue my search. I turn around and around, my heavy head resting on my shoulders, my eyes wandering up and down. Left and right. My eyebrows furrow, and I can feel the skin on my forehead buckling. The cold air nips at my nose, and I habitually begin to fiddle with the hem of my jacket’s sleeves. I spin quickly, beginning to wonder if this is how it feels to be tipsy.

I move my feet to see if the expected silver moon is being blocked by the roof.

Nope. I see the bright headlights of Mom’s truck and the smoke of the engine but no moon. It must be too cloudy. Mom honks the horn. I give up my search with a sigh and buckle myself into the warm car. I comment on the obnoxious clouds as I enter, and Mia pats my shoulder to console me. She tries to find the silver lining by suggesting that lots of clouds could mean snow tomorrow morning. I roll my eyes and smile.

Oh, how she loves the snow. It seems a white Christmas is all she ever wants. I remember she wrote that on her Christmas list a few years ago-- in her letter to Santa.

I was seven then. She was nine. I didn’t actually believe in Santa, but it seemed everyone wanted me to believe, so I stubbornly went along. While my list included an American Girl Doll and pink Legos, she wrote with a crayon in big cursive letters: SNOW. I never really liked snow. It’s wet and cold, and my jacket and scarf make me itch. But I did love playing with Mia in the snow, so I held my crayon tightly and copied her pretty handwriting as best as I could, asking for the same wish. That same year, our wish did come true. Mia jumped up onto my bed and shook me awake on Christmas morning. Her bright eyes reflected the snow on the roof outside my window. She yanked my arm and pulled me down the carpet stairs and out the front door. I watched, rubbing my eyes and leaning onto the door’s frame as she began to spin around on the porch. She pranced around in circles in her pajamas and opened her mouth wide to let snowflakes fall in. While a couple did, most fell and contrasted against her chocolate hair. Her giggles filled the cold air as she breathed vapor like a dragon. Her eyes squinted, the skin around them wrinkling, not to avoid flakes, but because she smiled so wide.

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Mom begins to pull out of the driveway, and Mia and I giggle as the cookies slide every time we make a sharp turn. My mom looks back, wearing a disturbed expression.

I check behind me to make sure I’m not sitting on any cookies. I’m not. She must be tired from all this cookie business. I try to give her some peace of mind by talking more quietly with my sister. We pass different stores on our trip. All their trees are dolled up with Christmas lights, and there are a few Hanukkah bushes too. We reach the first house on the delivery list, but nobody’s home, so we leave the plate of cookies on the house’s welcome mat. We return to the car and move onto the second house. Mom knocks on the door, and Mrs. Stevenson is home. She accepts the cookies from my mom’s hands, and the two women make small talk for a couple of minutes.

Mia and I slowly become less and less interested in the adult conversation and gradually drift about a foot or two away to talk about whatever random things come to mind. I laugh to myself as she makes a joke, and Mrs. Stevenson glances from my mom to me, confused. Mom turns around and shakes her head. Her mouth is pursed into a fine line, warning me. I nudge my sister in the side, and the two ladies continue with their conversation. It’s getting cold. Soon enough, though, we’re back in the car and on our way to the third house. Then the last one. I make sure to stay quiet during the next two deliveries and don’t allow Mia to make me laugh, although she tries. My face remains stone and sour like an old grandpa’s. My arms stay tightly crossed in front of me as we pull up in the driveway, but she manages to maneuver her strong fingers through the thick material of my jacket to tickle me. I jerk away, laughing. The ice thaws between us, but I make sure to get my reward. I let her know that she still owes me and that I am contemplating her payment.

We enter the house and take off our jackets as Christmas music continues to shuffle through the speaker. We both need to go to the bathroom, but she beats me there. I shove my foot in the crack as she tries to close the door and press my body against the wood. She eventually gives up and lets me in. I make sure the counter is dry before hopping onto it, waiting for her to finish with her business. We talk about what gifts we hope to open tomorrow morning, but the conversation, as always, drifts from one subject to another. Finally, it’s my turn, and I beg her to hold my phone, taunting that she still owes me. She accepts, wanting to be freed from her debt, and I finish my business contentedly, knowing my phone is safe. I stand up and flush, and as I go to wash my hands, I notice that my phone is on the counter. I catch my reflection in the mirror. My stomach drops and my eyes widen, as I realize what I’ve done again.

Mia isn’t here.

I scan the mirror for my best friend. Nothing. My stomach turns, and a hole begins to form. The room starts to sway. I grab the counter with shaking hands in an attempt to keep myself upright. Turning my head, again and again, I scan the bathroom for my sister. Nothing. I begin to fiddle with my sleeves; they ground me as I become dizzy. The pit in my stomach travels up my body, its heat radiating through my chest. It finally stops to lodge itself in my throat. The seed grows and grows here. I begin to sweat. The pressure it creates is too much to be contained in my small skull, and it forces water out of my eyes. A specific memory of a cold night comes flooding back to me, and I fight to push it and the budding seed out of my head.

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Jolly music seeps under the bathroom door. I bump into the wall, confused and disoriented in my search to find my sister through the clouds and darkness. I feel nauseous, but I’m so empty that I don’t know what would come up. I quickly stuff my phone that’s been waiting on the counter into my pocket and push myself out of the bathroom. I stumble along like a drunk. I follow through the foyer, with wobbling steps, and with no one to tell me to put my puffy jacket on, I walk out the front door.

Stumbling out onto the porch, I half fall over as I crouch close to the ground. I scowl up at the sky, straining my neck as I search for the moon. But the sky’s empty.

Gone. Replaced by gray. Gray clouds that blot out life.

I allow myself, just for a second, to think back to that night a few years ago. My family and I taking a stroll after a certain late-night play. As we walked, we’d searched for stars and constellations, just like I do know. Mia was ten then, I was eight. We both wore our special Christmas dresses. Mia’s was crimson and mine, evergreen. The fabric of the dresses rustled in the wind, and we listened to the fast waves lap against the shore a short distance away. We reached a pier and Mia slipped off, falling into the water. That was the last time I saw her. When a search team finally found her body, I only heard my mom’s wailing as she shoved her hand to cover my eyes. No, I didn’t see what was left of my best friend, but I’d heard enough. Strangers standing around whispering during the closed-casket funeral. They disclosed details to each other with voices lowered and heads bowed: she was found purple and peeling, her red dress tattered and soaked to a deep maroon. She’d slipped, her thick red dress probably weighing her down as she treaded water. She probably panted quickly out of fear, breathing in water as easily as air. Her lungs, two wet sponges, had become too heavy, and she was quickly carried under the deep waves.

I think now, that while she fought to stay above the water, she probably looked up to see the big moon above her. It looked back down at her, watching, unbothered.

She must’ve been so scared.

I look up now at the blank sky. Grey clouds blotting out the moon. I yell at the moon to come back. To stay with me. I curse it for leaving me alone. For pulling the tides that crushed my sister. For allowing the clouds to cover its face. No response. It’s so hot. I pull up the sleeves of my sweater and begin to unconsciously scratch, reopening fragile wounds. The disfigured and wrinkled patches of skin warn me to stop, but I methodically itch. Desperately clawing. Soon enough my fingers become wet. The smell of iron rises around me. Fast angry tears stream down my face, and my throat begins to burn in protest. It’s hard to breathe. My yelling melts into shallow gulps of cold air. I gasp for breaths just like Mia had done that night. I pull at my hair as I bury my head in my pleading forearms. After some time, my pulling becomes slower, and my breaths less shallow. Deeper. My tears slow and my breath blends in with the silence of the cold air around me. I wipe my cheeks of tears, then shield my melting eyes with my hands, staining my face with blood in the process.

I know more than my parents think I do. I know they wish I would just let the memory of Mia sink away. That they’re tired of being reminded of that night on the pier. They whisper at night about my progress with different medications and therapists, hoping that if enough time passes, the scars on my small arms might just

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heal over, and I’d stop needing to pull at my sleeves to cover them. I know they’re haunted by the face of the girl in the red dress with bloated cheeks and prune-like skin.

That they’re hesitant to continue old traditions that could trigger episodes like today’s.

Honestly, though, I just wish I was better at hallucinating. Something about the glittering and sparkling illusion I create is never exactly right. I wish my unconscious wouldn’t forget some minor detail, like adding Mia in the mirror with me. That way, my dream wouldn’t come crashing down like it does now, and I could live forever with Mia. Beautiful Mia. With her silky braided hair and smiling eyes. She still wears that glamorous red dress, but instead of it dragging her down, she swims in it. I want to see her now, if only in a dream. I pull again at the threads of my baby blue sweater, but more slowly now.

We’d once picked out books at the library together, held hands as we walked to the bus stop. Went to the bathroom together, baked cookies. We were best friends. We would entwine our pinky fingers together when making promises. Mia would take care of me for as long as I can remember. She’d braid our resembling brown hair into matching flower crowns with her capable fingers and would help me into my leotard before ballet class. She would let me lick the spoons after we finished baking and taught me how to draw a star and how to write in cursive. She’d taught me to ride my bike and helped bandage me when I toppled over. When I was overwhelmed or confused, she’d tell me what to do. She would hold up my hair for me while I drank from the water fountain at school, and I imagine that if she was alive now, Mia would hold my phone for me while I go to the bathroom. But she’s not here. Instead, she travels with me as a mere imaginary friend. She’d been more alive than life itself.

Breathing vapor like a dragon.

Now, when I imagine my sister, I’m forced to complete both roles-- that of the older and younger sister. I try to fill the hole of the wiser and caring sister. I stand in the kitchen, making cookies alone, laughing to myself as my imaginary friend tells a joke. I ice the cookies and talk to the air. Then I go back and shower sprinkles on top.

Sometimes, I have to stop and ice each cookie individually because, without help, I can’t get the sprinkles on fast enough before the frosting dries.

Suddenly, I feel the smallest touch on my shoulder. I look up, startled. Big clusters of snow fall from the mocking sky. A delivery just in time for tomorrow: a white Christmas. A whimper escapes my mouth as I contemplate why the universe loves to tease me. I’m tired of being the punchline to its great joke. Mia should be here. She would dance in the snow and wipe my tears. She would gently pull my hair out of my face and bandage my arms, then wash my fingernails. She would order me to go inside and to take a shower. She would tell me what to do. She’d poke my ribs and tell me a joke. I remain crouched here, now, and slowly rock myself back and forth, my knees shaking. I remember her spinning right where I sit now-- The snow falling into her hair and her contagious laugh bubbling around her. That was only a few years ago. Time passes so slowly now.

Her laugh replays and reechoes in my ears. It mixes with the echoing of my own wailing from tonight. Our ten-year-old voices are so similar yet contrast so much. It’s too loud. I shove my fingers in my ears. I squint tears and snowflakes out of my eyes

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and wish I had been holding my sister’s hand, like usual, that night as we walked on the pier. I wish that I would have skipped off the pier with her, and we would’ve tripped under those waves together, our hands intertwined. The seaweed grasping at our small legs and the moon illuminating a tangle of red and green tulle.

She’s not here, though, and she’s not coming back. Eventually, I follow my sister’s example and let my body be taken over by the cloudiness around me. My body slowly falls over to the left, and I curl on my side into a tight ball. I let my sweaty chocolate hair create a pillow, and I sink into it. I shiver now, my sobbing moving my heavy chest up and down quickly. I lay here, gagging and drunk on the cold air, waiting for it to drown me, as the impartial snow falls into my tangled hair. It hypocritically attempts to wash away the sticky sweat and blood and tears off my face. My small forearms clench my stomach, staining my sweater, as if with enough pressure, they might fill the hole inside me.

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Untitled Diana Malinovskiy Have you ever experienced that feeling of completely loosing yourself? You look in the mirror and suddenly you don’t recognize the person looking back at you?

Suddenly you forget what it feels like to be happy, to be human. My name’s Diana Malinovskiy, and this is my story.

