Wordsworth Magazine Spring 2017

w o rd s w o r t h m

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noun

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(a collection of people, places, & things)

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w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Cullin Baisley Isabella Martinez, Co-Editor Kate Bias Murphy Bradshaw Grace Korthuis, Co-Editor Elisabeth Combs Jaden Lindsey, Co-Editor Daniel Conway Karsten Cowles Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Ryan Desemple Eddy Edmundson Caroline Erdmann Kaden Finley Anna Guardado Ash Hollingsworth Delaney Hoots Breanna Jones Nathan Keldsen Ellie Kerbs

Sophie Lawrence Sophia Le Collin MacDonald Madelyn Martin Micky McCafferty Kailee Myers Jamie Norris Lucy Otto Jenna Porter Rosemary Smith Tina Starks Alexus Taylor Cassady White Vivi Winkley Isaac Wooten Ayrton Yamaguchi

[ e d i t o r ’s l e t t e r ] Hello readers, and welcome to the Spring 2017 edition of Wordsworth! We received a variety of pieces this season that detail all experiences and walks of life in our community, so it was only appropriate that we choose a title that would recognize this diversity. As writers, we have a tendency to use obscure and esoteric words to communicate an emotion that a simple word could express just as easily, the same way Noun does. Originality still thrives in communal understanding.

Thank you for making this a wonderful year and for allowing us to share your stories.

Wordsworth Staff

It is with pleasure that we present the spring 2017 issue of Wordsworth:

noun

(a collection of people, places, & things)

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

people -

(ourselves & those we observe) Anonymous 715 Dauphine St. Abbi Doddridge Lost in the Distance Strangers Lecette Burke Andy Winner A Vampire Walks Into Everything and Nothing Lily an Italian Restaurant Engblom-Stryker anna g natalie (as i knew her) The Soldier Lou Athena Kuhner Brooke When The Day Fell Bre Jones Judgement Left Behind in Love with the Night Lucy Daniel Scars Wash Away Like SandTake, Take, Take m.m. castles, Feeling My Life Maria Vara Burns Break Like Glass Camels Sally Mann Inspired Maria Vara Anonymous Dear You Untitled Marley Elana Rolden She Plants Love I am Wolf Melayna Campos Ella Kuepfer Life Me Mia Veljacic Ellison Kerbs To: My Monster Wedding Micky McCafferty grace e.k. Hedge People gold murphy bradshaw grace e.k. Open The Sky Mr. Morris Anonymous Anonymous Il y a, Elle y a X, Doll RaindropMittens Isabel Barrueta Broken English Photography Isabelle Haskin Untitled Where I’m From Ryan Perlick Isabella Martinez Tía The (Frag-Nat) Samuel Isabella Martinez Van Gogh’s Legacy Edmundson J.P. Finally I am From Samuel Makoyed Jaden Lindsey You Glass Bottles: An Excerpt Sophie Jamie Norris A Father’s Hands Lawrence Jamie Norris You Are My Sunshine Milk Tina Starks Jenna Porter Willowmena The Vegetarian’s Crux Tina Starks Kayla Will Mine Bold Truly Kayla Will My Precious Untitled Anonymous

things -

Untitled Anonymous

(feelings, moments; not just objects) Alex Goff A Pencil Alex Goff A Treatise on Mental and Physical Time Alexus Taylor Hello Ash Shadows Aubrey Porter Out of the Blue Betsy Hanrahan Hands Up, Foot Down Carson Valenta Science Anonymous Iron Emanuel Gales Macrobee Anonymous The Fall of the Orange Dress Flora Small Lemongrass Subtle Flavors r.w.

Isabel Barrrueta Lightning Love Life is a Puddle The Puddle Isabel Barrueta Bittersweet People J.P. Shivers Worth a Thousand Words SeneJaden Lindsey Sun & Rain ca Christie Jan Drawers Speed Demon Tina Starks Kaitlyn Norstrom Blind Hope Lecette Burke & Mubarik Alfablondi Untitled Lily Engblom-Stryker “Objective vs. Subjective” m.m. The Things No One Tells You About Depression Madeleine Surface Serenity Mubarik Alfablondi 11:47 PM 03/26/17 - 9:25 PM 3/27/17 Mubarik Alfablondi Beauty and Tha Beast (Flowers) Nate Dawg The Only Time Ice Cream is Sad Nora VanRees Blosson Speckled Cherry Tree

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Abbi Doddridge The Burbs 2: Conundrum of the Mislaid Pets Allie Mikalatos The Coffin Ship Amy S. Alone Andy Winner As Seen On T.V. anna g communication Ash Today Ashley Jones While the Grass Grows Betsy Hanrahan The Pages Aren’t Crisp Anymore Daniel Conway Lateral Emmanuel Gales Timberline Kailee Cyanne cannon beach // 08.28.16 Kristina Van Houten Adrift Lou The Squirrel Maggie Hildreth Sunset on the Canal Maggie Hildreth Today Micky McCafferty Untitled Mish Hot Roof r.w. Life’s Better With Trees RaindropMittens Photography Dusted Rowan Laurenza White Cliffs of Dover Ryan Bittner Path Ryan Bittner Sentient Sam McMann The Odd Creatures Sophie Lawrence Pendant: A Reversible Poem Anonymous the wind, the birds, and the sea TJ I Like This

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Anonymous

[715 dauphine st.]

Little Ellie was five years old when her mamma realised she was a witch. With her corkscrew curls and golden freckles across her nose, she looked ethereal.

Little Ellie was six years old when her mamma realised she wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, she cried at the thought of pain and suffering and death. That night, her mamma sang her a French lullaby to sleep.

Little Ellie was seven years old when her mamma walked in on a conversation with the family cat, Ruth. Ellie was always a strange little girl.

Little Ellie was eight years old when her mamma sent her to French class. None of the other girls could make the teacher give them an extra cookie.

Little Ellie was nine years old when her mamma realised how she could control others. She wasn’t so little anymore.

Ellie was ten years old when her mamma heard of a boy she liked. Ellie cried for days after he broke her heart.

Ellie was eleven years old when her mamma enrolled her in a private school. She didn’t like how strange the other kids were. The other kids were so loud and trusting and they acted like sheep.

Ellie was twelve when her mamma yelled at her for the first time.

Now Ellie stays in her room with Ruth; she doesn’t have any other friends.

Ellie spends her free time reading musty old books much too large for her age.

Ellie was lucky number thirteen when her mamma asked why she needed all those musty old books. Ellie didn’t answer, her eyes welled with small pools of tears that threatened to spill over the lid.

