Wordsworth Magazine Fall 2017 by Wordsworth Literary Magazine

O vergrown

wo rd s wo r t h m

w o r d s w o r t h Staff... Mady Martin, Co-Editor Kate Bias, Co-Editor Tina Starks, Co-Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Abby Steinke Alex Goff Angelo Luna Athena Kuhner Ayrton Yamaguchi Bijan Massey Bre Jones Cassady White

Daniel Conway Delaney Hoots Ella Thompson Ellison Kerbs Faith Ahola Vivi Winkley Grace Korthuis Hailey Burdick Isaac Wooten Jaden Lindsey Jaelen Sandoval Jamie Norris Kaden Finley Lecette Burke Lucy Otto Maia Combs

Marilyn Ingalls Melayna Campos Micky McCafferty Murphy Bradshaw Nathan Keldsen Nora VanRees Dare Poling Riley Lecocq Rosemary Smith Ruby Landolt Ryan Desemple Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) Sarah Cowell-Wellborne Sophia Le Remy Wilcox Truly Rylander

[ e d i t o r ’s l e t t e r ] Welcome readers, both new and returning, to the Fall 2017 Wordsworth Literary Magazine! We are pleased to present you with this diverse collection of your fellow peers’ writing and visual arts. All in a single magazine! A special thank you to our wonderful staff who make Wordsworth a reality, and the sensational Jody Adams for her endless support and guidence. We hope you enoy this issue of Wordsworth, and we are looking forward to reading more of your writing! -- Wordsworth Editorial Staff

It is with pleasure that we present our fall 2017 issue.

OVERGROWN

t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s

poetry Abby Steinke Abby Steinke Andy Winner Angelo Luna Angelo Luna Ashley Jones Athena Kuhner Ben Kautz Breann Jones Breann Jones Darus Poling Dillon Willoughby Elana Roldan Ella Thompson Ella Vires grace e.k. grace e.k. Gray I. Heidi Williams Heidi Williams Elijah Thomas Isabel Hernandez Jaden Lindsey Jaden Lindsey Jaelen Sandoval Jamie Norris Jamie Norris Joel Weinmaster Julia Koeb L.B Lilia Hamideh Lilia Hamideh Lionel Theodore Liza Lucy m.E. m.E. m.m. m.m. Maria Vara Mia Veljacic Micky McCafferty Micky McCafferty Mikaylee Fussell Mikaylee Fussell murphy m b murphy m b Nate Dawg Nora VanRees r.w. Samuel Edmundson Samuel Edmundson T.C.

The Weight of Wine Saint Charlie Ritualistic The Golem The Beast (for an old friend) Empty Mugs, Full Hearts Wings Untitled Of Fire and Flowers Do I Even Really Know You Anymore? Marinating A Special Day Memories of the Sea In That Very Meadow Her Tic Tacs Conclusion These Songs A Letter I Don’t Know How to Start Memories and Miracles Lights in the Darkness Marshmallows Glow Now Silky Hill with the Stars Honey Bubbles Harvest Moon; 10.5.17 Moment of Impact The bus Every Season In The Garden Robot Untitled The 77th M If Love Never Changes Broken Hands Laughing In Between Falling Miz Abby Harris Laughter Ashes to Ashes Cannibal Lady of the Rain This Was a Different Day from the yellow pages the sureness of being a stranger Calm Before the Storm Strawberry Jam Open House Listings From Hello and Hi Stargazing

4 5 5 6 7 8 9 10 10 14 18 21 22 23 24 25 27 29 30 31 34 34 34 35 35 36 39 41 42 43 44 45 46 46 47 48 49 50 53 55 55 58 59 60 61 64 66 69 71 72 76 77 79

The Table of Round In the Moonlight 80 Table Tina Starks White Noise 85 T.J. Grow. 86 Truly Rylander Honey 86 Truly Rylander Winter 87 Anonymous Untitled 90 Anonymous Cat Back 91 Anonymous Untitled 92 Anonymous Ash 92 Anonymous Years Past 93 Anonymous Fool 93 Anonymous Scars 94

prose Burbs 3: Conundrum of the Mislaid Pets Plagiarism Realis The Statues Worth a Thousand Words Bussing

1 19 62 63 78 82

ere th

The Seven Gates of Thebes Sparks of Water Memories To: You Man vs. Nature Taganrod Home is where the heart is

Ho me 15 16 56 70 74 81 88

S p ark

ater

M e m o ri e s

To:Y

so fW

Daniel Conway Daniel Conway Maria Vara Nate Dawg r.w. Tina Starks Truly Rylander

art Is

visual arts -

e He

Abbi Doddridge Dillon Willoughby Mortiz Mortiz Seneca Christie Tina Starks

ganrod

“Cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to shortchange the M u s e. I t c a n n o t b e d o n e. Yo u c a n’t f a k e quality any more than you can fake a g o o d m e a l .” —William S. Burroughs 8

[the burbs 3: conundrum of the mislaid pets] Abbi Doddridge Where we last left off, the poor teenage girl was staring into the eyes of a malicious pet killer, who at the time had the audacity to offer her tarts after shoving her into the basement. Never would she have imagined herself in that dimly lit pit of nightmares, but there she was. Lying among piles of fur and bones. Though for some odd reason, the fall hadn’t hurt her. For those of you who read part 1, you might remember that she fell into the animal pen. Therefore she fell on top of one of the dog beds. Coincidence? Maybe, but I couldn’t kill her off just yet! We still have a full two years of lit mags before I can finish these stories! The stench of the obscene amount of animals that occupied the space had taken over the roomy basement. As the girl examined the basement, a chill went down her spine. She could’ve sworn that under the basement stairs she saw a pile of hair. Her pulse began to race, and she suddenly became aware of the situation she was in. “Comfy?” The sudden voice grasped the girl’s attention, her head looking up to where she had fallen from. There stood the woman with the tarts, the same chilling smile on her face. It was as if it had been etched into her sickly pale skin. If there was one thing the girl had learned, it was that sarcasm is always the answer. “Yeah, dog beds are my favorite!” The girls yelled back up to the woman, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, since we all know sarcasm helps every life or death situation. The woman’s lip curled into a snarl, similar to the one on the dog sitting beside the girl. “Why you little--” Before she could finish her comment, the woman was interrupted. The door to the basement had been opened, and in the doorway stood the woman’s son whom the girl had met earlier that day. “You...mom?” he questioned as he looked from the girl up to his mother. “Son...oh son! I just found this girl breaking into our home--” the woman tried to defend herself, but her son was far from naive. “Aren’t these the missing pets?” A dumbfounded expression plastered itself upon the woman’s face as

she realized she had been caught in her pitiful attempt of a lie. Her own son even realized what she was up to. What had astounded the girl was the fact that this wasn’t a family operation. Clearing her throat, the woman quietly stated, “One moment please.” With that, the trap door shut, cutting off the majority of the light in the basement. The boy, not knowing what to do, cautiously advanced towards the girl. She scooted over and patted the spot on the dog bed next to her. “It’s pointless to try and run, plus I really want to know why anyone would want all these pets.” She shrugged as he sat down on the empty spot. Around that time, the woman had run into the basement, panting. She closed the door behind her, taking a deep breath as she stared down the two teenagers. “Now I’m sure you’ve already figured it out, but I’m going to explain it anyways. Some time ago I discovered that tart crust tasted richer with a fine crushed turkey bone powder. Now unfortunately, they only sell turkey bone powder on the black market, which was not something I was going to deal with. Therefore the only logical thing to do was to buy a turkey every day, from a different store each time, and kidnap the neighborhood pets to eat the turkey, so no one would think I had a turkey problem.” The two teens dropped their jaws, their eyebrows furrowing in confusion as they tried to piece together what she had said. She kidnapped the pets to eat her turkeys, so she could use the bones to make more tarts? “Are you serious?” The girl spit out, not being able to find the so called “logic” behind the woman’s plan. “Yes...what else would I need the pets for?” The woman questioned confusedly as to why they didn’t understand her. “To make them into tarts.” “What kind of sick and twisted person makes pets into tarts?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you things I’ve seen happen in this house.” While the two were bickering, the boy had snuck out of the room and called 911. They had showed up in record time, which was odd considering the questionableness of the circumstances. The woman was arrested for the kidnapping of over ten pets, as well as the purchase of unidentifiable bones. They’re convinced she wasn’t fully telling the truth about the black market thing. All the pets were returned to their homes and the boy was sent to Ethiopia to live with his father, who had stayed behind.

Now wasn’t that a happy ending? What? You didn’t think I would be a malicious pet killer, did you? I’m sure you’re all saying, “but last time you said--” I never said anything, I only implied it. Be careful what you wish for.