The scale had become a dominant part of my life ever since I was young. It was the societal pressure to be thin and be at a certain weight to be considered beautiful, and the added pressure of my own mother to lose weight. I spent years and years of my life standing on that scale multiple times a day overanalyzing the number that was shown and making plans on how to starve myself the next day. It was this that had screwed me over so badly. That fire inside of me wanting so badly to be 90 pounds.

The desire to be skinny, because to me, skinny was beautiful. Skinny was what was going to make me accepted by society. Skinny was what was going to finally satisfy my mother.

I had grown up overweight. Coming in and out of doctors’ offices with flyers, tips, and meal plans on how to lose weight. But what they told me didn’t matter to my mom; she had an entirely different plan when we got home. She gave me strict rules.

No walking into the kitchen past six o’clock in the evening, exercising for two hours every day minumun, trying every diet trend you can possibly think of. Low carb? Low sugar? Water diet? You name it, I’ve tried it. None of this ever worked of course; every time I watched my mother become disappointed that nothing was working and give up.

It was the burning desire to make my mom proud of me that left a burden hanging deep on my heart. Replaying the same scene every few months of her giving up on me, myself breaking down and promising to do and be better, start the process again, and repeat.

The summer I finally got a grip on myself was the summer that had ruined me. I had lost over seventy pounds. To the outside, I would’ve looked happy. To other people, I was the girl who had managed to the weight no one ever thought I would. I was the girl who could finally wear the clothes other girls were wearing. I was the girl who could finally eat junk food and not be judged. I was the girl that society thought had become confident and was over flown in self love. But to me, I was girl who had lost herself in the process and had become addicted to the number on the scale and the number of calories I was consuming. Endless nights of sitting on the bathroom tile, silent tears streaming down my face, wondering why I felt more worthless than I had before. Wondering why I wasn’t happy with the way I looked.

The scale, an instrument or machine used for weighing. But to society, it was an object used to measure someone’s worth. The role of scale in society is a code word for what you are worth, how beautiful you are. A million girls all around the world base who they are by the number that stares back at them. Society has engraved into our heads from a young age that the lower the number, the skinnier you are, the better.

Under 110 pounds? You’re considered “skinny” and you’re envied by everyone for the way you look. If you’re over 110 pounds, suddenly you’re considered “big” and you

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need to lose weight or else,” Boys won’t like you.” This is the hands down most stupid thing someone could say to you.

Growing up, social media enlarged the impact of this even more. When you go on social media, I would find myself comparing to other girls that I saw. Girls that in my mind were perfect. They had thigh gaps, they had abs, and they were beautiful. What I saw looking back at me in the mirror wasn’t. Like I mentioned before, this is what had screwed me over. This burning desire to satisfy my mother had turned into me being in the worst mental headspace I had ever been in my life. I felt so alone, no one ever understood what it felt like. I was so deep into this sickness I had completely lost the person I was before; I forgot what happiness felt like. I forgot what self love felt like. I forgot what being me, completely and honestly, felt like. This passion to feel accepted by society and by own mother had taken over my life.

Today, I stand at a crossroads. Yes, I have bad days and still struggle with my body image. But I’m working everyday towards a better me. I accept that the number on that scale does not define me. It doesn’t define my worth or who I am as a person. I am who I want to be. I am the only person who gets to decide who I want to be. My mother doesn’t define who I am. I am worth more than I know.

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Emotional Displacement Esther Han There are many moments in life when one wishes that one was anywhere but here.

Most of us have been through a lot and pain is mostly relative, so for some it doesn’t take much to make it seem like the roof collapsed. Sometimes I have the ability to remember details that go far back and make me wonder why I am able to fish around in my memories in order to pick and choose how I feel about them. But there is strength in these memories that can overcome some of the most difficult moments.

These are the memories, not in particular order. The first was one of the most beautiful moments in my life. I woke up around seven am and put on my makeup and a suit jacket with a puff skirt and listened to Norah Jones “Shoot the moon” all the way to work. The air was crisp and refreshing on that early spring day. I was in that moment happy, just happy. I had had some thyroid issues after college and my weight had gone up and down but that day, I was perfectly happy with my body as well.

Then there was the night, my tenth date with Tyler, where he had arranged a night out in a fancy Chinese restaurant in downtown Chicago and when we were done with dinner, he had secretly arranged it so that we were on that block when the snow was falling and a boy was selling flowers, which Tyler pretended to buy them from him, (his best friend) and gave me a huge bouquet of roses. The Christmas snow seasoning the flowers with melting white flakes.

On Lake Shore Drive, near the beach in Chicago there is a whole area where the tables are chess tables, and old men, during the summer go there to play chess with each other as well as those watching. I learned a bit of chess from one of my best friends during college and one day I went to that area and asked one of the men to play chess with me. The funniest thing he said was, “If I win you make love to me and if you win, I make love to you.” It was meant to be crass and funny from an old man from Russia playing on the beaches of Chicago.

The girl I met at CVS was always calm and nice and willing to help with any questions. I would walk there, since at the time I didn’t have a car, and she always seemed content and happy with where she was, despite being a part-time cashier at CVS. It took me a long time to learn to be patient at a register, any register, and I remember her specifically because of how calm she was within her skin. She had light brown hair, glasses, and a cat.

Then there was the day/night when Austin took me on a road trip through the city to a cider mill closer to Evanston. We ate at the Melting Pot and drank apple cider and ate cheesecake. He was particularly nice to me that night and I felt for once that we really did love each other. He was six feet tall and blonde. I still miss him when I see pictures that he had taken of me back then, pictures full of revere.

While in Jamaica in one of those all-inclusive resorts, I was able to experience the ocean and made it all the way to Dunn Falls where one can climb up the falls. There were shows during the evenings around dinner time and dancing with the band while smelling the ocean breeze. Sean who kept me protected then, perhaps not later, was a fun travel partner at the time. Feeling self-conscious in that moment because of my weight, I didn’t dance with him one last dance, but that left it open for me to want to go back with someone else and dance without a care in the world.

I will never forget the Fitzgerald Hotel in San Francisco where I stayed for 22 days while trying to finish the summer semester at the Academy of the Art Institute. It was there that I experienced such great freedom to be myself and draw without any distractions. The sheets were fresh every day and the décor had a nice vintage look with a dark green ceiling, salmon

39 | P a g e colored walls and a red French design comforter. The staff was always friendly and there was a great sushi restaurant across the street.

Or the nights when me and Sophie walked from Belmont stop on the red line to the Drake hotel along the lake shore, contemplating, perhaps too philosophically on what our goals in life were. When you are young, one tends to feel that anything is possible, and that one can change one’s mind about a career every other day. I remember one of my professors said that 99% of us would never paint or draw again after graduating and only the 1% would be left. I vowed then that I would be the 1% and this still comforts me when I draw and paint now, twenty years later.

Every time that anyone sees my drawing of Scarlett, there usually is a positive reaction and I remember drawing it with all of the love inside me for Sean, but it really didn’t end up being for him. He helped me frame the drawing but remained critical of my work. He did not realize how much I struggled with that drawing, sometimes taking a month or two between strokes, in order to express, in great detail, how much Scarlett wanted to stay in the light, without noticing how people looked at her beauty and fell in love.

So fast forward to 2020. One of the most difficult years I have come to face. I work part-time at Pet-Smart to pay the bills. I still paint, draw, write, stay creative and work towards building a portfolio. Every day that I work I am faced with both positive and negative, some customers love me, some are inherently disgruntled, and there is a lot of dog poop and pee that I pick up on a daily basis. One interesting fact for me this year was ending up being essential because pets still need food and Pet Smart provides for that need. If anyone three years ago told me that I would end up being essential because I work at Pet Smart, I don’t think I would have believed them.

I have many objects surrounding me in my room that reminds me that I am blessed. I have my favorite white desk; I have a closet full of Express clothing which was expensive to collect and I still don’t fit into many of them but am getting there. I have a delightful collection of costume jewelry and three cats that remind me that even animals get taken care of if they end up in a good home. I still have the clear glass, piano encased, paper weight that my brother bought for me while he was in the army in 1998.

My co-workers are the usual range of nice but not so nice, to someone who can be depended on to tell one the truth. I try to stay out of the drama and just get along. This was not the case when I was younger. I was always ready for a fight and willing to justify my actions just so that I could sleep at night. My health overall is improving but there are the Covid-19 obstacles and people who come into the store without wearing masks even though it is required.

I have been in the retail sector on and off since 1997 and I have to say that much has changed and then again much is the same. One of the best methods of handling retail stress, I have only discovered recently, and this has helped me in every area of my life. It’s definition for me is emotional displacement. So when the moment that I am in is too much for me to deal with, I instantly pull from a happy, contented, peaceful memory, and even though my body is at the register, inside I am on the beaches of Jamaica. It’s internal visualization and through the scenes my emotions become what I want them to be.

The other day I was at the register, and I had this customer walk up to the line with a frown and was very short with me at check-out. I visualized the cashier at CVS and her calm. I was able to say thank you have a nice day even without a response from the customer and not be upset because he was rude because I was at that moment channeling the calm of the CVS cashier. Sometimes I have to count in my mind, 1, 2, 3, 4, breathe, and then 1,2,3,4, breathe,

40 | P a g e in order to stay calm, and add to the visual element in order to not get hurt every time a customer is rude.

The other day I wanted to go out and do something, anything, out of my routine but here we are during Covid-19 and the curfew has returned for us in Colorado. And so in my room, under my dark blue satin comforter, I am imagining myself back on Lake Shore Drive, walking with my friend Sophie and talking about our futures, which in the end were very different than what we had discussed, but I keep telling myself that I am not that old, and I still have a chance to grow as an artist and within whatever retail setting, I may be in in the future.

Thinking about the time in the Fitzgerald, I am reminded of the passion I had for the drawings that I completed for that class. Those were some of my best and encourages me to work in a very detailed, realistic style, with my own flair which defines my work in general. I remember setting up scenes to draw and every time I look at my easel now, I feel that same passion when I think of that time, and how much I was willing to overcome, even physical pain in order to succeed.

Sometimes standing before that easel, the only thing that gets me through the physical struggle of making each line and color count, is the music on my I-pod. It’s like that morning when I was listening to Norah Jones on my way to work. It is a spiritual uplift that over comes the pain and helps the careful strokes become something more than just lines and colors, but an overflow of my love for images that convey the love.

And then there is the chess. The old men playing by the lake. I always felt life is mirrored in chess. That the battle between good and evil, white, and black, despite the nuances of the greys within our lives, have a say in how one can succeed despite the push and pull of the pieces which all want to win in the end. Maybe within that battle all of the love making is part of the search for a life that has everything including the sensual, the wanting, the naked openness.

In some ways my philosophical meanderings has kept my writing and drawings distant emotionally and, in many ways, lacking in imagery. It is this struggle that for me now is the challenge. People ask me often if I don’t regret not having children and reassure me that a relationship is always possible no matter the age or circumstances. But for me to be the 1% was and still is the most important.

When I get a text of one of my cats sleeping or messing around during the day, the moment I see that photograph, I smile, even though the stocking never ends, and I am taking only the 2 seconds allowed for me to look at this picture. When I eat the Pizza Hut pizza from Target for lunch, I imagine it to be a Chicago Deep Dish that I just ordered and is hot off the oven.

Drinking hot black light roast coffee because it is cheaper, I think of the eight espresso shots I would put in a foamy latte, giving me the caffeine high I would need for a whole day’s worth of work, back in the café inside Border’s books and music. It was fun to work in downtown Ann Arbor for that period of time and give free lattes to my family and friends.

And now I watch a lot of Korean Drama, also known as Kdrama. Why? You ask?

Because it is 16 hours or 16 episodes usually of eventful laughing, screaming, over the top drama that involves the growth of the characters in unrealistic circumstances that create a modern fairytale grounded in the cultural atmosphere of Seoul, Korea. Watching others struggle, watching anything for the sake of entertainment has an impact on one’s emotional psyche and I choose what I want to be influenced by especially when I am off, or depressed, or just sad.