Ellie was fourteen when her mamma learned of all the people Ellie had hurt. She slept with both eyes open behind a locked door.

Ellie was fifteen when she was suspended for causing a group of football players to go to the hospital. She only gave them a couple innocent suggestions, but her mamma knew what that meant.

Ellie was sixteen when her mamma found Ruth dead. Ellie stopped talking to her mamma. She wouldn’t listen to anyone, just read from those musty old books.

Ellie was seventeen when her mamma found her fighting in an alleyway on Mardi Gras. She wasn’t actually fighting, but causing other people to fight for her.

Ellie was eighteen when she got in a car crash. She was the only one unharmed. Her mamma knew what that meant.

Ellie was nineteen and headed off to Tulane University when her mamma died of a heart attack. She was forty-five years old and healthy, but nobody knew what that meant.

Ellie was twenty when a series of students in her dorm were found with their throats missing, hanging in the mess hall over all the other undergrads. Ellie sat, eating breakfast alone as the others ran screaming.

Ellie was twenty-one and beautiful. With golden freckles dotted across her nose and curly brown corkscrews brushing the tops of her shoulders. Her chocolate brown eyes melted the jury with their dark innocence as she was held in court, on trial for twenty-seven different murders.

Ellie was twenty-two when she was found weeping in her cell at the thought of hurting a fly. Ellie was twenty-four when the prison guards realised her cell was empty. They finally learned what her mamma had always known. Ellie was a witch, and she didn’t care who got hurt and who died. spent her days practicing spells she had learned from those musty old books. The prison guards were always wary of the cell with the so-called witch in it.

Maria Vara

[sally mann inspired]

Abbi Doddrige

[lost in the distance]

They may not have realized it at the time, but they loved each other. That day he spotted her among the crowd of people at that one rock concert. Their shirts were identical, and he found that quite ironic. Her face was lit up with excitement as she belted out the lyrics to every song.

All of a sudden the concert he spent months saving up for wasn’t important anymore. He just needed to meet her. As if reading his mind, the girl’s eyes wandered over to meet his staring ones. She blushed and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. With slight hesitation, she brought up her hand and gave a gentle wave in his direction. He felt a new exhilarating feeling fill his veins as he quickly waved back, then turned to face the stage once again. It was too chaotic to try and get to her now, so he might as well just wait until the concert was over. As soon as the last chord rang out and the lights began to rise, he dove through the crowd of fans to find the girl. It was too late though...she was gone. The boy sighed and left the amphitheater with his head down and heart broken. What he didn’t realize, as he sulked out the entrance to the theater, was that the girl had looped around to get to him from the other side of the seats. Only to discover that he was gone. This girl truly was as special as the boy had thought her to be. For a part of her believed in love at first sight. She frowned, cursing her heart’s instant attachment to the boy, and left the amphitheater. The one time she had felt such a strong feeling towards someone else, she was left disappointed. This ended with her departing just as the boy did--with her head down and heart broken. If only he had waited, if only she had stayed. Then maybe true love would have found its path in the hearts of those two kids who were unknowingly in love.

[a vampire walks into an italian restaurant] Andy Winner My skin is beginning to itch and burn from the smells wafting through the air. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. I’ve always been allergic to garlic...I mean I’ve always been allergic since I died, but you would think after four hundred years I wouldn’t be so stupid.

I really hope my date doesn’t notice. If he does I won’t be eating anything tonight. Usually in a situation like this I could feign illness and make him feel sorry for me. Then I could strike, but I don’t know if that’ll work because my skin feels like it’s peeling off as I speak. I think my foundation has begun to melt off as well. Other vampires laugh at me for using makeup, but don’t knock it ‘til you try it. In times like these you really need to blend in and I can’t blend in with ghost skin and gold eyes. Speaking of eyes mine feel like they’re burning so hopefully they don’t look too red. I’m even wearing blue colored contacts, I went all out for this guy. How does he reward me though? He gives me the address to an Italian restaurant for chrissakes (and yes I did just say ‘christ’, I’m not going to burn up because of saying the supposed “big man upstairs’” name). I’ve been waiting for about 20 minutes now and I really hope I don’t get stood up tonight. I suppose I could go back onto Tinder and find someone else while the night is young...no, no, no. What if he comes and I’m not there or if he comes right as I leave and sees me? I may be undead, but at least I have somewhat of a conscience. I don’t want to make the guy feel bad either.

Ah, god now my skin is really starting to burn. The elderly couple in the table next to me just ordered a heaping plate of garlic bread.

Oh! I think I just saw him walk through the door. I see a head of dark hair talking to the hostess and she’s pointing over to my table. Act cool, act cool.

He’s coming over and I think he’s about to say something.

“Hey, are you Ezra?” He looks really concerned, I must look like a mess.

“Yah, yah! Huh, that is me Ezra, the one and only, heh.” That was bad, really bad. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to pretend to eat at this point.

He took off his coat and he awkwardly sat down—AND OH MY GOD THE WAiTRESS JUST SPILLED SOMEONE’S ORDER OF GARLIC BREAD ALL OVER MY LAP. My skin is on fire, I can’t do this. I can’t commit. Say something clever!

“I’m allergic to garlic.” Ouch, that wasn’t smooth at all. Now people are screaming because my skin is melting and I’m storming off.

I think my date is calling after me, but honestly I’m done with humans tonight. Maybe I’ll find a cat in someone’s neighborhood for dinner and let my skin grow back.

anna g

natalie [as i knew her]

i didn’t know her that well, when she called to tell me they had just broken up. when i arrived at her house, the unlocked door revealed clothing strewn about, and the room smelled like pine. drowning out all noise was a song that made you feel like hands out the window at midnight and hair muffling a tipsy laugh. i found her in the kitchen, under harsh fluorescent light which was not kind to her features. she looked at me as if we had more than just two classes and a mutual friend between us. her smile spelled out mischievous stories, contrasting the boxed macaroni (the kind you were fed as a child) that bubbled on the stove. i leaned on her countertop, taking in a side of her i never knew existed. i always figured the breakdowns followed the breakups, but watching her dance her way around this dinky kitchen with a newfound freedom in her hips made me want to kiss every boy i laid my eyes on (not because i found them particularly attractive, but because i simply could). that night we snuck into a ballroom and shouted our travesties off the top of a parking garage and ended up in a field taking pictures of the sky. her beauty surfaced with the sun, as i began to notice that her flaws concealed only the most lovely of traits. soon we were taking road trips, and once when the windows were down and the light flickered through tree trunks while we traveled at 70, she handed me her ipod and said it was my turn. she told me to pick my favorite album and play it in order, because that was the way music was meant to be heard (i chose walk the moon, by walk the moon). that day we jumped off rocks and hiked to the top of a mountain and binged on gas station food. when we had to share a hotel room, i learned that the best jokes come at two a.m., sixteen stories above a slumbering city. it was then when i realized that to me, she was like a camping trip from childhood, in one of those places i can’t help but leave pieces of myself behind, because i know that