[ The Weight of Wine] Abby Steinke Our wine glasses weren’t as heavy as they looked. They were plastic, fake, much like the ‘wine’ they held. Our sun-kissed legs were bare against the cold wooden chairs and the old kitchen table, full of memories and constantly sprinkled with crumbs. Our sticky fingers found them as we ran our small hands along the table’s smooth surface, claiming our spots with our plastic princess placemats. My favorite was Strawberry Shortcake but as the oldest cousin, it was my duty to share with my Colorado cousins. Showing off, I held my glass in a fist while sweet summer smells wafted through the house, the laughter of the adults heard just outside the door. That kid wine didn’t last long, popping on our lips and sparkling down our throats in between laughs. We pretended we were grown up. It’s almost funny. Growing up is all we wanted.

[Saint

Charlie]

When those squealing pigs finally decide that flying isn’t for them And the stars become boring to look at I will become a rapper. I will rap as Saint Charlie Hinting at my unusual childhood And revealing that no one has enough time While teaching kids how to do their own laundry. However if those pigs don’t want to fly anymore My unusual childhood will not be unusual And if I tire of the stars I will have more time than I need. Abby Steink I won’t have anything to rap about e Because truthfully, my dirty laundry sits Untouched.

Andy Winne

[ R i t u a l i s t i c ] Show me your truth, I want to see you in that low state where your honesty is visible I want to make art again, Wrapped up in a quilt with tears and blood of self-inflicted sorry Frustrated with the body given to me, And the filtered thoughts I bought in attempt to save myself I want the lightheadedness that comes with toxic art supplies again, With the beaten brushes and paint slipping through my fingers I say my apologies to the gods of art When I tear my books apart and make a sacrifice in their name, Bowing my head while fire leaves blisters on my fingers, Films crossing my face in colored motion

le o G e [Th

una

Angelo L

The marble colossus Advances Toward the brick wall Of your mind The formation Of rubble, Metal, And a human soul It all fits together Somehow Perfectly Within the cold body That moves With the life Of a god The cracks between the stone Do not reveal The true strength Of the mighty warrior Its first punch With a debilitating fist Smashes its way Through your psyche Piece by piece The cognitive bricks Built From years of learning Horrifically destroyed One At a time

All humans Strive To Gain Knowledge And to pass it on This monster’s purpose Is to take it Bow down to the might Of the golem As it stands Before the depths Of your soul, Your love, Your passion All life Is stripped away in his presence Leaving a shivering Soulless form In its place This man Without an identity Or a face Built from clay Triumphant No matter how hard You fight back The will Of one man Versus the strength Of a giant

Nobody knows What I went through

[The Beast] (for an old friend)

A hairy Twelve foot tall mongrel With shining eyes And razor sharp teeth Stood just two yards away Outside my door I can truly stay in this house No more

Even though every day The skies are blue The day I was born Is the day I rue "The beast was real!" I tell the maids Dressed in white medical gowns Playing "How are you feeling today?" charades Four years later I sit in this hospital bed Looking at the door The day I die Is the day I see The beast no more

Angelo Luna 7

Ashley Jones

[Empty Mugs, Full Hearts] We sat around a plush living room. Cold hands wrapped around warm cups. Hot liquid laps at the edge of each mug. Coffee, teas, apple ciders and hot chocolates. We shared, sampled a sip here and there. “Oh! That orange spice is delicious!” “What was in this cocoa, again? Peppermint? It’s sweet!” “Did you use a creamer? It tastes minty.” “Why’s the apple cider so hot?! I just want a sip without scalding my tongue!” We shared a giggle and laugh. “I said the tea was worth buying!” “You bought the hot cocoa, you told everyone it was peppermint, ya dork!” “Why else would I bring out the GALLON of creamer you have?” “It’s hot because the water’s fresh out of the kettle, of course it’s HOT!” We could sit in silence, and let the drinks warm our hands, But it was more fun to laugh and talk, And warm our hearts. Some mugs emptied, Others had cooled. But we were all, Warm.

[Wings] Athena Kuhner This one’s for them, For the avian wings that grant me flight, I speak for them, Of them, and the pain they’ve gone through. They are my friends, Can be their own beings at times, But in the end, I am the one who “controls” them, I’m “responsible”. Do tell me though, Is it our fault that we crashed, they broke? Why don’t you believe That I can’t remember if I was pushed? As I am forced To walk, and to only fly with help I am chained And my wings feel not avian, but demonic. For you told me “This is normal,” but thought “This is a problem” And reach out to Grab, adjust a feather, remove parts. They have a right To lash out, and they can in two ways, Avian, demonic, Choking through feathers, bleeding from scratches. Without them, I See monochrome, hear monotone. And in the end, It doesn’t matter what they were... they’re gone.

[Untitled] The glossy, swaying water of the pond rested, protected by crisply cut rocks. It was plain, yet attractive to nature that surrounded it. The layers of still water beckoned to the tree frogs and the thick strands of ivy they rested upon. The uncontrollable spread of algae summoned once again for the ivy, which grew around and along the jagged rocks, helping preserve their beauty. Soon-to-be lily pads blossomed from deep within the calm water, singing a lullaby to the frogs. Harmonious layers of the pond morphed together, creating an ever-changing, effortless beauty.

Brean

[Of Fire and Flowers]

n Jone

Ben K

I called you art. Messy, intangible, a perfect collection of all the things That had ever gone wrong and right in my life. I called you invincible, My rock, A light that kept me going. I called you my best friend, My companion, My soulmate. I still hide you in all my poetry. I still hide you in all my poetry. I still hide you in all my poetry. And maybe I always will. I’ve given you pieces of my heart Even I don’t remember,

autz

And now they taste like paper mache lies, A hollow, fragile shell of compassion. Your mouth is filled with blue satin words That once belonged to me, A foundation stolen from between my wavering breaths. Blood pours from your eyes and your mouth, On your teeth and your tongue and your cheeks. My hands are stained red from trying to save you. My heart is stained lovelorn, Stained angry, Stained scared. I called you a wildfire, Luminescent and rhythmic in your ceaseless dance. But wildfires burn, They pollute, They devastate. I called you the stars in the sky, And I still think you hung them. In every place I touched your skin There were spots of yellow, Dustings from my slowly crumbling heart, Like paint trails left by lazy, unwashed brushes. I used to see them in your eyes when you watched me, In your smile when it consumed your face, Freckles of sunshine on worn ocean skin. I built us a home in the clouds. I crafted quilts out of love, hope, And the feeling of safety that lingered in my lungs. I still hide your name in my mouth,

Behind the whites of my eyes. I still hide you in all my poetry. You made us a feast, Of pearl and opal, But the food was gold-plated And the wine was just tar in a glass. I ate every morsel, Drank every last drop. I was afraid you wouldn’t love me if I didn’t. That night, I threw up bits of silver And convinced myself that it meant something to you. I hate how you talk to her Like you’ve known her your entire life, And me like we met, Pluto and Neptune, In diametric orbit of the Sun. You’re the backs of my hands, The curve of my hips, The grey flecks in my eyes. To you, I’m just stray letters from words You left unsaid between us. I opened my arms to the gentle rain And was bitten by the hail and the sleet As it pricked my ears and fingertips. I called you flighty, Unreliable, And a liar. I still feel guilty about the things that I’ve done. I became the self-contained sea, Holding myself in my arms, Wishing it was you. I became sick with the poison You laced through my blood When you called me yours.

I rotted from the inside, Caved in on myself, And consumed what was left of the shattered glass on the floor, From the jar that once held our secrets. You came back splattered in purple and red, Not a trace of honey Left in your veins. You danced with her like you never could with me, And I held the skirt of my dress in my hands To shield it from damage. But you waltzed And you splashed mud Until I was coated. I still hide you in tearful whispers To myself at 3 AM. I still hide you in all my poetry. You’re the hand squeezing itself around my racing heart, The burn that lingers in my eyes and lungs When I cry. You called me your friend, But I haven’t heard an “I love you” That meant anything in awhile.

Know y l l a n Re e v E re?] I o o m y D [ An Yo u I told you once that my favorite color was yellow. Yellow like the dandelions under our bare feet. Yellow like the sunflowers that towered at my sides. And you told me your favorite color was orange. Orange like the sunsets, and the vibrant edges of ripened fruits. Orange and yellow seem happy enough, warm and inviting. But the red, perched between us like an ominous bird, stained everything it touched, our fingers, our eyes, our mouths. Your fingers, your eyes, your mouth. Suddenly, you were red, but I was still yellow, still sunflowers reaching for the light. But now, you were the roots as they reached through the soil, invisible to my eyes. I told you once that my favorite color was yellow. I don’t think you remember that person anymore.

Breann Jones

[Seven Gates of Thebes] Daniel Conway

Daniel Conway 16

[Sparks of Water]

Stop. They aren’t coming. Just because you’re close by Doesn’t mean they’ll decide to come No matter how much you wish That they’ll appear out of nowhere and sit next to you. You’ll be waiting forever. Don’t look over your shoulder for the sixty-third time Hoping to see them across the street. Refrain from darting your eyes around Whenever someone walks by. Focus on the task at hand. Get to work. Shake the desire to walk to them; Remain seated on that bench. Te l l y o u r s e l f y o u d o n ’ t c a r e i f y o u s e e t h e m ; Pretend it doesn’t kill you. Stop looking at your phone hoping for a text: “Hey, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Resist the temptation to ask for help. You can do this on your own. Without them. Independency has always been your strong suit. Breathe in for five . . . . . Hold for three . . . Exhale for seven . . . . . . . Repeat until calmness washes over you. Keep your mind from wandering back to them. Stay adamant about never asking for comfort While you wait for no one Someone to help you through this pain.