Sometimes you have to take the pills, literally. And sometimes you have to face your life head on and without any filters. Sometimes there is no other way out and you have to back

41 | P a g e track to keep going another day. But sometimes if one pulls through these moments through memories, the strength comes back and keeps the mood light. I took a lot of risks when I was younger, and I am still alive to be able to have fond memories. I perhaps should have taken less risks but now that I have survived, I want to encourage those who need good memories, to make them while they are young, so that when one’s life becomes a bit stagnant, one can pull from the memories and keep going with a smile.

When I see Nam Joo Hyuk fall for Suzy Bae, in the recent Korean Drama, Start-Up, I can’t help feeling that even if I don’t create the greatest masterpieces, that life in the end is about love regardless of circumstances. That there is still innocence in life, and that there is hope in the difficulties that will cultivate a new beginning while moving forward to new relationships. That there is forgiveness and understanding if one wants it bad enough.

At Pet Smart, there are some associates that are particularly particular about how things “should” be and how one makes these mistakes that anger others but really are just mistakes.

What does one do? Everyone says “kill them with kindness” but in life that does not always work. So I just work, with a smile on my face, every day regardless of the situation. Sometimes I get flustered, and sometimes I get angry too. Yet every opportunity to make light of a difficult situation, such as when a co-worker is upset and I get him or her Starbucks, this sometimes works wonders.

Some of my co-workers have tested positive to Covid-19 and I am getting tested today.

We live in a world where many do not care for anyone but themselves. We live in a world where the movies and shows tell us that everything is going to be ok and the underdog always wins, but in life that is not always the case. We live in a world where fulfilling your dreams means sacrificing a completely different reality. I want to be able to say, that even within this world, I have tried and done my best with all of the memories that has made my life what it is.

Sometimes dying seems easier than continuing since the hardships one faces as a human being is just too difficult to hang onto sometimes. Yet if one chooses life, every time, one may be able to succeed in living a good life and this is all that is necessary to build a better future. There are always obstacles, there are always criticisms, there are always some who will never like you. But there are the moments of respite when I am walking to a gallery opening on State Street Chicago with Austin in a floral satin dress, with eyes on us as we make our entrance holding hands and loving each other.

For the first time since then, my hair is past my shoulders, and I remember how much he loved it, every time I brush it, these mornings. I don’t drink at home, but when I see Nam Joo Hyuk getting drunk with Suzy, I remember what it’s like to get tipsy and drunk call my friends back in undergrad. We also had fancy wine parties because we were snobbish artists that felt that we had the world at our fingertips.

I remember passing through Colorado many years ago, on the Amtrak, that summer when I ended up in San Francisco for the summer semester at the Academy. There were white horses in the valleys, and I lunched with different people from all over the world. I took the sleeper car because I wanted privacy and didn’t think that I would ever be taking a 3 day train ride across the country ever again. My mother still makes light of that trip because if it had been her, she would have taken the coach seating for a lot less money. But for me it was about creating the memories, then and now.

Maybe I will not be remembered as the artist who succeeded. Maybe I will be remembered within my family as one who struggled. Maybe my co-workers will miss me when I am gone. Maybe the only thing left will be the work I leave behind, and a few photographs of me. No matter what happens in the end I want to be able to say that I tried, through it all,

42 | P a g e without giving up. Another comment from one of my professors was “it is 30% talent and 70% perseverance” Twenty years later, I am still working on communicating through art.

I know what it is like to be alone; I know what it is like to be in good company, and I feel that I know what it’s like to suffer. But we all suffer together. Regardless of time, space, and memories, perhaps we comfort each other for those small spaces in time, like thinking about the cashier at CVS, every time I feel panicked at the register. I am confident that she has no idea that I use my memory of her during these times. But that is one way in which life can be better. When we are better. And it is possible to be better.

I am old enough to have known friends that have passed in their twenties through sleeping pills and alcohol. The saddest moments have been when I have had to say good-bye to artists that could have made an impact had they lived longer but they had decided to end the pain. If I could just talk to them then, as I am talking now, about ways to ease the pain, to continue because it is not just about you or me but it’s about us. It’s about the love that can be found in a world that wants to paint it all as “cheesy” and not worth it. No it is worth it. No matter how “cheesy” or “silly” the memories and shows that we choose, brings comfort and the will to continue.

In the end, no matter what, there is something or someone out there that feels the same, as you and me. To find the memories, to create them, to make them something that gives you the strength is what is important. No matter your occupation, no matter your lack of an occupation, one always has the choice to continue to the end and in the meantime help others see good, in a life that may be filled with just the temporary greys and the darkness.

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The Sailor Hugh Mason The waves – the waves! They come crashing, smashing and bashing against the hull.

Another day, another night, another storm, and the man aboard still is not full.

He’s been sailing out at sea for two, three – just how many weeks?

At first full of life and energy, now it is despair in which he reeks.

But he must go on, for his family needs their daily bread.

Though his wife sleeps so alone in her hallowed bed.

She longs to be together with her other half, And their son, alone, misses his father’s laugh.

Oh, what they would give to be together once more.

Their car, a limb, anything and everything that they adore.

Yet he, the virtuous man who had vowed to have and to hold, And he, the selfless father who does everything for his son, all told, Does not know, he could not know, the terrible pain in which he causes Because his family will not tell him – they don’t want to burden him with their losses.

And neither they, the loving family who holds down the home when he is gone Do not know, they could not know, the internal suffering that goes on.

For to be a sailor is to forever be at sea, to forever be away, And to be a sailor’s family is to forever be hoping he would stay.

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A Spring of Loss Kimberly McIntyre Soft winds so warm and perfumed air Spring bloomed, amongst death and despair Rebirth and joy, the season brings This time though, the death toll rings Lives stole, so many lost At a staggering, dreadful cost A global Pandemic, life now insane Questions abound, is science to blame?

Day after day, from my cage I watched The waving leaves, the wind gently touched And birds, outside my window chirped So loud and free, while leaders usurped With a heavy heart, I wondered and sighed, How will this world ever get by?

Everything’s changed, and nothing to do Except stay home, to avoid the flu Tears of sadness fell from my eyes As I read and watched the media’s lies Terrible things that happened, accepted, believed The numbers of death, are we deceived?

A memory sparks, as I sit there and stare Of a Spring long ago, so bright, and so fair With beautiful flowers, decorations galore Bright painted eggs, candy, and more On Easter morning, we headed to worship We donned our best, an important fellowship Saying prayers, singing songs and praise Then left for home, in the sun’s warm rays Once home, we changed and got ready Checked on the food, the smell was quite heady Excitement mounts as we wait on our guests

45 | P a g e Father reminds, be on good behavior, he suggests Grandparents arrived, with hugs and some treats Children excited, accepted their sweets Hiding the eggs, and watching them scurry Searching and running, have to hurry!

When all the eggs appear to be found They look inside, surprises abound “Hide them again!” they beg Grandfather He hides them twice, while the kids jump and holler Asking a third time, Grandfather complies The thrill has diminished after too many tries Inspecting their gems, making a trade or two It’s time to wash up, we’ll be eating soon Dinner is ready, we gather around Mother’s feast is magnificent, fit for the crown Grandfather, his habit, says the blessing and prayer Everyone digs in, and fills up on their share The desserts are set out, after awhile Always inspiring that holiday smile “Your Mother out did herself, once again” Grandfather praises, as he wipes his chin The grownups converse, on current affairs, While children play happily, without any cares As the sun begins to lower and set Reflecting on a perfect day, no regrets Off to bed, no time to be sad Mother tucks us in, what a day we had!

Memories made with our favorite ones Laughing and eating, having so much fun!

The Grandparents are now gone, their memories I keep Those precious times, make my heart weep I’m glad they can’t see what’s happening today These uncertain times are here to stay

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Beautiful Laura Chinchak Look in the mirror and tell me what you see You are so beautiful and smart baby girl What you don't understand is how I see you The way you look at the world and things around you Your mind is creative and astonishing You are able to see the world in a way I wish I could You don't see fights, war and hate You see smiles, love and adventure You play with baby dolls like they are real And sing along with the Disney Princesses Pumpkin butt you have a beautiful mind And you are the beautiful girl I know and love Even when you wear your shirt backwards Or run around in your fake Minnie Mouse heels When you smile at me when I spin you around Or the look when you ask to snuggle in the morning You bring so much joy in my life I’m glad I know you, my beautiful girl.

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Anxiety Lili Leier I have always been quiet and introverted. I prefer to sit back and just watch everyone else. But at one point, it felt like everyone else was watching me instead.

When I was fifteen, I felt like everyone was constantly judging the way I walked, talked, looked, or breathed. Every time I walked down the hallways at school, I kept my eyes glued to the ground. Maybe if I didn’t look at them, they wouldn’t look at me.

Maybe they would ignore me. I would shift from thinking about not making eye contact, to overthinking about the way I was walking. Were my steps too big? Were they too small? Was I stomping? Was I swaying oddly? All of my attention was on how I was walking. I hyper focused on how different muscles were moving. And then I forgot how to walk. I never once walked through those hallways comfortably. I was never truly comfortable in general at school.

I was most uncomfortable in my speech class. Giving a speech was one of the worst things I could possibly have to do. Everyone's eyes would be on me. Everyone would have to listen to my voice. I remember giving my first introduction speech to the class. An easy ‘get to know me’ speech. But in reality, it was one of the hardest things I had to do. My hands were shaking, and my heart was beating out of my chest before I even stepped in front of my peers. I began overthinking every single word in my speech. What if my speech sounded dumb? Then the whole class would think that I was stupid. My mind was racing through every bad outcome. It felt like my entire body was shaking inside and out. I sped through the speech, hoping to finally be able to sit back down and hide my face. It turned out that I had talked so fast that my sevenminute speech was compressed into a three-minute speech. And my final grade was not very good. You spoke way too fast, I could barely hear you, you didn’t make eye contact with the class once; those were the critiques that I received from my teacher.

I did two other speeches in that class before it was too much for me to handle. I panicked and stayed down in the counseling office for most of the semester. I hid. It was easier to hide than to constantly feel like I was being judged. And eventually, I started to feel the same way towards my other classes. It got to the point where I couldn’t make myself go to school. I started falling behind in my classes. I hated myself and the fact that school was so stressful for me. I thought that it would be easier if I switched schools. I spent a lot of time looking at other schools. In the end, I decided that it would be so much worse to be the new kid than the quiet kid. So I picked myself back up and went back to school. I tried to be more easy going. I couldn’t control other people, but I could control myself and how they affect me.

Looking back at those moments, the hiding and avoiding made everything so much worse. I’m finally at a point in my life where I realize that I don’t need to please everyone. I just need to be happy with myself. I shouldn’t care whether people are looking at me.

It is hard to switch mindsets. But I think that one thing that helped me was joining my high school drama club. I remember my friend, Shyanne, begged me to join.

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Of course, I didn’t want to at first. What if everyone hated me? What if I didn’t fit in?

Eventually I did give in, and I signed up to be a part of the makeup crew. I soon realized that “drama kids” are some of the most welcoming and inclusive people. I remember sitting in the makeup room with a group of people. They were talking to each other while I sort of sat away from the group, playing with my rings. Someone noticed, so then they pulled me into the conversation. The best part was that it wasn’t uncomfortable. They were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Not an ounce of judgement. There were so many other instances that led to me being comfortable in front of this group of people. They were so encouraging and kind. They might not know it, but they helped me grow as a person. I still struggle with my confidence, and I’m still finding myself. And there are days where I worry about what other people will think. But at least it’s not every single moment of every single day. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

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I Am a Tsunami Lillian Lepper The earth trembles: I destroy businesses and homes.

Valleys form in the once solid ground; cracks follow and roam.

My quake is felt for miles all around.

People screaming, car horns blaring, that’s only some of the sounds.

I make the waves bigger, sending a giant one at shore.

I fill the streets with water, destroying buildings and more.

I move cars and take signs, leaving the streets bare.

I am these people’s worst nightmare.

When I leave the land, I take belongings back out to sea.

Water quickly leaving the streets, nothing left where it used to be.

You will know I came through; you will see sand in my place.