when i return it will be like opening a time capsule (and everything will be the same as it used to be). that night we made a fort and shared our favorite films and shit-talked. when we explored streets we were strangers to, we settled for a coffee shop in front of a train station. the air was sweet and it was warm enough for shorts, and we claimed a seat near the window to watch the people come and go. that day she told me why she fell for him and why she ended things and what she wanted to do with her life. when her favorite band came to portland she bribed me into going, with a promise of cajun tots and pizza. that night we snuck into a rose garden and took photos with the flash on and moved our hips and said goodbye (but only for now).

[brooke] en

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Someone has been with me through the times of cold A colorful embrace, starting out frozen to others Over time, one sees the warmth within the vibrant flowers Spring has come, in like a lion, out like a cat Though at times, the flowers wilt from a lack of care Spring at times is a duplicate of winter’s fallen snow Yet once again comes the warmth of the sun, beautiful and bright For snow will melt away as light touches every leaf This season is not vain, when seeing her own beauty More often, she sees autumn’s strength and hues Or summer’s never ending light, prideful and brave Or winter’s power, its never breaking heart, its joy

[jud

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I am from the silent scrawling of a pen across the white lined paper, Where imagination comes to life and judgement is left behind.

The turning of the pages of a book at odd intervals, the sound resounding in my ears.

And the cheering on of people that don’t exist in the life that I live in, but exist in the lively stories where they thrive.

I am from the twin sister that never leaves me alone, though secretly I miss her when she’s not by my side.

The mother that says to never quite my day job for an unstable dream.

The father that encourages me to do as I wish, saying that there are endless possibilities.

The extended family that are enthralled by the choice of life style I want to live. Saying that it is my own life to live out.

I am from the generation of Nintendo games that to this day I play when there is nothing to do.

The Harry Potter wand that I bought on vacation full of the hope to feel the magic that surrounded me as I read the books and watched the movies.

The old wooden bookshelf that lay just outside my bedroom that carries the burden of read and unread books; they are all the same.

s

ne Bre Jo

I am from the more quiet of times when the screaming of the cousins once removed, or whatever they are called, had not been quite there yet.

Where peace and order was a much easier thing to grasp and my ears not looking for cover.

I am from the times that I go to the movies and lose myself to visit somewhere else that is full of wonderful and terrifying adventure, where the buttery smell of popcorn drifted off into my nose and the fizzing soda would burn my throat.

Then riding safe and sound to the winding streets of my neighborhood where once upon a time there lived a neighbor that would blast their music from within their home.

I am from the friends that have stuck by my side, tolerating pitiful jokes and dry humor, which can sometimes be translated into being sarcastic or sassy.

I am from the belief that love is blind, that everyone can obtain it.

I am from the experiences, good or bad, that have formed me into the person I am today. Awkward with a hint of being talkative. That has given me the determination to join the Vancouver School of Arts and Academics.

This is where judgement is left behind.

Daniel

[scars wash away like sandcastles, burns break like glass camels]

Looking into your eyes beckons me. I think of a field of sunflowers, lazily rolling by. Lazy as the sunflower itself. Whose strength can only muster turning, facing the warm and life bearing sun.

Sometimes, the field becomes shrouded in clouds. The petals of the sunflowers fall off with discretion and steel regard. The full and daringly black seeds slowly fade, and develop a tinge of white.

Then, a bitter cold rushes through your field, snapping all the stalks and stems in half Your eyes grow cold, unfamiliar, wary of the sun, who is peaking beyond the pillow of winds But as the first rays of my sun touch the sky, your sunflowers rise. Your pupils, as black as the precious seeds, widen and shrink as you adjust to the new dawn I want the sun to shine in your sunflower field forever. Your past scars, wash away like a sandcastle at high tide. Your burns, as transparent and breakable as a glass camel dwarfed into insignificance by surrounding desert.

Your bones are like the heron. A heron is beautiful, strong, proud, and wandering. But easily breakable if you know where to press. I am one to heal you, but I also hurt you even more.

Too often my worst fears upon you dig deep into your skin, down to the marrow of brittle, hollow bones. I wish for you to let me kiss all of your bones and call them beautiful. Sucking the evil out of those precious little bones and ingesting them into my own. I can take it, you don’t have to worry about me.

Through the pain, hurt, resolve, and pure love, the field will grow. Always, will your eyes look as the day I first gazed into them, the most beautiful in the world.

I wish always to be the sun in your field that nurtures those sunflower eyes. And maybe one day, we will together consume the healthy seeds.

Dear you,

Anonymous

[dear you]

I miss you. So, so dearly. There’s never been a time when I’ve forgotten you, if that’s what you worry. You’re on my walls, in fading marker shining from the mirror. You laugh, alive in time with your joy, from pictures I refuse to take from their places. Your voice warns mischief and kindness from cards and speaks from comics spilling from old binders.

Even the ceiling grins down from your hand. Pledges of friendship and family that I, too, thought were permanent. We were blood. We grew under the watchful eye of the other, and our roots forgot they were separate--grew together into tangles until no hand, we thought, could part them. We spoke of the future as everyone does, and threw expectations to times yet to come like treasures to light our way. We thought that our promises to the morrow would be different than everyone else’s. Swore they were oaths that we could keep. An oath we’ve found unable to keep.

You left your mark on me, as I hope I’ve left one with you. Yet, now we are but stray moons that have spun from our coveted orbit, which with occasion pass each other. You walk by and turn your eyes from my smile- looking through as if it were nothing but glass and ice.

My smile reaches out to you, over and over, and is abandoned to fall, splintering against the floor like the glass your it treat it as. My teeth are cracked and fractured from their constant plummets, barely held together for the next occasion at which they will break again. What happened?

They say we wear our faults from the baskets on our backs. How desperately I wish to wrest mine off and rifle through until I find what I said, what I did, what happened, why you stopped. I know I hold fractured memories in my hands, and my heart aches to seek the missing pieces from yours. Is this my fault? It is to my shame that I don’t know.