[Marinating] Darus Poling 18

[Plagiarism] I am a plagiarist. I plagiarize every work of art invented. Just like the piece you are reading right now! You thought I made this didn’t you? That I was being honest with my feelings? No! Literally every word you are reading right now was written by someone else! I wonder who though... I mean, I know that I wrote this... but the “I” that I just said was talking about the actual original writer of this. You must begin to ponder now: Whose words are you truly reading right now? The original writer (me, but probably not me as well) said that they were a plagiarist, so IS there an original author? Remember, I copied this (or perhaps wrote this) word for word of the original, unless of course I AM the author. So, in copying this work, am I plagiarizing the plagiarized work of another plagiarizer? This must be mind-blowing to think about. This is truly a paradox. Someone was the original author yes? But they also plagiarized the work, meaning that they can’t be the original author. So please tell me if there even is the slightest possibility that there is truly a plagiarist out there who expressed their feelings through plagiarized work of another plagiarist? Just asking, you know? Because I feel like once we find the original author, we can ask them what they were thinking in writing this piece. But as the original author, I already KNOW why I made this. Let that thought burn into your mind. The person who knows every bit of reason behind this plagiarized piece is both the one who wrote the words that you are reading, and isn’t. If you can come up with some way to track down the original author who first plagiarized this... what even is this? A letter? A story? Well, I don’t see any reasoning behind either of those conclusions. Try asking the original author. (Oh, yeah, that’s me). I guess the mystery will never be solved. Who plagiarized a piece of art that was already doomed to be plagiarized? So, a different question, is this really plagiarized? I mean, if I didn’t even give any information about who I really am... (or whatever weirdo happens to also be copying something that literally says that it is copied) CAN this even be plagiarized? If whatever name that could be put on this is guaranteed to be a plagiarist... how is it even possible that I exist? Can I exist? A plagiarist who wrote something that they also plagiarized? I hope that I can exist. I like existing quite a bit. I guess you can be the judge of that.

The real problem with this scenario is the lack of there really being a piece to plagiarize. I wonder... maybe everyone who plagiarizes this is the original author. I never put my name on this. Then again... what if you are truly reading the original right now? Does there exist an original copy of a work that was plagiarized by someone who plagiarized the work of someone who plagiarized a plagiarized piece? Maybe I’m the only one who followed the thought that far. If you find a solution to this conundrum for me... let someone who plagiarized it know ok? You have been reading this for a while now haven’t you? How does it feel to support a plagiarist? Well, I suppose you probably don’t SUPPORT plagiarism. It also seems that the original author WANTED this to be plagiarized. Ok then, so you are supporting the original author and the plagiarist at the same time! Unless you are reading the original copy, then you would only be supporting the author. Wait, why am I assuming that you support the author? Maybe because I will never truly find the answer, so assuming the best will probably keep my spirits high, that is, if this is truly the original. Let’s discuss the question “Can there be an original author” for a second, ok? Of course there IS an original author, the very existence of this... whatever it is, depends on that fact. You COULD be reading the original copy without even knowing it. There are very strange questions bubbling up in my mind, at least, if I am the plagiarist. Wait, so how could I know what the plagiarist is thinking unless I AM the plagiarist. If the plagiarist is actually adding something to the work, then maybe it wasn’t even plagiarized in the first place! So what does that make me? The original author. When did I stop writing? Wait, how could I not know this? Are these words plagiarized or not? Eh, I don’t really care anymore.

Dillon Willoughby

[A Special Day] Dillon Willoughby Once every year There is a special day So lend me your ear And hear what I say We have to stay strong On this cold windy day The wind sings its song We have only one reason to stay A crooked smile From the one outside We know it is hostile Although it’s not implied Whenever this happens Try to stay calm It disappears at midnight So it won’t last long If you open your door Or you go outside It will be waiting And you can’t hide It knows we are here It waits And waits For its chance On this cold, windy day That’s my reason to stay

[Memories of the Sea] Elana Roldan

Amongst the mist blanketing a hidden shore, and amongst the surging and retreating sea foam as white as arctic plains, there sits a girl of midnight blue and of pale pink in the sand, her eyes lit like a sea of stars. The soft hands of a child dig their soil-stained fingers into the beach’s surface, distinguishing every ground-up mineral trickling down the palms of her hands. Rising, she calls to the crests of oncoming waves, beckoning them to her as she stands barefooted on damp earth. As the tide brings forth the remains of uprooted seaweed coated in salt and rocks smoothed by the ocean’s depths, the girl steps into gray-tinted turquoise, her world submerged in water. And as the waves tickle her toes and the breeze caresses her face, she smiles, and for a moment it seems that the ocean smiles back.

[In That Very Meadow]

In that very meadow, Where I used to laugh and play, No one ever comes. In that very meadow, Bright blue butterflies are gone, Now moths lurk around. In that very meadow, Grass that used to grow so tall, Is intermixed with thorns. In that very meadow, Puddles are now pools of light, That shine upon my past. In that very meadow, Trees with colors of green and brown, Are hiding crooked fingers. In that very meadow, The clouds were wispy dreams, That never came true.

Ella Thompson

[ H e r Ti c Ta c s ] Ella Vires

“One more” Her hand reaches for the container She grabs a handful, dumping them in her mouth. The surge returns once more Hop, bounce, hop, bounce Her friends attempt to restrain her “You have a problem” She just giggles and smiles Two packs a day All her money wasted She needs them Her lifesource Her addiction Her tic tacs.

[Conclusion ] I am from stories that always end Songs that weave through them like silver ribbon U2, Death Cab for Cutie, Joni Mitchell, Counting Crows I am from music that carries me forward And closing notes that resound in my ears over and over again From freshly-picked flowers in my hair and in a vase on my kitchen table To peony petals scattered across a speckled driveway at the approaching denouement of spring I am from vases of lilies beside hospital beds Bulletin boards of photographs And plastic tubes of air and liquid where there should have been empty wall space From blue eyes and pale fading sunset lips whispering last words after last words That I never learned how to think about I am from the loss of people that I never learned how to say goodbye to From starry-eyed secrets shared via darkness-dimmed eye contact To a moon that bleeds lonely silver strains onto my cheeks From innocence of youth that refused to let go Until it dissolved for good I am from typewritten pages of endings that I never learned how to live On papers that fall from my desk in piles of black and white By the warm glow of lamplight and the angry shadows of candle flame Scrappy beginnings, messy middles And perfect endings I am from handwritten conclusion after conclusion after conclusion And 3 A.M. quiet tears with a phone pressed to my ear I am from moments that were once my prayers Treated as holy— remembered religiously When the ones I loved were my refuge and my solar system

Memories that feel far too distant And fill me with a relentless pounding urge To hold down the clock’s hands with every ounce of strength my frame possesses And prevent the seconds from ticking on Moments that are now the faraway memories Of someone who has grown up More than she had hoped I am from moments that never end how I imagine them And stories that always do.

grace e.k.

[These Songs] From our doorsteps these songs wound their way down our neighborhood streets Glowing in the warm late afternoon streams of sunlight Into our high-ceilinged white houses And through the cracked windows of cars we’d just learned to drive For middle schoolers finding themselves in the midst of first loves and hopeless heartaches These songs spun from shiny black records too new to be vintage And echoed from the screens of iPads in the late hours When we wished the stars outside our windows were just a little bit brighter Riding in cars past evergreen forests that we trekked through in our teenage years And lakes that we’d spent our sunniest summers splashing in We rolled down the fingerprint-stained windows And screamed these songs in a fervent display of our determination to hold onto youth We pointed at each other and leaned in every time these songs said the word “you” And we laughed with our heads tilted back and our hair swinging around us at the opening sounds of the chorus We learned to play these songs on guitars, basses, pianos, clarinets, trombones, ukuleles Anything that would satisfy our desire To create the very thing with which we had fallen in love Our fingers felt the bronze strings with a beginner’s stumble We discovered that we could touch these songs with our own hands And it brought us together Underneath stars that expanded in a dome across our heads As one of us demonstrated which frets to place our fingers on We looked at each other with sideways smiles That had never been more raw These songs turned our bodies into a riot of motion Our heads beat the air in precise movements with each crash of cymbals Our hair fell loose of our tautly held ponytails And our mouths sprung open to utter lyrics that we didn’t understand and

didn’t care to On skateboards and bikes we pretended we were the kids from our childhood rental movies Singing these songs with desperate abandon These songs crashed into us Barreled through our skin Burrowed into our flesh Waded through our veins We matched our breaths to these songs In times of rescue and refuge When the streets outside our raindrop-speckled windows Felt as foreign as the galaxies above our lined ceilings Stomachs rising and falling under soft gray blankets These songs formed the rhythm of our newfound calm And when the opening notes of these songs bled out of our phone speakers Our shoulders became pillows for the ones we loved Our eyelid motions grew rapid Vision turning to liquid We clutched the people we loved tighter Intertwined our fingers with theirs and rubbed our thumbs along their palms Feeling the thick strands of their hair kissing the edges of our lips Our cotton t-shirts were the washcloths for our friend’s tears We stared without seeing at our kneecaps curled beneath us And thought of every other time we’d ever heard these songs How they changed us Grew us Built us And we were not ready to say goodbye to the memories that these songs had given us We were too thankful Too lost in our gratitude for these songs That had flooded our hearts time and time again

grace e.k.