You will see my war path; something you all have to face.

People rebuild their lives again, in hopes I don’t return.

I am a tsunami; I will destroy your life.

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Sheltered Linzy Costella Being the youngest child in my family, I have always known that I was sheltered a bit more than the others. Growing up I was always placed at the “kids table” at holidays away from my older siblings, given the “earmuffs” at random times, or wasn’t allowed to watch certain movies that the older kids could. As I continued to grow up, I recognized that some of these things were valid. However, I also realized that the habit that was initially formed of keeping me out of things spiraled into hiding things from me as well.

I am the youngest child of four; my oldest brother was ten years older than me. At times he reminded me more of a dad figure than a brother, a great one either way. One specific memory that displayed this thought was when he made a pack of Ramen Noodles. He always sat in the living room floor and watched television while he ate. I remember asking for a bite and he gave me the whole bowl and made another meal, without any hesitation. He was the most giving and kind person that I knew. He was my role model at nine years old. I say “was” because he passed away in August of 2012 at nineteen. As a nine-year-old it was hard to comprehend that you would never again see someone so important to you. I would never get to hug him again, ask for his food, swim in the pool with him, or even talk to him again.

The day he passed away he spent the night at his friends. We were told that his heart stopped while he was sleeping; his friends found him in the morning and called the police immediately. His friend’s apartment was small, forcing them to sleep in close quarters, making it obvious that he wasn’t okay when everyone got up to go get breakfast and he laid there still.

Panicking, they called the police and let them know the situation. Instead of getting in contact with one of his family members, it was posted on a social media platform for everyone to read, “RIP Devon.” It wasn’t until his girlfriend showed up to our house panicking telling us about it that we grew concerned. Everyone began to try to call his phone. One unanswered phone call after another, until my mom started calling his friends. After an hour of trying to get answers, a girl finally answered her phone. She explained that she knew Devon and was at the apartment, where yellow caution tape lined the complex. On her end of the phone, there were multiple voices talking, the police officers and detectives. They told her that she couldn’t come through and that everything would be sorted out after they contacted the victim’s family. I specifically remember hearing her voice echoing through the phone as she yelled at the officers that she had the victim’s family on the phone. My mom stepped out of the room, calmly, so that she wouldn’t upset us. The phone was handed over to one of the main detectives in charge of the case, who spoke to my mom. He confirmed who was calling and then proceeded to confirm my brother’s death saying that there would be an investigation to rule out any foul play.

As family members poured into our home, reality set in. The day was slow and full of denial, shock, and sadness. My grandma tried to distract us kids by playing board games, attempting to postpone the sadness as if we didn’t know something was wrong. Watching my mother cry is one thing but seeing my dad cry shatters me. He has always been a stereotypical Italian dad who rarely shows his emotions. The sight of him crying was a rare one; he walked away from the family members to gather himself and came back to comfort us. Both of my parents took their time to explain to us what had happened. My older siblings had more of an idea of what was happening than I did. I caught on pretty fast when they explained why everyone was at our house.

51 | P a g e The next few days was a complete blur. Our extended family helped with the funeral arrangements and gathered pictures to create photo boards to display. Being as young as I was, I mostly remember the big things and forget the little details. The biggest thing I remember was the actual funeral. We had an open casket to allow people to pay their respects which inadvertently stuck with me. As family members and friends of Devon went up to the podium to speak about him, I curled up in my father’s lap in tears. Everything was finally becoming real for me. After the casket was carried out to the hearse to allow him to finally rest, everyone made their way home. I remember people, over the next week, bringing food and cards to our house to show that they were thinking of our family during this hard time.

Fast forward a few months and things still feel weird; having a hole within our family wasn’t something that we were going to get over easily. There were plenty of times where time felt like it stood still. I was only nine, so as sad as this time was it was also a little foggy for me to remember. Although I still have plenty of memories with him, mostly all of the good ones, some things have slipped my mind completely. Over time I felt like I would forget him entirely.

Family vowed to keep his memory alive by speaking about him freely, whenever we wanted to.

Shortly after his passing, as a family, we would watch home videos with him in it. In doing so it made us feel like he was still with us. However, we stopped watching them fairly quickly since my parents couldn’t handle the flood of memories. My mom took his death the hardest; she tried to go to grief counseling for it, but she gave up fairly early in. Her way of coping was to be bombarded by her family and to tell stories of him. There weren’t many times that she was alone for the first year or so after my brother’s death. The only time that she would slip away was to silently cry in the bathroom. She would pick herself back up and join the family like nothing happened. She is one of the strongest people I know. It’s been eight years since he passed away and the journey has been weird, to say the least.

Since we were told he passed away from Congestive Heart Failure, the three of us kids got a thorough physical to make sure we were all safe and healthy. The entire dynamic of the house was off for a long time. His bedroom door remained closed at all times, untouched, while everything stayed the exact same as he left it inside. As a family, we made the decision to move to another house. It was almost like a fresh start, without forgetting about him. As I continued to grow up and mature, I became more and more curious about his death. I have always been pretty observant, and some things that my parents would mention just didn’t make sense to me. I would ask my older sister about it and she would never understand what I was talking about. Nobody ever entertained my thoughts on his death. I always assumed that they just didn’t want to revisit the memory of it all. Since nobody ever wanted to talk about it, I always kept my thoughts and concerns to myself. However, I knew I wasn’t going to stop there.

I am now a seventeen-year-old girl who has her own life to worry about. Between school, sports, and work, the curiosity of Devon’s death seemed to slip my mind completely. It wasn’t until the Coronavirus lockdown that the idea of it all was sparked again. My brother was a party animal, he loved to hang out with his friends and was one of the most outgoing people I knew. Wherever he went he made friends, which I admired very much about him. During the summer, while in lockdown, I had a lot of time on my hands. I focused on bettering myself and maturing. There was another thing on my mind that I knew I had to get into. I was sitting on the couch with my mom and I randomly asked her about “the truth.” She looked at me like I had lost my mind and asked what I meant by that. I explained how I thought Devon’s death was sort of odd and how I would like to see his death certificate or something that would help put an end to my curiosity. She shut me down very quickly, saying that she had no clue where it would be and was offended that I had just basically called my own mother a liar.

52 | P a g e Since she was so reluctant to help me, I decided to do some digging on my own. I remembered a few names of his friends that were with him the night he passed away. Being a gen z baby, I immediately turned to social media. I ended up finding a lot of information about one man in particular. He sparked my interest very quickly due to his poor court records dealing with hard drugs. After I dug up more and more information on this particular guy, I realized just how much of a party enthusiast he is. Knowing how my brother was, it wasn’t all that surprising that his friends were not the most “sober” people, if you will. Drugs, alcohol, and partying littered every single one of his friend’s social media platforms. My mind automatically went back to the rumors that were spread around our tiny city. Devon knew a lot of people, as I’ve explained earlier, so just about everyone had an opinion on his death. Many people thought he took his own life and some even said he got into a car crash. Others mentioned a drug overdose or a possible homicide. Obviously, it was very easy to ignore these crazy rumors, as our parents had told us he passed away while he was sleeping simply from his heart stopping.

Now in high school, taking medical classes and expanding my knowledge, I realized that something like that happening to someone of that age and health is very odd. At the time, I trusted my parents; there was never a reason not to. There was never a reason to even question them.

After about a week and a half of pestering my mom about the death certificate she finally agreed to look for it. I let it go for a few days to give her space to make her decision. I knew that she knew where it was because both of my parents are very organized when it comes to paperwork and their filing systems for bills, birth certificates, etc. I was at the kitchen counter talking with my sister when she walked through and laid a manila filing folder on the counter. I could tell she had been crying so I hugged her, and she walked in the other room.

My sister and I made eye contact and sat there staring at the folder for what felt like an hour. I reached to pick it up and emptied the papers onto the table. I took a deep breath and began scanning the document. My eyes immediately met with the words “Manner of Death.” I continued reading to see his death be considered an “Accident.” As I continued to read, the actual cause of his death was stated as “DRUG AND ALCOHOL ABUSE.” Some of the substances in his body were considered opioids which reacted with the alcohol he had consumed that night.

I immediately walked to the other room where my mom was. We all were clearly upset.

My sister, twenty-three, and I, seventeen, both were irritated that my parents kept this a secret from us for so long. We understood that they wanted to keep it a secret when it first happened since we were so young. We were all sad as well because we had to revisit such a devastating situation once again. There were so many emotions going on at once which sparked many questions. The main question that came up was simply, “Why?” Although I understood that they wanted to keep it on the downlow when we were younger, it didn’t make sense to me how they never told us the truth eight years later. There have been times where I specifically asked about his cause of death and if heart conditions were a problem in our family, concerned for myself and my siblings.

After that night, I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I saw this as an opportunity to end my curiosity and to have closure. I believe that I was more curious than anyone because I didn’t know him the way everyone else did. I felt scammed out of all those years with him because everyone got to really know how amazing he was as a person. Since I was so young, I didn’t get the same opportunities as the others. I was always relying on stories and home videos to give me a touch of what I had lost. Just when everything seemed to go back to “norma,l” I discovered another secret that was kept from my siblings and I. My brother, Devon, wasn’t entirely my brother. He was my half-brother.

53 | P a g e My mom was telling my best friend and I a story and mentioned “Devon’s dad” which I thought was odd. She sometimes refers to my dad as “your father/dad” or just his name. I wouldn’t have put much thought into this if it weren’t for her hiding my brother’s death. I interrupted her and said, “Did you just say, ‘Devon’s dad?’” As I said this, her jaw dropped, she raised her hand to cover her mouth. I just stared at her in shock while she tried to comprehend what she had just said. After she told us that she had gotten pregnant right before she met my dad, she explained that everyone else knew. My parents asked all of our extended family to not mention it to us at the time. Supposedly my brother wanted to tell us himself when we were all older because he was scared that we would look at him differently.

Although all of these things happened for a reason this summer, it was a heavy load to take in. To be completely fair, I was asking for it when I pestered my mom for the death certificate. After all of this time being sheltered, it felt oddly comforting that my siblings were finding this all out for the first time with me. For years, I wasn’t allowed to do certain things that my siblings were allowed to because of my age. Even now my dad has a hard time when I want to do certain things. However, considering they did lose a child I try not to complain too much because I know that they both just want to protect us all. Taking everything into consideration, I understand more why we have been sheltered for a fairly large portion of our lives. Being the youngest just adds more of the sheltering, but I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. Going through something as big as a death brought my family together tremendously.

It proved that life is too short and showed me to cherish the moments that we do have together, good or bad.

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Neither Happy, Nor Sad Elizabeth Baker I don't know why I always cry Over something small Or nothing at all I'm not quite happy I'm not filled with glee But I'm not sad Or even mad I just feel numb Sometimes even dumb Because these tears flow The reason I don't know I only see mistakes They feel like aches Life is sour and tart And it's tearing me apart I don't know where to start To heal my broken heart

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Tiny Black Box Madison Conforto

I’m nervous. I’m never nervous this doesn’t happen to me. For god’s sake, I’m Cynthia George. The best lawyer in the San-Francisco Bay area, an accomplished marathon runner, giver to the people, and a damn good lover. So why is this tiny black box making me so nervous? I sigh as I reach over and grab this velvet foreign object.

Flipping it around in my hand I look up to myself in the mirror; still got it even at the ripe old age of 31.

At the moment I’m standing in the bathroom connected to our bedroom. I take a breath and tell myself where I’m standing again. It’s our bathroom. This has been our bathroom for the past 5 years. Her toothbrush sits next to mine on the counter in the mouth of a blue whale that balances on its tail. When we bought the whale, I knew it wouldn’t match with our modern black and white bathroom. Trust me when I say that I complained about it to her too, but she just laughed at me the way she always does.

“But look how cute he is!! You’ll grow to love him just trust me,” she said happily, and I could never say no to that smile of hers.