That shame burns, a cattle prod of blame against my hands. Is it my fault? Did I hurt you?

I miss you, I miss you so much. Your memory hangs, a broach sewn deep beneath my skin. Your voice, your memory. It hurts to see you at someone else’s side. I know this, at least, that I didn’t hold tight enough--didn’t bear through the strangeness of change and through my own flaws to keep you close. I lost you in the crowd, and now you’re with someone else, laughing with someone else. Now, when I am not glass, I receive moments of a cold, indifferent gaze that I hope, that I dearly hope, I do not give to you. Because you are still the one. The one who was always there for me, who wanted to be with me. My tangled roots.

I cried when I heard your letter. I hope you know that. And it hurt. It still does every time I hear it. Your words drove a knife, carved out the skin and laid bare my heart which still pounds, which still longs for you. I was your greatest admirer. I miss the days when walls didn’t cast our past in shadow. I miss when I didn’t have to fight to even find you, and where guilt wasn’t a daily part of our relationship. I miss you and I remember the days when you were happy, and I was happy, and we were happy together. When we were each other’s supports. One was not without the other. A pair. Two names spoken in harmony. When they started asking me where you were, I couldn’t tell them you had moved on, grown up past me. Not the first time I’ve been outgrown. I made mistakes. What about yours?

Now, in the halls we walk past one another and I have a new group that accompanies me. New friends which safeguard my heart, which provide me the joy you used to, and that support me now in a way where you were so vital. Yet, you were still the one. The first. My best friend. Know that I am still waiting, that I will always be waiting. If you ask, I will be there. I am ready. Ready to change. Ready to be that hand again. That hand to hold you and to support you. I miss you.

From me

I have a garden.

In it grows a patch of freshly bloomed pancakes made by a single mother for her son’s fourteenth birthday.

To the right are the winter nights in which two young college graduates cuddle up by the fire.

To the left are rows of a new grandmother’s framed pictures of her one-week-old granddaughter, who quietly lies wrapped in a yellow and blue striped blanket.

Walking deeper into my garden you can view all of the long, twisting puppy dog kisses a rescued pit bull gives to its new owner, that coil and grow through the many branches of a shy boy asking another to the prom, no matter what others may think.

One of the shorter shrubs nearby is a freshly planted letter from a father in Afghanistan to his daughter on her tenth birthday.

Besides it lays a small collection of woolen blankets and sweaters a young girl knitted for the homeless until her fingers turned numb.

I have been told the things I grow are not normal, that they should be replaced with money weeds and factory fungi.

But I simply can’t see the reasoning to it, for even if my plants may not grow as fast as theirs or if my garden would be much larger if I succumbed to their ways; each seed I plant turns into a beautiful seedling which, to me, is greater than a million of their sickly herbs.

My garden is not an industrial day care or a printing press for paper that corrupts the good nature of people, and for as long as I live I will plant one thing and one thing only.

I will plant kindness.

I will plant marvels.

I will plant love.

[she plants love] Elana Rolden

[life] Ella Kuepfer I am from a house full of warmth and light.

I am from baskets full of colorful board games, used only on family game night.

I am from theatre and acting.

I am from reading and writing every second I get.

I am from layups and swishes.

I am from a ragged old basketball hoop I am from Because moms know everything I am from my dad’s mouth watering smoked salmon.

I am from my mom’s gooey bubbly lasagna.

I am from outdoor fun and games.

I am from sprinklers in the summer time.

I am from baking to my heart’s desire.

I am from a beach house in Long Beach, Washington, with a gorgeous ocean view.

I am from concerts at Esther Short park I am from Meaning “hello, my name is Ella.”

I am from owls in every corner of my room.

I am from fun taco nights with my whole family.

I am from my grandpa who I love so very much.

I am from my grandma who is the bravest person I’ve ever met.

I am from my mom who’s cooking can’t be beat.

I am from my dad who always makes me laugh.

I am from my sister, Jessie, who means the world to me.

I am from a wonderful life.

[to: my monster] To: My monster From: Your eager, but mostly anxious, high school student approaching college requisition.

Dear you and your inexterminable tendency to summon only the deepest and darkest of frustrations within me, I am writing in attempt to kindly (yet firmly) elucidate the compromising position you put me in on a basis that parallels regularity. Lately, I have found your presence rather nettlesome and above all, noncore. In other words, you suck.

And not just figuratively; you literally suck all enthusiasm, stimuli, and spur right out from under me, to the point where I find myself lacking in the area of overall motivation. Point-blank; I am readily awaiting the removal of you from my life all together. I understand that it is your job to pester me with petty problems and perturbation; however, I feel as though I am no longer in need of these services. And while I fully understand that it is within your duty to stay with me up until the end, that very last second in which I am finally accepted into the college of my picking, I sense that I am ready to take these next couple of steps without you. It is not within my intention or desire to hurt you in any way, and perhaps it would condole you if I were to provide an explanation of sorts, a classic “for ‘tis not you, but me”, however, truthfully speaking, it is quite definitely you. Your large and poky frame no longer presents itself with appeal, and your constant nagging has become embarrassingly clingy. In the past, I tried to retain a radical mindset, investing in sources of self-help, such as “Conquering the College Admission Essay In 10 Easy Steps” or “College admission for dummies”. Though as I delve deeper into the art of crafting the perfect personal statement, and exiting high school with a ranking record of grades and accomplishments, I realized that in order to reach my full potential, I do not need any worry about the future to accompany me on my journey. I whole-heartedly believe that in order to thrive, we must go our separate ways. So sorry, but no more of that ‘you will never get into college!’ crap or the frequent Ellison Kerbs ‘don’t even think about applying there—it’s not happening!’

I deserve better. Not you, but a mindset that will support me in every regard and high-flagged dream. So consider this the final word.

Perhaps we can set a time next week for you to come over and get your things.

I steadily hope that for your sake as well as the next person’s, that you won’t go on to evoke anymore future-related fear within anyone.

So long.

Signed, No longer your eager, but mostly anxious, high school student approaching college requisition.

[hedge people]

grace e.k.

From faded pavement of well-used streets to the rounded edges of greying sidewalks, their footsteps trace faint memories into the cement. They are miniscule people in a world that is far too large to care for their airy bones, sparking nerves, and thrumming, falling, glowing hearts.

As they walk, each passing location distingerates. Their minds toss and turn with flickering ideas and they share smiles like spilled honey from loose-lidded jars.

But manicured fences, curbside guards, and the outer walls of off-white buildings halt to introduce a new idle spectator to their walk: the hedge.