[A Letter I Don’t Know How to Start] Gray I.

How do you do it? Stay away, loud until you see me, do you know how much it hurts? You could just say something and I want you to but it would be so much worse because I would be so happy. I want you back, don’t get me wrong, only not like this. You’ve changed, and you’ve changed me. The way I have to say I’m sorry so often and when I do it’s never enough because I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m scared of what could have been. If I’d done it right. And it was so sudden, I never saw it coming, we -- I -- was so in love with you, I never saw it coming. I didn’t want to lose you then. And now? I don’t want you back.

[Memories and Miracles] Heidi Williams I am from music notes, rising up and falling down, their melody filling my ears and brightening my days. I am from pitching tents and nature hikes, sea breeze and salty water. From mountain air and campfires, long bike rides through the wind. I am from Flinch and UNO on rainy days, from “Be polite” and “Look both ways.” I am from books that thickened every year, filled with words of truth and fiction. I am from the bright orange sled that carried me along the soft white snow on the hill just down the road. I am from peanut snacks from airplane rides washed down with ginger ale. I am from the clicks and snaps of my father’s camera, it’s pictures that I will long remember. I am from the sandy beach, 7 hours down the road, my grandpa’s house 30 stairs above his many pies that fill my mouth with my sweet and tangy flavors. I am from these memories and miracles that have shaped me to this day.

[Lig

hts

in th e Da rkne s

1961 Cleveland Heights, Ohio I entered this world With a mother, a father Four siblings older than I Teased by my brothers Loved by my mother There were ups and downs To my childhood Like an ocean’s tide Rising and falling

1972 Cape Cod, Massachusetts Where I moved with my mother New school, mean kids Junior High drama But there were lights In that darkness From the beautiful Atlantic To the yacht club we joined The sails of a sailboat Were the wings of my joy Wequaquet Lake Was the oasis of my youth 1980 Burlington, Vermont A city of innovation and charm In year two of college, UVM Through hikes and adventures Road trips and skiing 31

Strangers came together Like moths to a flame Mountaineering, rock climbing Used up my weekends Delight filled my heart When nature engaged me 1990 Denali, Alaska From mid April to May Twenty days of adventure We climbed our way high Cold, wet, and snowy Exhaustion and excitement Filled my lungs and soul I bonded with Mark Our relationship tightened Like the various knots That held our ropes fast 1998 Walla Walla, Washington Outdoor First Aid Course Where I met my wife I was filled with love As I got to know her From a distance Then up close 2000 Spokane, Washington Arrived for a job And married soon after Continued my career Supporting college students Biked more and more Past rolling green hills 32

And vibrant gardens, in bloom 2011 Vancouver, Washington With a wife and with two daughters Pleased with my work As Clark’S Dean of STEM Family time and adventures Filled up my free time Sailing the oceans, And climbing the boulders I move through life With friends and Family by my side

Heidi Williams

Jaden Lindsey

[Now]

[Marshmallows]

Elijah Thomas

Squishier than clouds are these Though they do not fly like bees They’re a great and squishy treat Full of fun and very sweet With wondrous flavors better than A heated pepper called cayenne These puffy circled balls of fluff They’ll make you feel like all things tough These lovely things gelatinous They make me feel very woundrous

The center Sun extinguished, Contradicting the Point of Us.

[Glow]

Isabel Hernandez

Comets brush against the smooth backdrop of a dying systematic rush of light That spins out of reach of instruments made to measure infinities. The rhythmic pulse of a resounding mystery propels the minds of science to stare intently at more Comets

[Silky Hill with the Stars] Jaden Lindsey I recall (with the vividness of the sun) the stars, dancing kaleidoscopes and jigs across the alabaster roof of the alabaster church. I recall the breeze, tentatively scuttering across your (goosebumped) arms, tickling the skin and rising you up until you, too, tumble through the painted night. I recall the glistening luminescence of your eyes, bathed in gold by the show (for us), as soothing and glimmering as the lake-water’s surface. I recall awe and wonder crystallizing from your lips from atop the silky hill we claimed ours, staying for hours, until we, too, tumbled through the painted night and danced kaleidoscopes and jigs (with the stars).

[Honey Bubbles] Jaelen Sandoval Bubbles bubbles bubbles Their soft touch Their spicy taste. Their splattered pop When I look at a bubble I think of a snowman in the soft snow, I think bubbles would be honey, Soft warm honey. Bubbles, they’re shiny, Their roundness of shape, Their sticky touch I love bubbles

[Harvest Moon; 10.5.17]

Jamie Norris

It feels as if the world is quiet now. As if the ravaging winds and flames and hands have ceased, And it’s just me now, The quiet, static world and I In our most tormented state, Just trying to embrace the silence. I can feel it again. It comes in waves, Originating chest deep, And radiating out over splayed fingers and tightly crossed legs like lightning, A searing burn that cannot be remedied. It’s there when the wind lashes at the shutters and shakes the earth from under you. It’s there when the place you’ve spent all your honey-sweet summer days Is burning around you and you can feel the soot stinging at your lungs And blocking out the sun; A black sky weeping ash. It’s there when church walls are lined with bullet holes, And the schools and streets are too quiet spare for the sound of sirens, And you can feel that. I feel it too. It’s there when everything you’ve ever known has been washed away By a bleeding beast from the sky, Thundering waves thrashing and tearing, Leaving you alone in the ruin, trying to find some semblance of normality. It’s there when your body has been tainted by bruises and kisses and touches rejected, Eyes veiny and busted, Wishing you could become someone less battered and misplaced. It’s there that it hits you. It keeps you up at night and holds you captive, Grip around your throat tight, Not letting go until it is time to let go. And then, there’s a moment. A moment when the grip loosens and the world in collective feels it. It’s the moment of silence, the breath in between the chaos that makes you remember: That this is not all of what we are. That this feeling in your chest is not a life sentence, but a reminder, that the world has so much more to offer you than this. The rain begins to cut through the soot, crystalline pearls running down grey leaves, Exposing the life that was there once again. The trees and their yellow and green and red leaves pool on the wet sidewalks in puddles,

And the new sky begins to break away from its hazy counterpart, and it’s quiet. Always quiet. The shutters are hanging off the windows, and the mud clings to everything in sight. But the storm is gone now, and you know it’s going to be alright. You can see it in the soft browns of your mother’s eyes when she holds you close, And in the worn hands of your grandmother after the fight is done. You hold on to the things that are real and good and pure, and somehow, that helps you through it. The streets are no longer filled with panic, but now with the open arms of strangers With faces you’ve never seen from places you’ve never heard of. Their eyes are worn The same as you, tired just as you, but filled with hope-Something you haven’t seen In a while--for a new day. A harvest moon glows bright gold against the black. You can count the stars from the top of a good friend’s car, And you sing along to Neil Young, dangling your feet off the side. You try to remember all the words, But mostly you just watch them as they dance and hum, Fearless and passionate and authentic. You swear their faces are far more interesting anyway. And for that moment, you forget about all the bruises and the touches, and the hurts Of the world, And for that moment, it’s there. It’s there in the way they make you forget. It’s there in the way they make you laugh And feel and be. The song ends, and it’s there, In the silence you didn’t know you were waiting for all along.

“ Th e a r t i s t ’s wo r l d i s l i m i t l e s s. I t c a n be found anywhere, far from where he lives or a few feet away. It is always o n h i s d o o r s t e p .”

-Paul Strand 38

[moment of impact] Jamie Norris I am from the in-betweens of painted old houses, stained from salty rain and the brush of hanging Spanish moss And a sky that turns gray and weeps everyday at 4 o’ clock. I am from The crooked mailbox on the side of a winding dirt road where I earned my first scar--the first of many not inflicted by clenched fists and nails. I am from Childhood wonder and wide eyes, tears welled up inside at the death of my imaginary mysteries I constructed in my mind, hoping to bring just a little of that magic in the real world with me. I am from A patchwork orange sky on summer nights and the sound of June bugs in the night air, the calm right before the storm. Everything seems to stand still, and for the first time In a long time I can breathe. I am from Crackling lightning that ricochets through the air like the roots of old trees, climbing through the black and bellowing at the people below. I always loved the sound of the collision, thundering sound shocking bounding heart and clenched hands leaving little crescent moons from the impact. I am from my mother’s warm embrace, back when it was just the two of us, and the singing animatronic sunflower on the kitchen counter, swaying in the sun. My mother would sit me up on the countertop and I would sway with it, us

both singing our favorite sunshine song. I lived for those simple summer days, back when the world felt like it was mine and I held it in my palm, along with the clouds and stars I had stolen from the sky. I am from The sweet moments and even the stormy ones, all part of the same puzzle with missing pieces, still held together. As I grew older, the crooked mailbox was fixed. The wonder and mystery were locked away behind night sweats and busted eye vessels. The June bugs stopped singing, and there were no more sunny days on kitchen counters. But there were new moments. New moments of static mystery and wonder. New places to fill in the missing pieces. I am from Late nights stargazing with older eyes, catching the constellations in my hand, in a new world that I had built all for myself. And the smell of rain on sidewalks, and deep talks in the backs of parked cars, and the fire deep inside urging me to embrace the in-betweens, the places and people worth the hurt, the calms before the storm. Because when the storm comes, and the lightning crackles across a black sky and shocks your bounding, beating heart, Those are the moments that are worth the collision.