She was right too. This little whale has brought a smile to my face even on the most stressful of days. I’d even say that it’s a crucial part of the bathroom. I look away from the whale and back to my green eyes in the mirror. Oh god, they look terrified, she’s going to guess something is wrong instantly. I run my fingers through my long blond hair looking for any knots that might have appeared. Of course, there’s none, due to my hours of work getting ready. She would say that I’m taking way too long and use her classic line of, “Baby, the moment you look the best is when you wake up. Why put more work in when you can come back to bed with me?”

With her job as a freelance artist, she doesn’t have to look at her best. She doesn’t have to make sure she’s absolutely perfect to the world like I have to, but I’m not preparing for court today. No, I wish I was getting ready for court today then I wouldn’t be nervous at all. However, today I’m preparing to ask the biggest question of my life; I plan on proposing to her. Her voice breaks my concentration as she calls out to me.

“Cynthia!! Let’s roll baby!! I can promise you that you look enchanting as usual.”

I roll my eyes and stick the box into my pocket. Only she would rush me on a night as important as this one. Taking one more look at myself in the mirror I check to make sure everything is in order. My golden hoop earrings sparkle in the lighting and there’s not a single crease in my black pantsuit. Everything is perfect. Everything will be perfect. I’m still nervous.

Pushing that thought to the side I start to head out. I leave our bedroom and start walking down the hallway, which is scattered with memories of her and me, to the stairs to our front door. I know she will be waiting there for me at the bottom. I always tell her that she can stay in the bedroom with me, but she refuses and says that watching me walk down the steps is way more enjoyable. Once I get to the top of the

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steps, I spot her in the same spot, coat on, and my coat in her hand. All I can think of at that moment is her lovely name, Sara.

She is the most beautiful creature to ever walk on this earth. I know I’ve complained about her not wearing professional outfits, but she honestly doesn’t have to. Anyone who looks at her would fall in love in a heartbeat. She looks up from her phone and for a second. I’m like a deer in headlights. She stands there in a long blue skirt with clouds that she has stitched in and a bright white silk shirt. There’s a little black belt that’s wrapped around her that matches the black hat that sits on her freshly shaven head.

“Babe, at the rate you were going I thought we were never going to leave. Not that I mind staying home with you,” Sara says with a wink while reaching the hand that holds my coat out to me.

“Perfection like this takes time my love,” I joke back, giving her a kiss on the cheek as her payment for my coat. She rolls her warm honey brown eyes before giving me a kiss on the forehead. “Darling you always look perfect,” she whispers to me. Even though we’ve been together for over a decade she still manages to make me blush.

How can anyone be this perfect? How can I be so lucky to have someone like her in my life? The box in my pocket seems to be almost making a point by jabbing into my leg.

Maybe this is a mistake. I know Sara is indifferent to marriage; she claims that it’s a little heteronormative for her taste. Me on the other hand, I would really like one.

I’ve always dreamed of one as a little girl. I would never admit it due to my hard reputation but also, I’m scared that this would insult her. I do think our lives are already united. I don’t want her to get the wrong impression of what I want.

Just imagine, me being able to walk down the aisle, finally being able to show off years of my guilty pleasure of hours of Pinterest boards and wedding catalog collections. Then she would be standing there, waiting for me with that perfect smile on her face, excited about us to swear our love to each other to our friends and family.

God, I sound so soft. I hope she doesn’t make fun of me.

“Babe, are you ok?” Sara breaks me out of my thoughts, and I realize I haven’t responded back to her compliment. Oh, god she’s on to me. The stressful thought instantly fills my mind and puts my body into fight or flight. You got this Cynthia, just respond back, I tell myself. “I’m doing fantastic,” I say and snap little finger guns in her direction. “Haha...OK?” Sara says in an amusing way. I spin to the door while internally screaming to myself. I’m such an idiot. ❤❤❤❤❤ OH my god, my palms are sweating. I could hydrate all of California from how much water my body is deciding to produce right now. I lift up my hands from the death grip on the leather steering wheel and I can practically see a trail of slime. I’m a slug. I’m a pathetic slug who’s trying to propose to her beautiful, not slug girlfriend.

Fortunately, that not slug of a girlfriend is currently being distracted by her favorite mixtape. It’s one that we made for a ski trip we took with close friends. I believe that was before we bought the house, and luckily for me the words of the songs leave my lips before I even notice. Sara dances happily in the passenger seat and I can’t help but fall in love with her more.

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I laugh thinking about how Sara and I first met. It was my Junior year of college.

All that was on my mind was classes, my soon to be bar exam, and making myself look

as impressive as ever for my future law firms. I had no time for friends, and I especially had no time for lovers. I’d like to say that this was only a college personality trait of mine but sadly it was how I was in my life before Sara.

Both of my parents had prestigious careers, one a heart surgeon and the other an actuary; they valued education and wealth status before anything else. This mindset was passed onto me, their only child. It wasn’t until my junior year of college where it all turned around. I was in a mandatory ceramic class and I just happened to be sitting next to the one and only Sara. She was in her pink hair faze and described herself as a bubblegum rocker. This was due to her normally wearing a thrift store pink leather coat and homemade spiked boots. I thought she looked ridiculous when I first met her but even then, I couldn’t deny how much I liked her smile.

I wish I could have said that I was the one who started a conversation or at least said hi to her, but that was all her too. We would spend the ceramic classes laughing and I would listen with amazement to the wild stories about her life that she would tell me. I felt embarrassed that I lacked so much and tried desperately to make it up with my knowledge. I would memorize fun facts about different topics each day and she would listen/pretend to be interested. She’s just so sweet like that.

At the end of every class, Sara would ask if I was free. I would respond by showing her my color-coded schedule and explain that I really didn’t have the time. I really didn’t think I did! She would laugh and always say, “I love a busy woman. As soon as you’re free schedule me down.”

I did exactly that. The day that I saw that there was nothing in my calendar I called Sara up. Boy, was I nervous. I was so close to chickening out when she picked up and if it wasn’t for her saying, “Oh? Do you finally have time for little ol’ me?” I would have made an unrelated excuse as to why I was calling. Somehow even back then she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

When Sara asked me what I wanted to do for our date I told her that all I wanted to do was to see a day in her life. I wanted to see the world that she always described in such great detail. She started off by bringing me to her apartment. I never had seen a home that has looked so much like the owner. It was a small one bedroom that seemed to be mimicking the feel of a greenhouse. She had plants everywhere, but the real showstopper was the vines on the walls. The vines were artistically grown to cover the wall in a way that they would frame the photos hung up.

This was one of the moments where I learned how hard and dedicated Sara is to her work. The amount of patience it took her to get those vines in place was something I never would have done. Most of her lights came from string or lamps as her ceilings were draped with red fabric. Her house smelled of cinnamon and weed. I’ve never been somewhere and wanted to stay until I was in Sara’s home.

She took me to flower shops, record stores, cafes, and hidden gardens. Then at night, she took me to her favorite bars and clubs. It was at Rumors night club where we had our first kiss. The funniest thing about it was that I felt like this was something that I’ve always done. I wasn’t some girl who only focused on the future. I was a girl in

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love. Luckily for me, that day we spent together wasn’t just a look but instead an invitation to be a part of her life.

Now she’s here next to me. Years later from our first kiss at Rumors and I still love watching her dance. She’s oddly very graceful for someone who is locked into the passenger seat. I flex my leg muscle to feel the ring box sitting there. I sigh which gains a look from Sara.

“Is everything ok babe? You seem super stressed tonight?” she asks me.

“Hmm? Oh! Nothing is wrong, I’m just hungry and I’ve been getting stopped at so many of these red lights.” Only a slight lie on my part. She hums and nods but continues her suspicious side-eye look. To my delight, I’m taken off the hot seat due to us arriving.

I park the car in front of our favorite Italian restaurant, and as I shut my door, I can hear Sara still in the vehicle screaming about her craving for pasta. I do a quick walk around the back and open the door to see that Sara has not stopped talking for a single second.

“-pregnancy craving with this pasta. Hehe but obviously not! Unless you want to tell me about a recent genetic development that you’ve had. Also, I love that even after all these years you’re still such a gentleman getting my door. I feel like a true lady.” she rambles to me.

Taking her hand, I help her out of the car and respond, “It’s something I look forward to doing for the rest of our lives.”

She happily skips out of the car and spins to face my direction. “Till death does us part!” she exclaims.

I stop and stare at her. Does she know? Does this mean that she would be happy with the idea of us being married? Should I ask the question now? The stars are bright above us and the lighting from the restaurant does make this parking lot feel oddly romantic. Plus, my dad would get a kick out of it if I proposed to her next to a bright red McLaren. My hand twitches in the direction of the box in my pants and I feel like I’m about to vomit. I feel my fingers slip in between the fabric and feel the fuzz of the top of the box. “Let’s go eat now! I’m starving!” the words come out of my mouth before I even realize, and I grab her hand to pull her inside.

“Oh…oh! Pasta time!” Sara sings back squeezing my hand. I swear for a moment she looked almost disappointed. Thinking that is in my head, I try shrugging off my failed attempt to propose. Why do my eyes feel watery? I hate that I feel so nervous about this. I’m afraid that this will change something about our relationship, and I can’t have that happen.

The noise and smell, once we’re in the restaurant, calms me down. You’re fine, I tell myself, even if you decided to not do it today you can always do it later. We walk up to the host and I give my last name. I wonder if she would want to take my last name. Would I take hers? The fact we haven’t talked about this at all in all of our years together fills me with a little doubt about this marriage idea of mine.

We follow the host who leads us to a candlelit table in a cozy corner of the restaurant. The spot is honestly perfect for a proposal. It’s far enough to the side where I don’t feel like many eyes would be on us. Even though I don’t think I would mind

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anyone watch me give my beautiful girlfriend a confession of a lifetime, it’s the possible rejection that scares me. The host places the menus in front of us and says that water and bread will be on the way shortly.

I look around the dimly lit restaurant and take in the atmosphere. The music is a soft instrumental composure of jazz and the calm warm lighting makes Sara’s cheekbones look like they’ve been carved from the Greek Gods themselves. I know Sara always enjoys this restaurant from the fact that we’re able to draw on the tables due to the cover being made from paper. They’ve actually framed one of Sara’s work from the last time we were here. Maybe this time will be different. Sadly, this isn’t my first attempt at trying to get these words out. I want this to be the time that I actually pull the trigger but for some reason, my body always says no.

A comfortable conversation starts between the two of us. We talk about how projects are going on Sara’s end and we gossip about people we don’t like at my firm. I feel like it’s only us in an Italian themed world. Our waiter comes over with our bread in hand, which I start to munch on nervously right away.

“Hi ladies. My name is Tim and I will be serving you tonight. What can I get you started with?”

A giggle forms from Sara as she looks at me with a mouthful of bread that all of sudden feels very dry in my mouth causing me to give two little coughs. “I think we’ll start with whatever wine you recommend and some focaccia barese. Clearly, someone over there is starving,” she says with a snort. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, but the teasing is still welcomed.

Our waiter nods and walks off. I finally force the dry bread to go down my throat and look at Sara. She is trying to stifle laughter but is failing miserably. I stick my tongue out at her and join in. The teasing calms my nerves down, but only a little.

The night was calm and relaxed from there. I won’t lie the appetizer was so good that I almost forgot about the box in my pocket and the question on my mind. Sara bounces up and down in her seat as she can see our meals start to head in our direction. I can’t help but feel my mouth also start to water. The waiter places down our designated meals in front of us and we both give him a thank you as he walks away. Before I can even place my napkin on my lap, I see Sara taking an overly big bite of her dish. She pauses mid-chew and she sees me staring at her and gives me a long and dramatic moan just to show me how good the food is. I laugh as I see a little bit of the sauce spill on to her cheek.

“You’re such a goof,” I say to her.

“Ha-ha, well I’m your goof,” she responds with a mouthful of pasta. “Yours looks delicious. You better start eating before I get my hands on it”. To prove her point she makes a jabbing motion at my plate with her fork. I snort and pull my dish close to me, even though I’d happily let her have the whole thing. At this moment is when I realize.

I’m not nervous. My hands aren’t shaking, and my lips aren’t quivering. This is what I want to do.