Its leafy green exterior provides sanction for the tawny branches beneath. When they reach it, they pause. Their memory-making footsteps rest, and their backs fall against its surface, which gladly supports their weight.

To owners of globes and world maps and to the highest-flying of birds, these people are nothing more than dots barely visible. But as they lean against the firm greenery, their bodies form indents in its leafy surface. The hedge shifts to meet the curves of their backs, and retains their shape even as they step away. It’s the only tangible evidence of their presence—a lingering recollection from the memories of the street-corner. The hedge guards their unspoken fears and mumbled emotions with the promise of confidentiality. It morphs to protect them, wrapping them in a world more inclined to their size.

As they draw closer to one another, the birds circle high above, waiting. The bespeckled men in decorated offices stop spinning their globes. They keep still, and watch as the two dots condense and become one. These hedge people, with their small, small lives, collide.

And for a moment, they rise and spin and grow and the world shifts and breathes and shrinks.

[open the

s k y ] Lonely voices fading across the hallway Pull her into a deep slumber

Where her gilded curls sprawl like liquid honey Across a boy’s shoulder The air reeks of dissipated dreams Tucked aside for the sake of ease She breathes in its fragrance And it resounds like acid on her tongue It’s a scent manufactured in the halls of high schools And the deteriorating streets of towns That are too small to attract anything new And too big to push anything out The rush of bodies around them Are blurred into shots of color Sepia hair and river-green eyes Soft caramel skin and red t-shirts She could stand up and cut through the crowd If she so desired But she would pass through them Because all they are is colour As transient as a rainbow They’ll fade away as the rain falls and the sun retreats Leaving her cutting only air

She is tangled in longing For things greater than herself Resting on his shoulder With cascades of her hair sweeping across his chest She wonders How a moment can be so close perfect And still not be enough Because though she resides in comfort where she is In her mind she is somewhere else, far away For when she leaves the halls of high school And makes her way across town Porch lights illuminate the darkened streets As she walks toward the stars Searching for the light behind the sky The candescent holes cut into familiar dark blue fabric She wishes to be the one to slice open that fiber And release the light behind it “Hand me the scissors”, she demands “Let me cut open the sky” But in her school In her town Scissors are used to chop golden locks Not slash darkness

grace e.k.

[il y a, elle y a] There are parisien records on the player, and lyonnais paintings on the walls. A marseillais man and a niçois woman smoke Gauloises by wide windows overlooking the Seine. Three other men—local boys— stand like gargoyles (ugly and stoic) by the back wall, their backs to the impressive spectacle… and the panorama of the city beyond. No one speaks.

She is a businesswoman. He is a foreigner—to this city at least.

Theirs is a match of convenience; a practical partnership for mutual benefit. A model relationship it is not: she disapproves of his methods, and he thinks her morals loose. Neither is wholly wrong. Neither speaks the entire truth, either.

He is a pragmatist. She is a realist. These adjectives seem similar to the uninformed, as do the pair by the windows: but their nuances are vital. To her, that which is factually correct is simply true. In his mind, the actual truth is slave to the practical truth. What good is knowledge without a use for it? She does not believe in God; she has no evidence. He, on the other hand, sees value in the belief of God (rational or not); when people believe in something, they have a cause. History has proven time and again that causes, no matter how misguided, are worth fighting for.

Dying for. Killing for. In this, he sees opportunity, and opportunity is his trade.

He is businesslike, professional and cold. She is no less icy, but also vibrant and decadent to a fault. It registers in every action they affect: the echoing silence that drags for apparent hours, the subtle way both sit—his posture relaxed but ramrod straight, hers elegant and proper but disguising obvious discomfort—and even so far as the antithetic flicking of ash from the tips of their cigarettes. She crosses her legs and he shifts slightly. This is her suite, with a rug that costs as much as a government pension and no fewer than three original Monets (on permanent loan from le d’Orsay provided that she brings them in for gala events).

His is the black Audi parked in the building manager’s spot.

He is stark naked. She is too. A more French picture there has likely never been: a beautiful slender brunette with a heart-shaped visage, and a stern-eyed man with a hatchet face and facial hair that treads the line between patchy and chique stubble, half-reclining as they smoke and stare. Later, long after this tectonic collision of wills has concluded, the parisien records will pick up in tempo and a bottle of fine bordelais will herald the beginning of something new and wholly radical—for Paris has always been a city of the new: new ideas, new orders, and new horizons.

He is driven to maintain his composure. She is growing impatient. Mutual stubbornness will ensure that neither moves from the spot.

A cinder makes the lazy spiral journey from the tip of her cigarette before fluttering away on an errant draft, as though it would not dare to actually touch her form.

He is made of flint: rough-hewn and jagged at the edges, but capable of igniting the spark of change, that indomitable mother of invention, if struck the right way. She is made from marble, classical elegance and natal prestige. Paris, France, Europe and the whole world beyond would be far the lesser without either of these: flint and fire to bring us out of the darkness; marble to dredge us from the depths of our minds.

He is in awe of her: what she has, what she is, what she represents. She is afraid of him: how far he has come, and what he can do.

They are fire and ice—anathema and codependency—rendered in supple flesh.

He is smiling now. She is returning the gesture.

The cogs of momentous change jolt and grind, titanically, to a start.

Anonymous

[broken english] E F

I

N O

P J

G Broken English, Mexicano records on Sunday mornings, H songs of sadness and betrayal inject life into a father who works three jobs; one for each of his niños.

Humbly, he nods his head at co-workers who talk about his life as if they know him.

Sweat runs down his face, and despite his perpetual exhaustion gratitude embellishes his sonrisa.

He brings treats for his children todos los días; drops of sunshine covered in chili making the hard days seem easy.

Q

R

S

T

CD

M K L

Isabel Barrueta

AB

U

V W

Y

Hands, body, mind; X weary, but her soul is alive and well.

She sways her hips as she cradles the baby and flips the tortillas on the comal.

Z Groceries on the bus, a brown paper sack underappreciated with the necessities but overflowing with haphazardly ruptured sueños.

Velas sagrados crowd the hearth of the fireplace, Madre lights each whispering oraciónes into the tired wicks.

She kneels performing la Senal de la Cruz murmuring: “En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.”

The oldest, a girl, explains to her hermanos when they get attacked for their last name, that it is not vergonzoso to be from over the border.

She walks tall for her siblings, when in reality she is just as run-down as the old jalopy her father drives around town.