[The bus] Joel Weinmaster The bus, Filled with clutter and noise, Where girls can gossip and talk about boys. Where boys play online games and talk about sports, Excluding only the kids who fall out of sorts. The outcast, Sitting in the front or the back, Being alone with no one with whom to chat. Too big, too tall, Too little, or too small, We all can be outcasts, or maybe not all. If you’re perfect on the outside and on the inside, too, If you’ve never gone a day in your life while feeling blue. Maybe if your body is just how you’d like, If your body is perfect and falls prey only to jealous eyes. For someone who has confidence in every step of their walk, For someone who always has someone to whom they can talk. For people who always have some reason to wake, To help, to encourage, maybe even to bake. But I’ve never met someone like that, And I doubt you have too, For everyone has something that can make them feel blue. Everyone has something that can change their day, In a good, bad or really any way. So the next time you’re sitting alone on the bus, Be glad that you’re actually just one of us. An outcast, Not perfect as perfect can be, But someone who’s different, Specifically Unique.

[Every Season] Julia Koeb

Nothing beats traveling through time With family and friends Where laughter and love is heard for miles Time can then be considered boundless Leaping over days and weeks The light smell of smoke in the air Food being cooked over a campfire S’mores being roasted over open flames Games being played, adventures being told... A dry but sweet smell as the wind hits you The oil building up on your calves ....sometimes on your nose Is all worth the luscious scenery A treat to your eyes Coarse pavement hits you No longer are you walking on dirt Instead you’re serving others Before you have to go back to serving yourself Your last adventure of the summer Dreading the end But as it ends, the sharp smell of books hits you Faded memories return And the ones you just made start to fade As memories seem to do every season

[In The Garden] L. B

Walking through the iron gateway Lush soil beneath my feet Absorbing all the shock of my harsh footprints Rosemary bushes border all inside As a raven crows from above Grass grows in patches only the light can reach Clusters of woodland strawberries are found here and there Bearing fruit, fresh and sweet Zucchini grows in a bed made of 2x4s Protecting the fragile blossoms waiting to be pollinated Broccoli stems stand Peonies are stretched and scattered among furry moss Adding outstanding color to what would be so bland One cantaloupe vine spirals from a mound in the corner Easy to spot yet forgotten Butternut squash gourds contrast the bright green leaves Familiar and full of truth Grape leaves gather the rays Bearing fruit round and transparent Left to rot and turn to liquor Don’t touch the thorns of the fiery rose Just gaze from afar Astounded by the beauty An elm tree roots itself in the middle Tall Bold And the center of all life

[robot] I am not human, I tick and I tock, My heart is just gears And my head is a clock. I will serve you your coffee, I will serve you your tea, Because you are a human And I’m only me. I can’t eat food, No steak, cake, or pie, But I can do your laundry And I can tie your tie. I cannot feel emotion, I can’t pet a cat, I can’t play sports Because I can’t hit a bat. I am not human, I tick and I tock, My heart is just gears And my head is a clock.

Lilia Hamideh

I stop walking and look up. The weathered oak arches loom over my fragile six year-old body. It is cold, and the Unforgiving wind Adds to my discomfort. I hug my shivering arms in a Desperate effort To stay warm, But it does nothing. The sun has finally Fought its way through The grim clouds, And sheds light on Small puddles that Have formed all over The uneven ground. My sensitive little nose Sneezes at the Strong perfume Of clean, fresh pine, So strong I could Almost taste it. A dense cloud forms In the foggy air, Reminding me of My breaths. There is a shooting pain In the soles of my feet, Yet I want to keep going; Farther away from the Bounds of the city, Deeper into the forest, Closer to its heart, Spending my days Alone in the trees And my nights Under the glow of the moon.

[Untitled] Lilia Hamideh

[The 77th] I am from ugly bunk beds, Afro picks and twist sponge I am from the white suburban neighborhood but strict Haitian household I am from a tree so tall it covers my bed and falls every fall I am from lonely Thanksgiving and neutral surroundings From “Junior!” and “Macken!” I am from forced Catholicism I am from a strong black nation I am from forced family outings where you can tell the discomfort in the air

Lionel Theodore

[M] Mini mad scientist, You have your chemistry set. With all your assorted solutions and solubles. With all your unsafe, rash causing materials. Creating experiments and burning random things to see how they react to the flames. Mini mad scientist, doing silly science projects since you were a toddler. You are going places. You are going to blow the scientific world away. And I am going to watch as you do it, your silent cheerleader through everything. When times are bad, I will be with you. Mini mad scientist, you are going to change the world. But you still won’t see how important everything you do is. Even though all you do is absolutely fantastic.

Liza

[If Love Never Changes] Lucy

In first grade, I remember reading a story about how nothing stays the same. Afterwards, my teacher asked us, “What are some things that never change?” We couldn’t think of anything. “Love,” she said. She told us, “love never changes.” It took me years to realize how wrong that was. If love never changes, then why do so many high school romances End in tears and heartbreak? If love never changes, then why do countless marriages end in divorce, When they promised to love and cherish each other forever? What about close friends, who gradually drift apart? And if love never changes, Why do some parents say they’ll always love their child, Then kick their daughter out of the house when she insists she’s their son? Don’t tell me that love never changes. But change doesn’t have to be a bad thing. If love never changes, then we would never see People go from friends to lovers. If love never changes, how can people who used to Hate each other become best friends? It’s possible, I’ve seen it happen. And on another level, If love never changes, how would kids ever discover their orientation? And if love never changes, How do people decide that They want to spend the rest of their lives together? A person told me that love never changes. Life taught me that it never stays the same.

[Br

n ke

d an

I miss your broken hands. The way they twisted knotting around mine. Brown paper packed tightly around bone and vein. They crinkle Crack Pop. To touch them was sandpaper. Long and thin with a cold edge. Yes, they are unattractive But despite this I loved them. They have seen the world And the things people keep closed mouths about. Those broken hands know things And they love things And write poems And play songs And hold hands. My hands. Hands that are still new. Hands that sweat and lack confidence. My hands are small Fragile Chubby. 48

m.E.

But despite this You loved them. When you held my hands They were safe. I was safe. But you can not hold someone’s hands forever. These hands of mine Have things to learn Things to love Poems to write Songs to play And other hands to hold. I miss your broken hands But mine have to break too

[Laughing] There is nothing more beautiful than a loud, obnoxious, room-silencing laugh. The kind that makes your stomach clench, your head reel back, and your throat explode with a horrible sound only you know how to make. It sounds like a choking cat or a wild warthog or some sort of prehistoric animal. It can hiccup and squeak and break glass. Or perhaps it sounds like you’re plotting something horrid. That laugh, the one that is way more hilarious than the thing you were initially laughing at. That laugh, the one that keeps going for ten minutes until you can’t make noise anymore. That laugh, the one where you cry and bang on the table because the joke was practically made for you. That laugh is yours, and only yours. Do not let anyone tell you that laugh is “unladylike” or “rude” or “unattractive”. For it is you at your happiest, and no one should strip you of that. m.E. 49

[In Between] I am from the place where the rattle of windows is a synonym of “I love you” and forced holes from angered fists hang where school photos are meant to. I am from shy, hollow breaths hiding from fear at two in the morning, a rioting of a rapid fire tongue leave reminders of blame marked upon my skin. From a pair of yellowing sneakers dancing on telephone wire and burnt rubber seeped into uneven pavement. I am from 50

m.m

juvenile secrets carried through dusty air vents, a curious glow of a flashlight tucked away under blankets. A mother’s sharp nose and the gentle call of “Nina” accompanied by grandmother’s eye for the world matched with a father’s furrowed brow. I am from burnt corn tortillas forgotten on the stove, and Spanish curse words under hasty breath. I am from catching grasshoppers in the field North of our homes with my first love, and stargazing on top of a beat up Honda 51

in a church parking lot with my current. I am from Magdala, Israel (at least that’s what my grandmother claims) from a paint chipped home in Portland, Oregon that smells of jasmine during dusk. I am neither from the sound nor the beastly, yet a cacophony of chaos caught in between.