A relaxed breath leaves my body. Why was I scared? I swear the smell of Sara old apartment fills my nose over the smell of Italian food. I’m looking at my home right now. Yeah, a home that is covered in pasta sauce but a still sexy looking home. I know

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that we’re meant to be together and I know why I want to make her my wife. I love the person that she has made me in to. I love our home we have made together. I love her.

“Sara,” her name leaves my lips before I even realize. My body has gone on complete autopilot. It’s almost like it was designed to do this from the start of our relationship. Her eyes widen and she takes a big gulp as I get down to one knee. I take the black box out of my pocket and look up at her. Her hands shoot up to cover her mouth and she gives what I hope is an excited gasp. “We’ve been together now for more than 10 years now and this is something that I should have done so much sooner.” I am not nervous; I open the box.

“Sara, will you marry me?”

Before I know it, a body is being thrown at me. “Yes! Of course, yes!” Tears of relief flood my eyes as I feel her arms wrap around me. The restaurant erupts in claps and awes. The relief I feel in my heart is one that was needed. The stress I had about this was probably enough to take a few years off my life. A few congratulations could be heard before the other parties went back to their meals.

“Why did you take so long to ask???” she questions pulling me back so that she can look at my face. “I found the ring months ago. You’re horrible at hiding things by the way, and I have been waiting for sooo long for you to ask. I almost broke and asked you myself!”

My eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve known this whole time?” I ask exhausted.

“Well duh. You’re not with someone for these many years and not pick up on their nervous habits.” She boops my nose before taking the ring from my hands and holding it to the light. She gives off oohs and ahhs as she moves it in different angles. I feel my body begin to shake and laughter bubbles out from within. Sara stops and looks at me. Smiling with that perfect smile she says, “What’s so funny babe?”

I shake my head and wipe my eyes “You have no idea how nervous I was about this.” Her eyes soften and she kisses me on the forehead. I couldn’t ask for a better moment than this. I can’t believe that it has taken me so long to ask a question that we’ve both been waiting for.

“You goof,” Sara says to me while placing the ring on her finger.

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What If Makayla Sapienza Skylar sat on the edge of the dock, her toes tickled by the warm waves gently crashing against her. Her phone sitting on a towel next to her played the top country hits playlist while she fished. She carefully pulled a plastic bag from her tackle box, a tiny clear bag with little blue pills in it. Plopping one in her mouth and taking a swig of Gatorade, she laid back on the dock and let the sun soak into her skin.

The back of her head started to tingle as she started coming up. A fish nibbled at her line, but she just held on to the pole to make sure it stayed out of the lake. Her skin tingled as a wave of warmth flowed through her. High as a kite, she sat there and enjoyed the euphoric feeling of an oxycodone high. She reeled in her line and set her pole next to her, carefully wrapping up the hook so she wouldn’t accidentally step on it.

Placing the towel closer to the edge, she scooted off the dock and dipped into the warm water. Living on a rather shallow lake has its perks, one being that the water is usually very warm. The water came up to her hips, encasing her legs in the warmth.

She grabbed her innertube and rope, tying one end to the dock and the other to the tube, and jumped up on top of it. Floating on the gentle waves was so intensely relaxing it was almost overwhelming. Between the music and the water, she drifted off into a deep sleep.

She woke up to raindrops pounding on her body. The sky had gone dark with heavy clouds, and the wind whipped her long blonde hair into her face as she sat up and started to pull herself back in with the rope. Panic surged through her body as she realized this was about to be a bad storm. Grabbing her stuff, she sprinted up the hill and headed inside her house. She left her fishing pole and innertube on the floor in the living room and headed towards the bathroom to wash the lake water off herself.

The hot water of the shower revived her senses. She could feel her body relax as she slid down the shower wall and sat on the floor. She got out and wrapped herself in a towel and walked to her room.

She thought about home and how her family was doing. It had been months since she talked to them, and even longer since she last saw them. She missed her mom and brother and sister and wished she could see them. She left because her father didn’t want her to go to college; he wanted her to stay home until she got married then pop out a bunch of babies and be a housewife the rest of her life. She wanted to get married and have kids someday; she just wanted to be a social worker first. He disagreed with her plan and kicked her out the day she started classes. She moved into a rundown apartment with her friend, who got her to start smoking marijuana. Once she graduated, she moved to South Carolina, chasing a warmer climate than the icy winters of Wisconsin. That same friend suggested using Oxycodone to numb the pain of losing her family, and gave her a goodie bag before she left, starting a weekend habit.

Heading back into the living room, she grabbed the baggie of pills from her tackle box and popped another in her mouth. She didn’t want to miss her home

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anymore, she just wanted to feel happy. She headed back to her bed and connected a speaker to her phone. Country music blared through the room and she leaned against her headboard. She opened Facebook and started scrolling through, but she wasn’t really reading any posts. She was off in her own world, her breathing unconsciously synchronized with the music. Her heart fluttered and the world seemed to be floating, bending and jiggling like Jell-O. She’d never been so high before, and almost in slow motion she laid down on her side and shut her eyes in an attempt to make the spinning stop.

Six hours later she awoke to her alarm clock blaring in her ear. She slapped the snooze button and slowly sat up. Monday mornings were the worst, she actually had to get up and be an adult. No more drugs until Friday night. Well, at least no more oxycodone until then, but weed was still an option. She sat out on her back porch, watching the sun rise over the lake, enjoying the beauty of her yard as she pulled out her bong from a container she had sitting next to the door. Taking a seat on the bench, she packed a bowl and smoked, feeling the marijuana burn her lungs.

She leaned back and exhaled, letting the smoke leave her body. Heading back inside, she jumped in the shower and washed the skunk smell out of her hair. Taking a fresh towel and wiping off the water from her body. She put deodorant on and started to blow dry her hair. She applied some light makeup and headed out the door.

Work proved to be busy as usual. Being a social worker is no small feat. She spent her morning at a desk, filling out paperwork and updating case files. In the afternoon, she went all around town and did the in-home sessions with her clients. By eight o’clock she was heading into her car, ready to go home for the night. Once she got home, she smoked again, then curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and went over her notes from her sessions.

The McPherson family was ready to graduate from her services. After a year of hard, intense work, they were finally ready to function as a family. The Johnson’s were moving through the steps of their program nicely, with a few bumps along the way, but progress was being made. Then there was the Peterson’s, new clients who just started to set their goals and define their program. Her caseload was pretty light compared to normal. She kept her in-home clients at a minimum so she could meet with clients in her office more. She felt it was more important for the clients to talk their issues out with her individually and in a group setting than it was for her to come to their home.

Her notes started to blur together on the page. The notepad seemed to be floating in her lap, making it a challenge to copy the notes into her computer. Her fingers drifted across the keyboard, slowly typing, her mind trying to focus on the words, but the haze of the weed made it difficult. She turned on the T.V. and put her favorite medical drama on and clicked to her favorite episode for background noise.

She loved the feeling of being high. There was nothing quite like it, feeling so relaxed and calm. Her client’s problems faded from her mind, the worry and care that she felt escaped her mind. The constant pressure from her boss to get clients through the program quickly and use as minimal resources as possible, the stress to actually help them grow stronger as a family unit. It was a lot for her to take, but she loved the job.

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The rest of the week was spent with the same routine, wake up, smoke, head to work, come home and smoke again. When Friday night rolled around, she hit up her plug for more oxy. Once she scored, she headed home and put on some trap music and crushed up the pills into a thin white line. Crouched down over the coffee table, she held a straw in her nose and snorted the powder. Minutes later she felt so incredibly high she could barely walk. She laid on the couch and listened to the music throb through her body. She cranked up the surround sound system and let the bass fill her soul. A few hours into her high she snorted another line and let it hit her like a ton of bricks. Euphoria washed over her, and she started to laugh hysterically.

“What a great day this is to be Skylar Grace!” She stood up slowly and started to gently sway around the room to the music. Bumping into the coffee table and nearly spilling the last of her stash, she looked at it with disappointment. “I’ve only got one more line left out of the stash that was supposed to last all weekend. I should just go out and get more.”

She sent her dealer text and eventually found the way to her car. She sat in the driver's seat and started the car, setting her phone down in the cupholder. She drove out to their usual meeting spot, a gas station just outside of town. She drove slowly, about ten miles under the speed limit, and her head was on a swivel the entire trip. Her ‘weekend habit’ had been going on for months now, and the amount at each use had gone up dramatically since she first started.

“Hey bud, how are you tonight?” She waltzed up to him, trying to be as casual as possible. A month of this and she still hadn’t figured out how to not be nervous around a drug dealer, even though she was a frequent flyer herself. The oxycodone was better than weed, albeit more dangerous, it helped her forget about her past.

“Long time no see. I ran out of pills earlier today, but I’ve got some in an injectable.” He pulled out a brown paper bag with four syringes, a vial of the drug, and four clean needles. She hesitated, but only for a quick second, then she handed over the money and headed home for another blast. The anticipation grew inside of her as she walked through the front door. The coffee table was her brewery; she sat the syringes down and got some alcohol swabs for her arm. She Googled “safe injections” and spent a good ten minutes digging through articles to find one that was easy for her altered brain to understand.

After shooting up she immediately crashed on the couch. Her body felt like it was glued to the couch. She felt pure bliss, and she started laughing over how perfect this high was. She blasted music and felt the waves of euphoria wash over her. I should go on a walk by the lake! She slipped a jacket on and tied her shoes. The cool night air felt good on her hot skin. She itched her arms as the tingling sensation got stronger. The water was still with the moon perfectly reflecting on it.

It looked like she could just walk out on the water and touch the moon. She stepped out onto her dock and walked to the edge, staring up at the stars, wishing she could touch them. They looked so close to her, like she could just jump out and touch them. Knowing better than to jump in the lake, she sat down and pulled her shoes off, dipping her toes in the water.

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An electrical shock jolted through her legs and up into her spine, making her gasp with pleasure. The coolness of the lake and air was the polar opposite of her body. She stood out from the ecosystem around her. Heat radiated off of her skin, and she leaned her head back and exhaled. Suddenly she pitched forward, her muscles refusing to hold her up, and she dove headfirst into the water.

Darkness was all she could see. On top of the lake was the moon, yet under the water was nothing but cold, empty, darkness. She tried to swim but her legs couldn’t move for some reason. I can touch the bottom here, why can’t I touch it now? She started to panic. I should be able to touch on my dock why can’t I now. She felt herself get dizzy and felt her body slip into the darkness completely.

Bright white lights blared in her eyes. She scrunched them up and tried to turn her head, but there was something keeping her from doing that. She could very faintly hear a beeping noise from somewhere above her head. She tried to pick her arm up but failed to, there was something holding her down. People moved all around her, poking her with needles and hooking her up to machines. Her lips felt cold, and she suddenly realized that she was shivering. She sat up and was immediately pushed back down by a nurse. She tried to open her mouth to speak but couldn’t and started to fight against the nurse to try to get up. Commotion ensued around her, but she couldn’t hear through the phase. Suddenly, the blackness sucked her up once again.

She woke up again in a different room, the lights much softer on her bleary eyes. She was under multiple blankets, and when she moved to stretch, she noticed an IV in her arm. How did I get here? She looked around and saw a ‘call nurse’ button next to the bed. She hit it, and shortly after a woman in scrubs walked in. “Hi Skylar, my name is Kelly, what can I help you with?”

“I’m just confused. How did I get here, where are we, and why am I hooked up to an IV?” She was a tad bit annoyed at her memory gap. “You are at St Joseph Hospital. Let me get the doctor, he can explain why you’re here.” She stepped out and shut the door behind her. The last thing Skylar remembered was laying down on the couch. There was a foggy glimpse of her getting even higher with an injection, but she couldn’t remember anything after that.

This time when the door opened, a man walked in. “Hello Skylar, my name is Dr. Hunt.” He shook her hand and stood next to her bed. “You came in last night via ambulance with a suspected overdose. You fell into the lake off of your neighbor's dock.