Hair black as cenizas braided along her spine, she ducks low on the streets to hide from hungry hombres on the prowl.

Her brother, the middle child swallows pain and anger, gliding down his throat like shards of glass.

Sus ojos lay low and his face crumbles into a ceño.

Brazos con las manos covered in calluses taught to never leave his sides when he starts to boil under pressure.

“Nunca, nunca, nunca… ” Escuela o trabajo, which one should he go to today?

The bebé in the bassinet lay with a golden cruz around his wrist, he was a bendición de Dios, a complete miracle.

The baby coos at the wailing of Chente Fernández on the radio, there is always comfort in his sadness.

El Chavo laughs on the television, teaching niños how to run from the policía and fight poverty.

Maraca in his clutch and a colorful cobija draped over his fragile body, he is secure.

Su abuelita looks at her nieta and whispers “tú loca” whenever she picks up her pen to write her feelings.

Hearing her grandmother she looks at her, puts down her pluma and goes to the kitchen para cocinar la cena.

As tears roll down her cheeks, she glances at su madrebaby on her hip and a plumero in her free hand.

Looking at su abuelita; iron in hand, la camisa del Papá on the board.

She wonders if they ever wanted to pick up a pen and write down their feelings, too.

[untitled] Isabelle Haskin

Isabella Martinez

[Tía]

“Ay! Tía! Ya te dijo, no toques el altar más (I already told you, don’t touch the altar more).” My tía gently released the corner of orange tablecloth I had draped over a shelf in my living room from her grip and turned to fiddle with something else. She gazed longingly at some of the food I had left on the altar before coming to sit at the loveseat I prepared for her.

“Tu español ha mejorada mucho,” she quipped, “pero aún necesita mejoras (your Spanish is greatly improved, but it still needs work).”

She leaned into the back of the chair and picked at her lacquered fingernails for dirt that wasn’t there while I moved from pan to pot to keep from burning the food. She inhaled the smell that wafted through the dining space deeply, eyes fluttered shut and the corners of her mouth upturned slightly.

“Verifique en las tortillas de nuevo, caléndula, huelen a punto (check on the tortillas again, marigold, they smell ready).” I smiled and shook my head, making sure she couldn’t see or I would be chastised for patronizing her.

I glanced over my shoulder and called “eso ya lo hice, necesitan dos minutos más (I already did that; they need two more minutes).”

Tia Chapina regularly came to visit, and when she did she always had advice and experience to share. Some of her advice was helpful, like showing me the best way to take out stains in the carpet or her secret recipe for mole. But sometimes, her advice was biting and harsh, like telling me that the burgundy shade of my sweater made me look embarazada. Every year on November 1, she would come up to visit and stay a couple days in my apartment. Besides being a little nosy, she was an excellent guest every time, giving me space when I needed it and tidying up after herself, and her visits always made me happy.

When the tortillas were done and off the pan, lightly filling the air with the warm scent of cornmeal and light char, I beckoned my tía over to the balcony so we could watch the surprisingly mild November day. We sat in cozy white chairs with mugs of steaming cocoa and kahlua, Tía wrapped in an avocado green shawl that matched her loose dress and headscarf. She fidgeted a moment to get comfortable, pulling her scarf off to reveal an almost bald head that she rubbed softly. I had only seen her without her scarf on once before.

Tia Chapina almost never took her scarf off despite the discomfort it caused, and I knew better than to ask why the bravest women I knew would hide something so personal.

“Recuerdo cuando tenía el pelo tan largo y hermoso como el tuyo, chiquita (I remember when I had hair as long and beautiful as yours, dear),” she whispered, leaning down and popping her joints like bubble wrap to set down her mug. “Pero supongo el cáncer tenía otras planes (but I guess the cancer had other plans).” The golden breeze brought a larger chill than it should have, yet it was still unseasonably warm for late autumn. The teal hummingbird that had been resting on a nearby tree branch flew off with the wind. I licked my lips and tilted my head slightly towards Tía.

“Tía, ¿cómo fue? (What was it like?)”

“El dolor era leve al principio, un peso en mis pulmones. Todo dolía.

Sabía que iba a morir tan pronto como escuché que era cáncer. El tratamiento era el peor sin embargo, como el fuego en mis venas. (The ache was dull at first, a weight on my lungs. I always ached. I knew that I was going to die when I heard that I had cancer. The treatment was the worst, like fire in my veins).” “¿Cómo fue (what was it like)...” I paused, then whispered, “usted sabe, morir (you know, to die)?” Her forehead wrinkled down and her drawn on eyebrows furrowed together.

“Sentía como si mi alma fuera expulsada de mi cuerpo en un baño de hielo. Y entonces todavía estaba (it felt as if my soul was being thrown out of my body into an ice bath. And then it was still).”

I set my mug on the ground as well and leaned on my left elbow to face her.

“Había una señora, tú sabes, una mujer esquelética. Ella era la Señora del Muerto, y ella era mi guardiana. Ella me lleva aquí a la tierra de los vivos y me trae de nuevo a la tierra de los muertos (there was a lady, you know, a skeleton woman. She was the Lady of the Dead, and she was my guardian. She brings me to the land of the living and returns me to the land of the dead).”

We returned to silence for a while, relishing the sunset while we still could, and Tía Chapina continued to tell stories about Mexico and what my abuelito was like as a child. We went back inside soon after to find the sky purpled and darkened and to find the food still warm. We ate quietly with music filling my apartment. After we finished the mole and flan, Tía gathered her shawls and turned to say goodbye.

“Te veré el año que viene, caléndula (I will see you next year, marigold),” kissing my cheeks. She wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. “Estoy tan orgulloso de ti (I am so proud of you).” We grasped hands and embraced gently, strength still holding her together. We separated, and she cupped my cheek and gazed into my eyes. I could see golden light behind her irises, dispersing like monarch butterflies taking flight.

I turned from her for a second and scurried over to the door to help her out, and turned around to see that she had disappeared. All that was left where she had been standing was a small pot of marigolds and a green headscarf.

“Adiós Tía, feliz el día de los muertos (goodbye tia, happy day of the dead).”

[ v a n g o g h ’s l e g a c y ]

Isabella Martinez

I couldn’t help but fixate on the gap in his head while he talked. I’m not quite sure how I didn’t notice it before, but the scarred and empty space where his ear should have been was captivating my attention like nothing else had before. Where his hair before was messy and in his face, it was now slicked back and clean. I couldn’t help but think he dressed up well if it weren’t for that damned distracting ear hole.