[Falling]

There are times where the world is too big, and I fear that the weight of it will restrict my body from grasping onto the brilliant constellations embroidering the sky above Other times, the world is too small, and I burst from the atmosphere, casting myself into the far off corners of the cosmos, reaching for an end that will not arrive. Worst of all, is when I am spiralling throughout the universe, stranded among lone comets and forgotten galaxies. when times like these happen, when I am too big, or too small, or lost in my own mind, know that I won’t always be this way. Treat me as if I was a falling star, worn down by the stress of rapid speeds to which I come crashing down,

yet I can still carry your wishes, our wishes, with me. And you don’t ever have to be afraid if you feel as if you are too big, or too small, or if you’re lost in your own mind, because I will always be here to pull you back down to earth when you need me to. But please, just be there to pull me back down too. m.m

[Miz Abby Harris] I am October nights with red mango hair Real life muppet and a disco ball personality Born from colorful souls, surrounded by the worst American stereotypes Shooting people with my camera, and “graphic design is my passion” (not really) I am from Chad, Crabby Abby, and Macadoo I cry and laugh for the kids living in my grandparent’s house Positive, passionate, and taking friendship seriously Dolce, smell just like “Ultralight Beam” Walk confident because my wizard mom is my hero And my yummy bed that hugs me every night and is waiting for me with the memories of love stories I’m not planning to share... I am the crazy, artsy, good looking witch who makes magic in the darkroom

Maria Vara

[Laughter]

Mia Veljacic

Laughter Loud and quiet, tinkling and deep Accompanying friends, family, jokes and bubbles Laughter is golden, silver and irridescent We hear it daily, but never see it. Laughing is a pleasure, a treasure, You will never not hear it, no matter if it is ringing through the room or a small chuckle. It’s best friends, the smell of good food and dad jokes that you giggle at secretly It’s love, kindness and secrets being shared. Laughter echoes, follows and leads. Laughter.

Maria Vara 56

[Memories]

Maria Vara

[Ashes to Ashes] Walls withstanding two World Wars crack and peel from the brutality of a family of four Living as a second place son, residing in the purgatory of handme-down addictions and predetermined interests Laurel cut and burnt, still stained by the blood of scraped and broken blisters Now crosses hang where finger paintings once did and a For Sale sign stands in place of a home. The twisting dusty path, dilapidated from an autumn’s rain, led me by cracked cliffs and cold creeks The falls, forests, and unforgiving rock walls I’ve scaled made me believe in an escape, a calling to something simpler But the trail I called home has become a scorched sepulcher of ash. Sundays are reserved for a different kind of mass, where we listen to the sermon of Anderson, Jeunet, and Wright We watch from a now barely white floor, polluted by the streams of scarlet weeping from shaking hands A floor that welcomes the lacerations of thrown acrylic and tea spilt from two cups.

Micky McCafferty

[Cannibal] The smell of the smoke enchants me. How could it not? It is in our nature to indulge in the scent of the burning. For so long it was essential to our being, for survival. It filled us, warmed us on the coldest nights. But now I am betrayed by that smell. It lures me in, promising me my childhood memories. How to feed it, make it grow, make it roar. Being taught to swing the axe. My escape back to primalism. But that scent is a facade, a masquerade, acting as friend instead of fiend. Like a hunger-stricken wolf yearning for the blood of the weakest in their pack. I breathe it in. Feel the exhilaration. The hunt. But deep down I know, That is not the burn of a campfire, but of a forest.

Micky McCafferty

[Lady of the Rain] Mikaylee Fussell

Who was that girl, sitting in the rain? Many things I’ve since then learned, but among them not her name. That day, it still haunts me, but I dare say I don’t know why. And I know I’ll see her behind my eyes, till the day I die. The escape of her warm white breath, pushing out quiet notes. An eerie tune I could not quite grasp, but still I hear its ghost. No bewitching queen dressed in light, but a simple form. Still as she shook, heavy from winter’s wet, something did seem warm. Never did I see her eyes, but still I follow her gaze. I’ve lost myself within her mind, could-be thoughts a wild maze. Perhaps her soul reached out to mine, a longing from another life. For the way she sat, the way she was, still is sharp as a knife. I could spend my eternity lost in dreaming, I’d be happy just the same. What it was, I’ll never know, that made magic, My Lady of the Rain.

[ This Was a Different Day] Mikaylee Fussell Once upon a time that feels long ago, Maybe months, weeks or days. I found myself walking, tripping, and sliding, As my head got lost in a haze. My brain still feels foggy, so the memory isn’t too clear, I fell into a hole, thoughts of the crash filled me with fear. I waited and waited, but the end never came. I keep falling and falling in this sick, twisted game. I cannot die, I do not starve, can always quench my thirst. The weight on my chest is light enough, I take in air before I burst. The boredom creeps its army crawl, an eternity counting sheep. My body hurts, I’m exhausted, but rarely am blessed with sleep. When anger strikes, unprovoked, nothing to do but kick and flail. I must be all alone down here, for no one ever hears me wail. I’ve given up on the White Rabbit, he’s in a different hole. Whatever pushed me into this void doesn’t appear to have a goal. I thought I knew sad, but this misery, it eats me up inside. This tunnel tears you open, it’s not a place where you can hide. There is no external place where I’ve been destined to live forever. Oh no, I’ve been trapped in a way that’s far more clever. This bottomless pit where I currently am stuck, Is my achy, empty inside swallowing me up.

[Realis] Mortiz Human interaction is like a game where the only rules are to follow the rules, spoken and unspoken. All of them. There is so little I say that doesn’t break these rules. There is so little that I don’t want to immediately erase from memory so violently that the earth trembles with my movement. Unfortunately I can’t forget. Few are the times I don’t over analyse every little thing I’ve done and said, if that was rude, if that was inconsiderate, selfish, morbid, any other word that’s been used too often in conjunction with my name. And few and far between are my non-anxiety ridden interactions. How do I say this, how do I properly express my understanding, what is the method of apologising when I mess up, what do they want from me? Close friends present a unique interaction as I’m never quite sure if they truly care for me or I’m simply a burden and annoyance. It’s a guessing game and a roll of a false die. Nevertheless, being alone isn’t a foreign concept, for how can one be perpetually alone and not grow used to it? When coming home to an empty house is normal, when memories are absent of anyone else, when people are never there. People come and go, going more often than coming. Sometimes so quickly you’re never quite sure they were really there or just a figment of your overactive mind again. Yet, that makes the people who stay that much more special and memorable. The ones who try, and honestly try, and even if you know that they’ll leave you, the fact that maybe they don’t want to, is heartwarming. The fact they work to be there, to support, is mind blowing. So perhaps being alone is not so awful, if at the end of the day you know that you have lights trying to guide you home.

[The Statues] Mortiz The statue of the god stood before every fork in the road. A reminder that any way is a different path, with a different end. The statues were not there for worship, at least not completely, and not at first, but rather just a message to weary travellers, the lost, the lonesome that even if a path is unknown, good can come. The statues stood as a reminder to the thieves, the burglars, the pirates that some paths are treacherous. The statues stood as a reminder to the wicked, the murderers, the selfish and the users that all things end and some paths should not have been taken. But sometimes, the statues are simply standing to stand there, because that is what statutes do.

[ from the yellow pages ] murphy m b “your youth is fleeting” it tells us from up above and we both listen or at least I do and you walk opposite me and I am just fine of course a bit blue soaked, really, in something else still ringing it out but no equation will tell me what isn’t real and you can’t solve it but neither can I no numbers to conclude with no golden answer although I seek one three stories above what’s real while the ground knows you there will be no rocks that will capture my daydream inviting a wish nothing real or true could ever be next to you and neither could I

“I hope to write something someday worth plagiarizing” -Unknown 65

[the sureness of being a stranger] it isn’t the wish you thought it would be it doesn’t sit at your shoes and look up past the day old creases you don’t know if you can ever get out it isn’t the red and shining beauty you thought it was it doesn’t hold your hand because you can’t hold it your hand is open and cold and your hand is empty don’t yell too loudly don’t send him a fuzzy gray message the words won’t come out (of course they won’t) you aren’t who they want you to be (nothing) you aren’t nothing anymore and neither is this your eyes don’t really hold one another of course they never could his are so bright and good and looking at something tangerine and silver something better than you and your ugly haircut and your face which can’t see the beauty of itself because you know and it knows

that it isn’t there you can’t be golden and you can’t be better you can just be good until someday you aren’t again it isn’t a promise he didn’t make one to you you made this static filled silence all on your own so cry cry because you don’t get it and cry because you do cry because he finally told you in so few words in a question asked to somebody else in a glance we didn’t share you finally felt small after feeling so big smaller than ants on your stairs smaller than cracks in teal bridges so take back those little words the ones that took you so much to say put them in a yellow envelope marked in black ink that stains your hands take back that feeling the one you didn’t want to know wave to all of the shiny happy people

you now know you are not you shouldn’t have left and you couldn’t have stayed because you aren’t brave in those shattered blue ways so walk across a bridge in some symbolic and strange way and hope that you’ll find the sureness of being a stranger.

murphy m b

[Calm Before the Storm] Nate Dawg

Who do you think you are? Thinking you could have it all. It’s the calm before the storm. Feel the lightning, then the thunder. From sugar sweet to anger, Comes another story of regret. If I go, I’m going far. Let my darling take me there. And the waves, they’re singing. Feelings fading too. It’s been just one dream, I’m living in. You’d leave me for dead, in my ghost town grave. And return, Like lighthouse rays. You’re a bitter kind, I love you so.