Good thing he was out night-fishing, or else you probably would be dead. You had a good amount of water in your lungs when you got here, but we got it all out and have you on antibiotics to keep away infection.”

She nodded. Her neighbor was in a deeper part of the lake, which made sense why she couldn’t touch. “Can you tell me what you were on?”

She looked down and wrapped her fingers around the seams of her gown. “None of your business. When can I be discharged?”

“I highly advise you to stay; we’ve got a great in house rehab program that has a few spots available if you would like to go.” He pulled a few pamphlets from his lab coat pocket, but she shook her head.

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“I do not need rehab; I am not an addict. Now can you please discharge me if there is no medical reason to keep me here.”

“Well I do need to keep you for another chest x-ray to make sure your lungs are okay, but if that’s all clear I will discharge you.”

He left the room and Skylar looked at the papers in her lap. Smiling faces, beautiful rooms, luscious gardens and recreational activities starred back at her from the different rehab facilities. I don’t need rehab; I do not have a problem. I just took

too much. If I hadn’t left the house, I’d be fine right now.”

She was discharged around noon on Saturday and headed home to recuperate.

She felt weaker than normal. The walk up her porch was much more taxing on her lungs than usual. She decided against doing more oxy until later in the evening, so she headed out back to smoke. Careful to not spill any weed, she packed a huge bowl and smoked it, nearly throwing up from coughing so hard.

Once she came back inside, she curled up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate and relaxed. The high was not nearly as intense as she wished it would be, but regardless she enjoyed mindlessly watching reality TV shows about big and fancy weddings. She decided to order some Mexican food from a local place and get it delivered just in time for her next blast of her weekend drug.

She tied a shoelace around her bicep and flicked her wrist a few times to get the vein to pop. She washed her arm off and carefully plunged the needle into her vein and injected the substance into her. She got up from the couch and opened the curtains, letting in the last bits of daylight into her home. The sun felt nice on her skin and she laid in front of the window like a lizard in the desert, soaking up as much of the warmth as possible.

She started to laugh hysterically and rolled onto her back, laughing at her luck.

She drove high as a kite and didn’t crash; she possibly overdosed and almost drowned but lived. God sure has a sick sense of humor, she thought. She felt herself come into the familiar high, embracing the itchiness and shallow breathing. She slowly slipped into a familiar sleepy state, staring at the ceiling fan spin.

When the doorbell rang, she slowly peeled herself up from the floor and opened it to find her food sitting on the little table next to the door. She applauded her sober self for ordering such good food, and immediately dug into her feast. I could make this food taste even better if I got even higher. She walked outside to the back porch but was met with a disappointing sight; she was out of weed. Her only other option being more oxy, she headed back inside for another blast.

Tying the shoelace around her arm for the second time that night, she prepared herself for another injection. The needle pierced her skin and she pushed the plunger down, letting the addictive drug in her system again. She cleaned up her arm and untied the shoelace, then sat on the couch. She was extremely high. Her whole body was tingling, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She tried to sit up but couldn’t command her muscles to work. Her heart was beating out of her chest, and she felt like her throat was closing up. Darkness closed in on her, her eyes still trying to follow the ceiling fan above.

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***************************************************************** *************************** Skylar sat on the edge of the dock, her toes tickled by the warm waves gently crashing against her. Her phone sitting on a towel next to her played the top country hits playlist while she fished. She carefully pulled a plastic bag from her tackle box, a tiny clear bag with little blue pills in it.

She turned the bag over in her hand, playing through all that could go wrong with these tiny pills. She could overdose, she could drive high and risk a wreck, she could nearly drown herself. Without hesitation, Skylar turned the bag over and dumped the pills in the lake, vowing to never touch the ‘weekend drug’ again.

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In Circles We Walk Solemnly Maya Keeney In circles we walk solemnly to memories made in black and white.

Head in hands, as we walk this lonely night.

The circle of grief is all we roam, we, a new generation.

Same circles.

Same cycles.

The violence never ends.

Another child shot.

Another man dies.

Another mother beaten.

Another father lies.

Another empty bottle and broken glass.

Another needle upon the floor.

Another officer crushes life.

Another glacier falls apart.

Another fire destroys a home.

When will our circle end, In this world born with hate and greed?

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We never wanted this world, We never asked for it.

We plea to leave it, but are met with scorn, at the mere thought of change.

So, in circles we walk solemnly, to memories made in black and white.

To the stars and heavens, we scream “Remove this hateful plight.�

Yet our cries are ignored and ever scorned, By the older generations, the men in power, and perhaps even the angels up above.

We come to adapt and make do.

Another bullet proof backpack.

Another death disregarded.

Another mother silent.

Another father blameless.

Another empty bottle tossed out the door and broken glass swept.

Another needle reused and stuck in a broken vein.

Another officer suspended; his crimes gone ignored.

Another glacier long forgotten upon the 100-degree artic day.

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Another house rebuilt on blackened earth.

So, in circles we walk solemnly, to memories made in black and white.

We adapt and they ignore.

So, this circle is all we roam, we, a new generation, and this circle that shackles us is still what we call home.

I am one born in this generation. Born into a world of hate and pain. When those planes hit the towers on 9/11 my mother wept, “What world am I bringing my child into?” as I too wept in her womb. I was born, gifted with problems I didn’t even cause.

Why the hell is there problems on my plate that I can’t even solve? They’re all nonsensical equations with variables strewn about.

I am one born in this new generation.

Childhood left early as I had to face my reality at the ripe age of 13.

The world is a harsh and dangerous place, where regard to life is little to none, as we are naturally greedy creatures, and make everything our own.

Burning forest homes of the animals, just so we can plant some seeds.

We drill the ocean floor, oil black and slick strangles life, all for a drive to work that hardly sustains our own lives.

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In those fliers I’d received, at the sight of our estranged mother earths wounds, oh how my heart would grieve.

I am one born in this new generation. There was nothing I could change at the ripe age of 13.

That I learned and realized when I was just 16, and that it was no fault of mine nothing changed.

Because rich men cheat and rich men lie. Rich men have power and leave the poor men to die.

The system is rigged, I can see it and others of the minority see it too, yet those rich men just cry out that we lie, when we express our outrage.

Few if any accept our plights as truth without using them for a political gain.

I am one born in this new generation.

I am now 18 and riots spread because we, the new generation are tired of these lies.

Our planet burns in chaos, a catalyst of change in this year of 2020.

So, we embrace it, and are rising up, We know our voices matter, they can force change upon the unbuckling courts, for it is our right to protest, and soon we will not be ignored.

Life isn’t ugly, horrible, or inherently bad, That is a human thought and feeling projected unto it, caused and nurtured by our race’s major so-called leaders, with their inability to learn and give,

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but plentiful in knowledge of how to remain stupid with greed.

This isn’t how it will it always will be.

So, we, a new generation, give up our adaptation to this world we live.

I pave a new road.

You pave a new road.

They pave a new road.

We pave a new road.

To create a better world.

To adapt is to accept, and I do not accept. We do not accept To keep walking this circle of grief and pain, is to submit and to lose. I will not submit or lose. We will not submit or lose.

So, on woven paths we trudge along, to a chromatic spectrum of visions, Hands raised high and our head to the sky as we walk this gracious day.

These paths and more we shall explore.

We, a new generation.

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More Morgan Wilder Sitting in the white sand, Amber angles her face up to the sun. Her freckled cheeks are warm and rosy with content. She never imagined she’d be here watching the waves lap at her feet.

The small grey two-bedroom house she’d been renting was quaint and cozy. Plants on every table, candles that smelled like gardenia, polaroids strewn across her bedroom wall—it was hers. Even though she called it home, she yearned for a home she had yet to discover.

Every night when she would lay in bed, her mind wandered to the places she yearned to explore. Yosemite Valley, the Grand Canyon, the Rockies, Grand Cayman, all stacked in her mind.

Waking up to the peeking sun through her crisp white curtains, she wished for a new town outside her window with new adventure, but the mundane routine lay ahead. Today was the same as most days were: arrive at the diner, work the lunch rush, visit her grandma, then back to work for the late shift. She half-heartedly accepted this was her life.

One rainy Sunday afternoon, she sat on Nona’s velvet emerald couch sipping tea. Her grandma rounded the corner with a plate full of homemade chocolate chip cookies, studying Amber’s expression.

“Something is on your mind. I could tell from the moment you walked in,” said Nona as she sat the plate on the blanketed ottoman.

“Did you ever want more? Not that your life is boring, but did you ever want more?”

Amber asked.

“Honey, I’ve had all the more I can handle in this life. I’ve seen more cities than I can count, met more people than I could remember, but they always led back here,” she recalled.

Amber’s eyes grew wide as she listened.

“I never knew you traveled all over, Nona. Tell me more!!” she pleaded.

Nona shared her travels as a young woman and just how rewarding they were. From New Mexico to Greece, she’d learned more about life than she could fathom.

“My words don’t do justice to the sunsets I’ve seen, but I will tell you this; don’t wait until ‘one day’. ‘One day’ will come and go faster than you think,” she remarked. “Live out your desires and don’t second guess yourself!”

Later that night, Amber lay under the fluffy lavender blanket recounting Nona’s words.

“Live out your desires and don’t second guess yourself!” she muttered to herself. Glancing over at her stickered laptop, she knew what she needed to do. Two hours later, she’d booked a flight for Thursday morning with no return date. She called Nona to share, unable to contain her excitement. They relished in the adventure that lay ahead.

Four days later, Amber arrived in George Town. A smirked smile spread across her face as she took in the view of the vibrant blue ocean. Every picture she’d seen of Grand Cayman couldn’t compare to what was in front of her. Every beautiful new face, every breathtaking wave, every swaying tree was more than she could ever dream of. Taking in a grateful breath, she thought of Nona. “This is only the beginning,” she crooned.

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Things in life Myles Wagstaff You come to help when I am weak You feel my pain and that is deep We were just young kids running in the streets But trying to be as cool as satin sheets Late in the night you can hear the dogs bark Inside my brain I received a sudden spark Some of us are afraid of the dark And then we have the strong ones that have heart You told me that you would never tell me lies Although you manage to bring tears to my eyes Everything seems to catch me by surprise I just wanted to be tough like the rest of the guys Someday my dreams you will realize That i can run things as big as a franchise I need guidance so please show me the ropes A kid like me lacks a lot of hope I can’t do everything all by myself The man above knows that I need help Life isn’t easy when you don’t come from wealth So every day I thank god for the strength of my health The hard things i try to wash away in a rinse Because sometimes this thing we call life makes no sense

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Carefree in The Desert Apocalypse!

Natalio Alvarado Smoothly making its way through the desert on an extraordinary bleak and amazingly boring asphalt road. A bus, going at a crisp 55 mile per hour drive, with 4 hours between its stops. Nothing in the way between here or there. Just the occasional 55 speed limit sign, maybe a sun blasted barn or two, and beautiful vistas that line the horizon side to side. The bus was not too special, just that it had a rather decent air condition, and a tv of all things. Though it only played quaint documentaries about buses and transportation services. Only about three people bothered to take this ride between nowhere and somewhere. The bus driver, and two other passengers, one of which looked like they’ve been drinking since the day they left their mother’s womb.

The sky was a crystal blue, barely a thing could get in the way of the sun. Scorching the world outside the bus to a cool 100 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Roughly around the 66-mile marker, one of the passengers couldn’t take the dead silence and spoke up towards the bus driver. “Can we play something else than the same shitty music on that radio please?” they begged, which the bus driver was more than happy to oblige. “I hated it too,” the man at the wheel shouted back. “I just left it on because I thought you loved it.” The driver turned the dial to find something interesting. Slowly flipping the dial through many different channels, which somehow made their signals out this way.

“Repent sinners! Repent and let the…” one of the channels blasted!

“Hamburger helper is…” another channel cut short.

“Possibly the worse thing, I’ve…” yet again stopped in its tracks.

“And now for something completely…” too slow for the dial!

“What do you think about the conflict between the U.S and…” The driver didn’t care for what was on and turned off the radio.