Despite my unhealthy fixation, he seemed satisfied to cheerfully continue his conversation about his heroic happenings while I engaged in a rude staring contest with his ear hole. Finally, he stopped talking about himself long enough to inquire about me.

“Are you a fan of the arts?” he asked.

“Why yes, I am.”

“Are you a fan of Van Gogh?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. He’s my favorite artist.”

“What about romance?”

“I think it’s underappreciated, a dying art of sorts.”

His composure snapped, and he seemed to lean closer towards me, bringing his jagged ear scar closer as well. It was all I could do not to shudder. His pupils were as large as his irises. He seemed to want to say more, but our food had arrived and we were both temporarily silenced.

I’m honestly not sure how I managed to eat more than a couple mouthfuls with the semblance of his ear looming so close, but his indistinct rambling was almost enough of a distraction.

I should’ve left sooner—he was creeping me out—but he insisted on getting dessert and I just couldn’t pass on the lava cake special, so I stayed despite my gut telling me to run. I wanted to ask about his ear, quench my morbid curiosity, but I couldn’t do that without interrupting him. I decided that wasn’t something I wanted to know anyways. Instead, I pretended he lost it in the war, or while doing some brave and heroic act. Based on his rambling, it was a plausible enough assumption.

As we left, he pulled me into a hug, and whispered into my ear that he hadn’t felt this connected to another person in so long. The last girl he was with broke his heart, but I had given him hope again. He tilted his head and leaned in; I faked a sneeze and ducked out of his grasp. He tried to get me to come home with him, but I faked a slight headache and chose to walk home under the starry night instead, claiming that the fresh air would do me well. I turned a corner and took my pepper spray out of my purse, just in case. xxx I avoided his calls after that, claiming that I had work or brunch with my mother, boils on my feet, anything to get him to stop calling.

After about a week, I felt bad. He really did seem very nice, and I could learn to ignore the ghost of his ear haunting everything we did if I had to. Just when I decided to call him back, I heard a knock on my door, and looked out the window to see a delivery truck drive away. I opened my door to a simple box. When I opened the box, there was a love letter from my shunned date, declaring us soulmates and saying that he would do absolutely anything to marry me, and gave me a gift to prove his affection. Under the letter, wrapped in tissue paper, was a human ear.

[finally] J.P. She woke screaming.

She thrashed in the stark white sheets, her eyes frantically searching for something that wasn’t there, her breathing ragged and quick.

“Shhh, you’re okay” She was right there next to her, wrapping her arms around her.

The familiar smell of smoke and soap filled her nose.

She clutched her, because if she let go she would fall away from here.

She ran her hands through her hair, and whispered soothing things to her.

And she cried into her chest.

Not because she was scared anymore, but because she finally had her to hold.

All those nights where she woke up by herself and no one was there to tell her it wasn’t real; all those nights where she couldn’t fall back asleep because she was terrified to, all those nights could be forgotten.

Her heart broke as she held her.

She slowed her breathing to match hers.

[you] Jaden Lindsey

I don’t want you.

I don’t want your noxious words flooding into my ears and cramming down my throat, flipping my stomach in every direction.

I don’t want your toxic touch embracing me in false appreciation, leaving warts at your fingertips.

I don’t want your judgmental stare searing away at me and everything I do, making my skin peel off layer by revealing layer.

I don’t want your marionette strings twisting around my wrists and tongue, controlling every action of mine like a demented puppeteer.

I don’t want your slimy smile, or your feigned love, or your dictatorship.

I want you to leave.

[ a f a t h e r ’s h a n d s ] Down by the boardwalk, where silken sand meets Connecticut sky, is where we would walk hand-in-hand, among the chaos of thunder, land, and sea.

Jamie Norris

Wind and salt stains our tongues chipping paint and stinging pink fingertips.

You tighten your grip on my hand, steadying me against the persistent, omnipotent wind.

My hand is smooth and guileless covered in paper-cuts and stained with vibrant fingerpaint.

Yours are rough and worn with age like the the sandy wood planks of the Boardwalk.

She stands a myriad of wisdom.

A barrier between two worlds, one of the impermeable ice blue, and that of I and of you.

Each day we carry out our tradition. the salt, the spray, the wind, the water. each day we pass her preserved fortress, untouched by sun and time.

Each day I grow older seems shorter than the last.

As the years go by, and the flame Of candor in your eye wanes, I begin to see her planks sigh and protest At the ferocity of the wind.

Her beams ache and her legs rot from the unrelenting vengeance of the tide, stripping her down to bare bones with harsh sand and salt.

Your body begins to match her decay.

Once worn hands turn to leather within my now strong ones, equipped with purpose and of caretaking.

Your bones often ache as hers do, and you forget me sometimes too.

Your mind is as cloudy as the mist clinging in the air upon our daily walk.

Most days you cannot differentiate the two.

And finally one day, You simply weren’t there anymore.

This day became the first of my walks alone, and this time, I take a different route.

I brace myself against the wind upon climbing her worn pillars of wood consumed by age, finally paying her dues to time.

Icy crystalline waves crash at her feet And I steady myself just as your hand steadied mine all those years ago.

I look out to the misty edge of the world.

And I breathe.

And once her presence calms me, I begin our walk again.

Down by the boardwalk, where silken sand meets Connecticut sky, is where we would walk hand-in-hand, among the chaos of thunder, land, and sea.

[you are my sunshine] Jamie Norris You are my sunshine His face is still. knees to chest and breathing shallow as he struggles to hold on for me.

My only sunshine My son.

My precious, loving, terrified, extraordinary son.

All I want is one more moment with you.

One more moment to make it all better One more moment of sleepy sundays and star-shaped pancakes and every tear-stained night where you were there, knocking on that bathroom door.

One more moment of that love.

That fierce kind of love. the one that hurts you and leaves you defenseless but you thank it for hurting you anyway, for just giving you that one moment.

That terrifying, agonizing kind of love. the one that leaves you watching him lie on the bathroom floor while you shower, because he doesn’t want to leave mommy alone for one single minute. the one that leaves you watching him breathe at night because you’re so terrified of losing him.

And the one where you just can’t bring yourself to close your eyes.

For fear you’ll miss one single moment of his life.

You keep me happy They tell me that he’s passing soon.

That he can’t hear me now and that he’s not in pain.

But all I can feel is the agony. an unrelenting force, separating me from my body into transforming me into a broken shell of myself.

Who am I without him?

His skin is so cold now. but I can feel him breathing

When skies are grey What will the world look like without him?