[to: you] Nate Dawg

[strawberry jam] Nora VanRees

My small head of off white hair Curls gently behind my ears. A wide full faced smile, half the teeth missing Strawberry jam smeared around the upturned corners of my mouth. In the faded background, a cream picket fence The uprooted, nature-taken path weaves through the Rich, earthy scented family garden we used to grow together. Father, behind the lens, His curly nest of cocoa cream hair, Dragon tattooed arms skillfully capturing the current time and moment. Mother, timeless smooth features, Porcelain skin, hand lightly holding the bubble blower, I free-heartedly pop the bubbles as joyful laughter fills the air, Bubbles dripping off my cami tank.

[Open House Listings] I am an individual of in-betweens, Built from the debris of various almost-homes, Culminating into one haphazardly thrown together open house Free admission, open to all Stroll through my makeshift foyer, Amble down the corridor Lined wall to wall with faded maps Worn down from reverent, Wishing fingertips If you step into my kitchen, You’ll find boxes upon tins of tea lining the shelves, While the counters below are littered with gritty, Stained mugs that paint a contradictory picture when paired with The dark roast wafting through the air, Draw your own conclusions Pay the living room no mind, The furniture is older than I, yet pristine An area where people will ask how you are, But not wait for a response Guests are a rare commodity Make your way up shallow, winding steps Hold tight to the unstable rails Watch your footing

Wander through my bedroom doorway, Take in the ticket stubs tacked to the walls Let the flickering candles catch your eye And breathe in the scent of soy Meander past the mismatched shelves, Polished antique teacups on one Reflecting light off their rims, Books standing at attention on the other, Storytellers, bound and lined up like soldiers When you’ve snooped to your heart’s content, Mosey out onto the balcony, For there you’ll find A neglected garden hidden in the sky, The spider plants are tinged with yellow Herbs are wilting left and right, Nonetheless, it is imbued with character I’ve built this safe haven in my mind, Renovations are common occurrences Yet it retains its familiarity, Hopefully you’ve enjoyed your tour And I look forward to seeing you again soon

r.w.

[Man vs. Nature]

r.w

I am from the dimmed lights of a sleeping house From where time flies And stress goes to die in soured sweetness Places where laughter sings Sings to emptiness Emptiness of an unfinished house on new dirt Laughter not heard beyond the closed walls I am from “you silly goose” and “Monkey!” The high pitch play of “I’m, you, we’re gonna die!” The playing of joking young years Years of yellow youth Years of hopeful daydreaming Years of bikes and scraped knees Years of time gone by

[Fro

I am from sleepless nights Nights of dark, drawn out skies and the pale moon From eight p.m., to nine p.m., to ten p.m., to dawn Asphyxiating anxiety, Torturous thoughts, Time slipping through fingers, And hope… I am “It’s ok” “turn that frown around” I am others before self I am make them smile Sam I am give them what they want I am forgetting myself and remembering others But above all, I am from optimistic optimism From a loving family and happy home From a thought of life that can make you smile

ndso

u l Edm e u Sam ) y (Edd

[hello and hi] Samuel Edmundson (Eddy)

Hello and Hi. No hey, no hey because hey is for horses that have no need for simple meaningless greetings. How are you? Are you well? How do you do? How do you do what? I don't know… Don't know what? I don't know… The simple greetings have no other meaning beyond simply greeting. Flat and grounded, grounded and simple. Tasteless to say and numb to hear. But such as the tide that always seems to get away from and then back to the beach has its place on the beach, so do the meaningless greeting in conversation in any form they take even if they are forgotten, implied, intended, remembered, or forced. A little present of words almost. A simple present but a present all the same. The best part? It's regiftable. All you need to do is say the greeting back. Hello and hi.

[ Worth a Thousand Words] Words, a billion of them, on signs, in books, and on our tongues. We take words for granted, or at least most people do. Words allow us to say what we want when we want, no delay or extra charge. We never think about words, because to most people they are part of everyday life. We wouldn’t be able to think of life without words, because we are locked in a jail of language that some people can never leave. People care only about those first words you speak as a baby and those last you utter with a dying breath. Why? Because most people don’t think about those everyday words, those everyday conversations. Those arguments, those compliments, the hellos and even the goodbyes. Our most special moments didn’t happen when we said our first words or even our last, they happened when we had a conversation. What if you couldn’t say “hello” and brighten up someone’s day, or you couldn’t say “I love you in every way”? What if your words never came out, and you never could say what’s on your mind? You got choked up and your words sank back down. Down, down, down, they were never said or spoken. We couldn’t say the words that everyone has chosen to believe, the words that we think we need. The truth of lies all around us, we’re stuck in this jail of language, never to be freed.

Seneca Christie

[stargazing]

“If you ever need me, you’ll find me in the stars.” His ship racing past, A wave a thousand miles away. You’re saying it’s hopeless, We’ve been mediocre even before this. Empty halls echoing shadows, Boxes hidden by forgottenness. You’re saying it’s hopeless, That I should hope less. Broken glass shattered by dust, Maps marked by destinations of betrayal. You say it’s beyond us, Maybe heaven can help us. Behind those locked doors a fire ignites, Burning twice as fast and twice as bright. You blame human nature and say it’s unkind, Well maybe she’s right. I’m trying to save us, Let’s see and decide. We’ve got our whole lives Let’s make up our own minds I still look up, stars don’t just disappear They keep blazing even when the night is gone So, I will still be here, Stargazing.

T. C .

“Love Dad.”

[in the moonlight] (a found poem) For the first time, now for the first time Under the night trees In the lost moonlight, A ring dove cooed in a cove Looking for love. The moon shone like a golden petal in the sun On the chilliest sea, Sore must be the storm undone. She opened her eyes -That kept so many warm, And sings the tune Without the words. A cloche tolled twice-Yet never-in-Extremity. And hope is the thing In between the night trees In the lost moonlight

The Table of Round Table

[ Ta g o n r o g ]

Tina Starks

Bussing Every morning, Saura staggered out of Taccoriña, half blind with weariness and fully deaf to the acute pain of her aching feet. It was a miracle she hadn’t been mugged once in her six years working there—an exhausted, four-foot nine second generation Mexican American woman would be ridiculously easy prey. The robbery would be so easy—the risk was worth her hourly $9.11 paycheck. In fact, there would be no risk. An amateur would be able to level a gun to her head or knock her down and find no resistance. More likely, she would fall asleep on the cement as the attacker relieved her of her belongings. As it was, relief was best appreciated with a good night’s sleep and icy beer. Which meant that she very rarely experienced it. There was only a four-hour nap before her next scramble to the bus for Sal’s ThriftSwap Store, then another two hour doze before she was back on the bus, screwing on her Taccoriña cap. Her rent was paid with forced insomnia and bubbling, hissing grease, with a side of weirdos and second hand junk. Her only objective now was the bus. She trudged the two blocks to the bus stop, and was barely there a few moments before the huge Metro sidled around the corner. She followed the junkie who always shared her ride, fumbled for her bus pass before finding it in its usual nest in her coat pocket, and then pitched to her seat. She had been bussing for so long that all the other riders left the third seat, left, to her. If ever there were someone at her place, Saura’s brain promptly ceased to work and she would stand there, still as the grave and about as yielding as one until her seat’s occupant succumbed to their better judgement and fled to a different spot. It was empty today, and she gratefully collapsed into it. Across the aisle, Ms. Paulson glanced at Saura’s disheveled heap of hair and black-bagged eyes. “How long were you stuck in him?” she asked. Saura blinked, mind slow to register the odd question. She gave Ms. Paulson a blank stare. “Stuck? Who? What?” Ms. Paulson shook her head with a cluck of disapproval. “The customer who ate you. It’s obvious someone mistook you for a taco, ate you, and promptly barfed you back up.” Ms. Paulson was a unique lady, especially for a seventy-seven-year-old. The first day they met, Ms. Paulson had made it clear that she was to be referred to as ‘Ms.’.