“Fuck that. I’m just gonna play what I got on this here MP3 player I have.”

He proceeded to bring out a mp3 player that looks like it’s been around since the dinosaurs.

“Yah like dubstep?” they asked towards the passenger who wanted something, anything to change.

“Never heard of it,” they replied.

“Well, you do now!” He then rammed an audio cable from their music player into a jack on the radio. Soon after that the bus was blaring with some of the loudest dubstep known to the world. So booming and loud that it was echoing throughout the canyons and could be heard for miles around them! The drunkard got up from his selfinduced coma without saying a word. Only a minor hiccup and burp came out of them.

Then they began to twirl in place like a ballerina, all while stumbling and tripping.

“Holy shit dude turn that down please!?” begged the singular normal one.

“No man,” the driver exclaimed and shouting over it all. “You gotta enjoy this at full volume to get the full flavor!”

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What must’ve felt like a fever dream lasted for the next 40 minutes or so. One passenger dancing like a mad man! Thinking they were competing for a dance show!

The driver was going mental in the front; the driver was bouncing up and down, fanatically, in their seat! And the only sane person in the bus desperately covered their ears. Hoping for some miracle to interrupt the damn music! From the inside it was a clown car.

The bus on the outside was still going at an amazingly smooth 55 mph. The landscape hadn’t changed at all, still the lovely 120-degree barren desert it’s always been. But when all seemed fine and dandy, a single far off spec slowly came closer to the bus. It was a disturbingly fat cow, one as wide as the road. But the cow wasn’t making its way to the bus, the bus was making its way to the cow! “What the fuck! It’s a damn cow! It’s one beefy looking one too!” the bus driver exclaimed! The driver tried to swerve to dodge the massive Jovian sized object! But the cow was no more, and the bus was utterly totaled. The front caved in, with a distinctive cow shaped indent. It veered off the road and flipped on its side! At least the music had stopped.

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Love Nawal Chishty They tell me they want to fall in love I do not understand why a person would want to fall When you fall you get hurt Why don’t they say that they want to grow in love?

Because when things grow the results are flowers and fruits And these are the true gifts of life

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Food in The Right Places Omar Hernandez Peanut Butter on toast.

Next to a steamy glass of hot chocolate, because I don't really like coffee.

A plate of tacos.

In a restaurant where my parents used to go on dates, In the heart of a little town in Mexico.

In’n’out burger.

On the sunny California coast, with family you haven't seen in years.

A breakfast burrito.

In the middle of nowhere Wyoming, served by some ladies that made you feel right at home.

A Cinnabon.

In the biggest gas station, I’ve ever seen.

Of course, it was in Texas.

A dollar slice of pizza.

Right in the heart of Brooklyn, talking to folks you just met.

A Cubano.

Right on the tip of Florida, soaking up the sunshine, and the music.

A good bowl of gumbo.

Near the swamps of Louisiana, watching out for gators.

Freshly steamed lobster.

Right off the boat, on a fishing dock in Maine.

A Coney Dog, with everything on it.

At any coney in southeast Michigan.

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Follow Me: An Excerpt from Her Diary Sara Stoelton “Follow me,” he whispered.

How did I know that I could trust him? I hardly knew him. He was new at school and I only agreed to hang out with him because he seemed lonely. Yet, everything about him was inviting. His smile: glistening white and an example of perfection. His body: strong, warm and gentle. His voice: silky smooth, saying all the right things that made me blush and gave me butterflies. It was all almost too much for me to resist. But there was a glint of danger and mischief in his sparkling blue stare that made me hesitate.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his face looking confused, as if he were expecting me to take his hand and follow him immediately and without question.

Had he given me a reason to not trust him? Every moment that I had spent with him so far had been more than perfect, it had been magical.

I looked past him and into the trees he was asking me to follow him into. It was broad daylight, but beyond the trees there seemed to be endless darkness. A feeling of uneasiness settled into my stomach.

He must have noticed my unease because in a gentle voice he said, “Don’t be afraid.” Stepping forward, he took my hand in his, interlocking his fingers with mine.

The uneasiness melted away the moment his hand touched mine. The feeling of warmth and security spread through me. Smiling his perfect smile, we walked into the forest.

I had been mistaken about the endless darkness. The shadowy path we had been walking opened into a narrow and sunny meadow. The scenery around us could not be more illuminated. The deep colors of scarlet, orange, and gold surrounded me.

A slight breeze blew my hair around my face and ruffled the colorful leaves that remained on the trees, and made the ones that had fallen dance around our ankles.

Through the openings in the branches above I could still feel the warmth of the sun as it shined down on us. Every so often I could hear a bird’s light sing-song voice in the distance.

“It’s beautiful,” I half whispered, not wanting to disturb our peaceful surroundings with my hushed tone.

“I know,” he said looking down on me, his blue eyes complementing the butterfly wings batting around his head.

As we walked through the meadow and deeper into the woods, nature took over.

Soon the whistling tones of the bird surrounded Will and I, adding to the soft steps of other animals and the sound of water flowing.

Ahead of us there was a small stream. Drinking from the water was a family of deer: a doe and two fawns. As we arrived at the stream, they continued drinking, undisturbed by our presence, undisturbed by human nature. We watched them in silence.

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It was so peaceful there. I no longer felt like I was in a world with seven billion other people in it. There, it felt like the only two people that existed were Will and I. It was a strange feeling, since not half an hour ago I was asking myself if I could trust him. There was just something about the way his hand felt in mine, how I was only too aware of his presence next to me, how I knew he was looking at me even though my gaze was fixed on the family of deer, that just seemed right. I blushed as the thought occurred to me.

What was he thinking as he stared down at me, I wondered? Was he also thinking about my hand in his or how too aware he was of me standing next to him?

Or was he wondering what I was thinking, like I was thinking about him?

For several moments I was tempted to ask him what he was thinking, but I decided against it and instead asked, “Why did you want to show me this?”

I looked up at him and met his deep blue stare. He had a small smile.

He spoke softly as he turned to me, “You’ll see. I think we should be heading back now.”

I glanced back at the stream. The family of deer had left; the chirping birds had gone quiet, and the leaves had finished their dance.

“I guess you’re right,” I sighed, not wanting to leave the peaceful forest.

“We can come back again, if you’d like,” he said, starting to lead me back out of the trees.

“I’d like that,” I admitted.

He looked over his shoulder and flashed me a smile. I could not help but smile back.

After Will drove me home I decided I would call Henry and let him know I was okay. He was probably worried because I had not gotten a ride home with him after school that day.

“Casey! Where were you after school?” Henry asked.

“I got a ride with a friend,” I explained.

“Oh. But you’re home safe?”

“Yes, I’m safe,” I felt myself flush at his concern.

“Good.”

There was a pause.

“How was football practice?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

“Brutal. Coach was pissed about our loss on Friday. I think maybe it had something to do with you,” he spoke, mischief thick in his voice.

“Me? What do I have anything to do with the team losing?” Was Henry blaming me for something I had no control over?

“Well, I think you’re our lucky charm or something. I mean, the last two games you were at we kicked ass, but the one game you’re not at we get our asses kicked.

You’re our lucky charm Casey,” he explained.

I blushed again.

“Thanks, Henry.”

“So, if you’re our lucky charm, I guess that means you’ve gotta be at all of our games, rain, shine, or snow!” He laughed through the phone.

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He had a cute laugh: loud, but not obnoxious like some laugh. Sometimes if you got him laughing hard enough, he would snort. His laugh was also contagious.

Eventually, I began laughing too.

“Well, if you’re wrong about this lucky charm thing and I sit through all of those games and you guys still lose you’re gonna get it!” I warned jokingly.

“Oh, is that so pip-squeak?”

“Hey! I could take you out any time any place!”

“Ha! I doubt it!”

“Oh shut-up,” I smiled.

Henry laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Casey,” he said hanging up the phone.

Henry has always cared about me. I care for him as well; however, I think I care about Will more. I feel as though I should tell them about each other, tell Henry that I am interested in another boy. I am scared of their reaction. Perhaps, I can live in this fantasy for just a bit longer before I tell either of them. Yes, that is what I will do.

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The Mask Sydney Sweeney The endless swarm of thoughts and feelings that were caged in the back of her head were the final strain on her sanity- she inevitably snapped. It was the girl who was supposed to walk around with a smile graced on her lips, with the constant cracking of jokes to entertain those around her. The girl that was never anything but content- seemingly unnerved and fine.

Her thick, plastered mask did the job. She convinced the people around her in masses, putting on a show as she had for many years now. While she lived her life, surrounded by friends, like she had no cares in the world- behind her facade, she was insufferably alone.

The girl sat on her bed, surrounded by crumpled sheets and tear-stained pillowcases.

She huddled in the far corner, surrounded by her grey walls that felt like they stretched for miles. Despite the biting cold she felt, the solemnness of the walls comforted her. With her knees brought up and tucked to her chest, she rested the side of her flushed cheek on her bony knee. Her grey eyes were brimmed with salty tears, threatening to fall- but, she sat there, totally and utterly numb. Her mind dimmed down to a quiet buzz, her motivation to care for the previous thoughts that destroyed the last of the sanity now gone. Her heart ached as if she had suffered an innumerable amount of heartbreaks or a stab to the chest. Her limbs were sore from the hours of trembling, the anxiety and stress never letting her sit restfully. She sat there in her room, completely vulnerable- a state that she was beyond embarrassed to be in. The only relief she had was that no one was there to see, except for her and her inner demons. Her ability to keep all that grief locked away within her tiny body for such long periods of time was beyond anyone's understanding. The girl straightened her back and leaned against one of the cool, gray walls.

She stifled the sobs that threatened to rack through her body, knowing that one by one they would rip her mask in half. The girl swallowed the tears and the sorrow for the night and carried herself to her mirror.

Looking up, she stared at her sad excuse of a reflection. Sunken eyes, disheveled hair, red nose, flushed cheeks, chapped lips. She gripped the edging of her dresser, hunching over in anger. Why did she have to feel this way? Her grip on the dresser was so strong, her knuckles turned white, and her arms grew weak from the locked elbows holding herself up. She glanced back up at the mirror. She chewed on her bottom lip, leaning back in defeat- the reflection won today. It always knew how to get the best of her. Crawling back into bed, she buried herself in her blankets. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, they would block and protect her from the world.

And as time passed, the girl had to compose and conceal herself once again. She had to readjust the fragile mask. The girl shushed the thoughts to a murmur and put them far in the back of her head- where they had come from. This had become a sort of routine for her, bottling everything up until she completely broke down, just to box it all back up again. Soon enough, the girl was back on her feet. Her tear-stained cheeks had faded to her usual rosy tint, and her eyes raised and cleared its glazed look from the tears. She shook out her sore limbs and took deep breaths to calm her achy heart. She combed her hair back to its tamed, wavy state. She made her bed and looked back at the walls she had thought stretched on forever, but they ended only a few feet from where she had sat. She went on with her clean up routine, not realizing a mask can only be used so many times until its purpose becomes futile.

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Exaltation to the Body Taylor White The body is a pleasant thing Soft mountains of sweet grass moving over the sharp boney rocks The pitch and yaw of the back, muscles restrict and retract Oh, we honor the body, we thank the body for its strength It moves us through life, the landscape nurturing us Strong tree trunked thighs and sinewy legs that glide into delicate, delicious ankles Long arms that turn into nimble fingers- they heal, they feed, they create, they nurture Delicate neck that disappears into broad shoulders, to carry our burdens and our dreams, Cascading down into tender breasts, the slope and sway The ribcage to protect the beating heart, pumping blood into the farthest corners of our body The beating heart feels, we peel back the skin and bone to experience every emotion We praise our body for the function, the courage to keep up breathing - beating You have done nothing wrong; you give, fully and freely, your entire being to us And yet we punish you We look in a mirror and we do not see the wounds as tales of survival But rather we see the failuresscars and moles and dimples and lumps We do not see them as stories of battles won, but of ugliness Feeling sick of the sight of you – Body we beg forgiveness - we honor you; we praise you You do not fail us, but we have failed you

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