“M-S,” she had spelled with a bob of her finger. “I am not Mrs. I am not an after-s to some man’s name. I am myself, and that is final.” She was always armed with her purse, kept her thick-lensed glasses on a shoelace around her neck, and wore a different style everyday. Today, she was obviously trying to have no style—flats with long Christmas stockings patterned with the Grinch and a red flannel topping painfully yellow plants. Saura, despite her fatigue, couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes. He was big, fat, and his vocabulary didn’t include anything beyond profanities.” Ms. Paulson smiled. “Ah, you know how much I love hearing about idiots.” So began the ride, every bump an angry expletive, and the whisking of banisters to barricades outside the foggy windows bringing memories to splatter anew across Saura’s vision. By the time the bus rattled to a stop in front of the old water tower, Saura felt much invigorated. Or, at least more awake. Her endless frustration at indecision, selfishness, disrespect, and screaming children had flared in her throat and stomach a burn as sharp and strong as whiskey. “Buck Drive!” the bus driver grunted. He wasn’t loud; definitely not enough to wake Saura from a heavy sleep-deprived knock-out. Still, rather helpful mid-rant to remind her of an impatient bed. Saura quickly gathered her small handbag and stood. She didn’t bother to wish Ms. Paulson goodbye—they never did. There was no need to—another morning was only in the coming. However, as she made her way down the aisle, Ms. Paulson’s eyes lingered on Saura’s shoes. She had noticed its gradual degeneration awhile now. It was now to the point that every time Saura stepped there was a flap-snap! of the loose soul, and a momentary flash of raw heel as she lifted it again. The elderly woman was uncharacteristically subdued the remaining ride, eyes towards the growing orange of dawn yet blind in their sight. The next day, Saura mounted the steps with almost a bounce to her step, and hustled quickly to her step. She was still drained from the vampiric graveyard hours of the night, but her eyes shone with an extra energy. Today, Ms.. Paulson was dressed in a Nike shirt, olive yoga pants, and pink Adidas shoes. She was fiddling with her charm bracelet—the one accessory that was always sure to be there. An anchor to her fickle seas. Ms. Paulson purposely didn’t immediately acknowledge Saura’s arrival, nor her palpable excitement. She let the woman squirm and shift restlessly in her gummy seat before finally looking up from her twiddling. “Oh!” she exclaimed with an innocent, doe-like widening of her eyes. “I

didn’t see you there!” “Liar,” Saura answered, rolling her eyes. Then, the transgression was forgotten. Saura looked around the bus—craning her abridged neck to suspiciously examine the bus. Quite useless—everyone was either asleep or almost there. No one cared about a spicy old lady and a haggard Mexican girl. Saura, reluctantly satisfied, slid close to the edge of her seat. She pulled an envelope from one of her coat’s abyssal pockets. “Someone left this on the counter, labeled to me!” she whispered. With another cautious glance about, she flicked the envelope open. For a split moment, Ms.. Paulson saw a crisp fifty-dollar bill cradled within. Then, as if it were a cricket that would leap out and disappear under the seats, she snapped the flap shut. “Isn’t this amazing?” she whispered. Ms. Paulson smiled at Saura—the mischief and devil of her eye momentarily lost to a soft, very maternal glow. For a second, she looked actually looked like a grandmother. Then, it was gone and she was a puckish old lady again. “Well, it’s about time,” she snorted, nose high in the air. “The nerve of them not to have recognized you earlier!” Saura smiled, though her mind was far away. She hugged the envelope to her chest, clutch so fierce her fingers were white clamps. Her eyes were equally intense—never fluttering down in tiredness. She regarded every boarding rider with suspicion, and her eyes even occasionally strayed to the bus driver. As if an fifty pound overweight man who sounded like he could barely stand would leap up and steal her treasure. When they finally arrived at her stop, Saura practically leaped to her feet. She began to shuffle towards the door, and then she paused. She looked back at Ms.. Paulson. “Ms. Paulson?” she said. “I wasn’t at the register when the envelope was dropped off, so I didn’t see who left it. Was it…you?” In response, Ms. Paulson cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. Saura scrutinized the old lady’s face, her own screwed up in uncertainty. She clearly didn’t know what to believe. She still didn’t know when the bus driver gave a grumpy “get moving!” from the front. Saura flashed a final hesitant glance at her old friend. Then, she made her way down the aisle and disappeared down the bus stairs. Ms. Paulson was expressionless as she watched Saura make her way down the sidewalk outside, now swaddling the envelope under her coat in fierce protectiveness. It wasn’t until the bus groaned and lurched away to the next stop that a smile creased her craggy features.

What they do not have, must be taken With blood and tears, crippled plaster. Don’t speak their words? Then you can’t speak at all Disowned from the human race, speak different and be forsaken They damned the dissenters That broke the crypt, with helmets white That brought hope to mute centers. Who dared to fight Against the silencing, the entombment Dug through the scree and delivered life That began to scream, celebrated the blessing of movement Filled the air with their existence’s defiance, its strife From the cloak of death rose the sobs, the songs The white noise of the helmets, defying the silencer’s wrongs.

To the White Helmets of Syria, may they never be silent.

The sermons of the rightful luminary Taught quietus of the rubble, Life gagged by the dust of humble homes Now piles of plaster and stone; noise that trouble That merits the sabbath of ills from fresh catacomb Those lips of the ignorant that speak sin Now bake with the spit of their screams, the burn of their breath Hardens the grit until finally it ceases, the din— Screams gagged, tears crucified as with death Leaves them to realize no one listens to caskets, Except perhaps the maggots.

[White Noise]

Tina Starks

They preached the silence.

Blasphemy to the true ruling’s covenant of silence— Damn the white noise, damn the saviors Who raise again the bedlam of voices, balm the fear For silence is king and quiets the cry of contrariety.

]

Sunflower Mushroom Snail, Grow. To the sun, to each other, & forward

[Grow.]

Cozy earthy openknit sweaters Fresh ink written on parchment letters. Tru Wilted sunflowers ly R ylan A mango iced tea der Held for hours Sipped under a peach tree A beautiful bubbly blonde, Who has love for a beau monde A voice of honey And the purr of a cat A day that’s sunny And the shape of a hat She was into arts And drawing golden hearts. The soothing smell of chamomile tea Of cliche daisy white dresses, The sound of the sea And blonde tresses. The golden brass keys of a trumpet The taste of a poppy seed crumpet Iced lollie lemons A pineapple laugh As if from the heavens, She’s a girl and a half. 86

[ W i n t e r ] Midnight nails that shimmer, Like mermaid scales, Adorned with golden stars. And a dark blue denim cloak, Pale ears heavy with silver bars, A face clouded with smoke. The musty smells of of old scrolls, And the look of burned out coals, Swirls of inky black quills, Drawn to tiny spaceships, And intelligence that gave her chills And paint upon her lips, As though she may eclipse. Spiny veins of blue blood, Hidden, an unknown flood, Smokey navy eyes Under thick black lashes And she seemed so wise Her wisdom came in flashes. Intricate silver jewelry, Laughs at others’ foolery. Triangle, circle, octagon. She is gone. She escapes.

Truly Rylander

Delicate geometric shapes

[Home is where the heart is]

Truly Rylander

[Untitled] She wanders. Through murky shadow painted onto graying walls of cobble, she seeks light. Between cracks and crevices, she ponders the hypothetical existence of more. She wonders, she wanders past decaying homes and broken children garbed in tattered cloth. She hopes for an escape from her monotonous prison- from her- from. To simply meld with shadow, melt, molt, become a beacon. Banishing broken, decaying, dying, gone, and becoming hope. For who can tell what will cause a chain reaction, set motion, give light, bring something more. And so she wanders, she peeks between cracks and crevices, she ponders, she seeks, and she brings a chorus of light.

Anonymous

[Cat Back]

Don’t put the cat on his back, He don’t like that.

Anonymous

[Untitled]

Waters flow smoothly through the radiant sky The dark tower slices through a torrent of stars Like a blade’s edge And earth ripples with movement as Waters flow smoothly through the radiant sky

Anonymous

[Ash] Anonymous Ash fills the sky, And my lungs, And my eyes. No one can go outside. Ash falls like rain. It covers cars, And sidewalks, And buildings, And me. The sun is covered By clouds of ash. It turns the sun orange. The world is Covered in a layer of ash. The day is gray Like before a storm.

[ Ye a r s P a s t ] Anonymous

I am as humorous as a laugh, and as courageous as a soldier running into battle I wonder what what my life would be like if I had not married my wife, or if my father was not a warrior I hear the echoing voice of my friends, whispering goodbye I see my busy family, never stopping to say hello I want to be as still as the moon, having no job to do I am as humorous as a laugh, and as courageous as a soldier running into battle I pretend to enjoy to make those who care happy I feel as though my journey through life is coming to an end I touch the hand of Christ, feeling the power He holds I worry for my children’s safety, like a Bear for its cubs I cry for those who had a life to live I am as humorous as a laugh, and as courageous as a soldier running into battle

[Fool]

I understand that life is not easy I say that Christ is the Savior I dream that my life is perfect, and my family is together as one I try to be a perfect father, husband, friend, doctor I hope for my children’s future, a journey of good I am as humorous as a laugh, and as courageous as a soldier running into battle

Maybe I’m the one Who has you fooled Anonymous 93

[Scars] Scars. Some seen. Some not. Everyone has them. Some not as many as others. In the back of your mind. Mistakes that are mended but still there. Skin that is healed but leaves a permanent reminder. No eraser can erase them. No whiteout can cover them. And no pencils can scribble them out.

Anonymous

Cover Art by Remy Wilcox Wordsworth Literary Magazine Fall 2017