Will everything be in muted shades of grey, untouched by the pure love that lived inside him?

What will it feel like when the fight is done?

Will I ever be able to breathe again?

All I want is just one more moment with him.

One more moment without the tests and the surgeries and the hospitals.

When will the agony end?

One more harmless moment.

One more cartoon fest or Nerf gun war, One more glance at the bathroom floor.

Give me more time.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

This shouldn’t be happening like this.

You never know, dear He takes a breath.

I know it will all be over soon.

His eyes open slowly and my heart beats in my chest louder than my own faltering voice.

I take in every detail.

Every possible thing that is inadvertently him.

I try to remember it all.

Every late night conversation, every kiss, every laugh.

Every time he told me not to be scared.

Every time he brought me to my knees.

I watch my son cling to life, and all I can do is wait for my world to fall apart.

How much I love you.

And finally, he smiles, letting out his last few breaths, careful to not let go until he could get the last of his words out.

“I love you mommy.”

So please don’t take my sunshine away…

Jenna Porter

[willowmena]

Kayla Will

[mine]

[my precious]

[strangers] Lecette Burke A father of five Strangers they’ve grown to be All at opposite corners of a room Metaphorically.

I stand in the middle Dark eyes and fine hair That’s all that is similar If we stood side by side You would not notice that We are linked by blood We plant ourselves with different pasts Prideful of our given futures One a man who stands in church before God Tall and bald Two A man who stands in a barbershop Broom in hand as he sweeps Three A man sitting somewhere Probably downing a beer Four A man walking the streets Smoking his cigarette and reminiscing shitty decisions Five A girl Standing at the verge of her youth Writing down her periwinkle thoughts

[every thing & no thing] Cool slick metal graces your smooth oily hands.

Your back is pressed sharply against the chilling iron, Your feet inches away, crammed stuck frozen.

Short puffs of air come from your blue lips, you start to hyperventilate.

Everything is bathed in blue, Your eyes are cobalt, Your stringy hair is a deep indigo, And your pale skin is a piercing teal.

A frosty periwinkle lines your skin, It looks delicate But the lace burns through your touch.

The burning.

The heat sears your flesh but the walls are cool, You shove yourself against the inky black cage that numbs your skin You’re already pushed into it as far as you can

Lily EngblomStryker

Your frail head has drooped down to your bony shoulders To accommodate the small minuscule poisonous space.

Everything is drenched in red.

Your eyes are shut tight but all you see is violet.

Your lips have pursed together but all you taste is a shocking carnelian, Your head hurts because you feel a throbbing Color of marigold at the base of your skull.

You are stuck within a toxic venomous deadly box.

You are trapped within clashing electrifying reds and blues.

You are stuck within two extremes,

you never see a shade of Purple.

You feel nothing but everything at the same time.

It’s too much.

You cannot breathe in the crisp dry air.

You cannot see the confines of your icy prison.

You cannot feel the walls anymore.

Your hands, legs back head feet have gone numb, as if the skin was seared off.

You cannot sense the old aromatic buttercups that were warm to touch.

You cannot recognize the food and dry parcels of nutrients thrown at you.

Nor the spit drying in your own mouth.

You cannot be.

You cannot breath.

You cannot see.

You cannot stop thinking.

You are trapped in a box of your own making.

They peer from inside a room with transparent walls.

Their grin is eery, their pupils dilated to the full of their iris.

They stare at you in your box, in your prison outside of the glass room.

You can’t see them, but They see and know you.

They Know everything about you, because They are you.

Twisting, mutilating you from the core of your very being.

You are in a horrendous box.

They are in a delicate glass room.

They Sympathetically smile at you and maliciously say, “You are trapped in a box of your own making.

I wonder how you got there?

Oh right!

It was me you little. insignificant. bug.

Burning you from the inside.

Oh right!

You! couldn’t handle me, You! couldn’t do anything.

You. Are. Nothing.

And I, Will keep, You in, Your box.”

[the soldier] Lou

[when the day fell in love with the night] Lucy You are the sun.

Bright Beautiful Life-giving You light up the world of those around you simply by existing.

I am the moon.

Though I will try to light the world when you cannot, My light will never be the same as yours.

My light is darker Colder Even lonely.

Because you have always been happier than I You are so much brighter You are more hopeful You do not get yourself tangled up in the darkness I was born in.

You are pure and flawless And I will do anything to keep you smiling.

I would tear the earth apart for you I’d rip through any barrier If it meant you would never be hurt If it meant you would never cry If it meant you would never see the cruelty of the world If it meant that you would feel safe again.

And I will try to light the world when you cannot.

Because you are human

You will eventually break down but that’s okay.

I will let you hide and my light will shine in your place.

I know I will never be the same, but I will never stop trying.

Just remember that the world needs your light Your kindness Your selflessness.

There are few like you.

But you are not invincible.

You cannot go on forever.

I know you know this, and I do, too.

So do not be afraid to take time And I will light the world while you recover.

I know I will never live up to your light, I live in too much darkness.

But I will try For you.

I love you.

Thank you.

[take, take, take] You took my heart, and hid it away from the world. selfishly draining the warmth, the wonder, and all its color from its once absentminded bliss.

And once it was gone, All the warmth and the hope and the color you adored so dearly, you gave it back.

Disgusted by how vacant, and lifeless it has become. “What happened to that beautiful, beautiful heart you once carried so strong?� distant, yearning to know what has become of your most prized possession, you ponder over all the possibilities to why I have failed you, lost my way in the most heartbreaking of circumstances.

Never understanding that it was you, because you took my heart, and hid it away from the world. selfishly draining the warmth, the wonder, and all its color from its once absentminded bliss.

m.m.

[feeling my life] Maria Vara Since I was little, my red rose told me to wear my white shoes.

She said, “put on that pink dress because we are going to Coco’s house.”

I always wear the same pink dress when we go to Coco’s house, Or to Ms. Flor’s house and her mother, Mrs. Flor.

Sometimes I found, inside my white purse that matches my shoes, a big beige sun hat, But every time I put it on, she secretly whispered into my ear, “take it off, now.”

I immediately did what she told me to do, and I learned to never ever bring that beige sun hat again.

Pink dress and I became friends—now I wear it everyday.

Sometimes when I don’t take care of it, it gets dirty, full of other colors that aren’t pink.

It gets red, green, yellow, beige, gray and blue.

When that happens, all walls around me start to gossip and laugh, Talking to each other about my ruined dress, Reminding me how ugly my pink dress looks, Intimidating with their gigantic bodies.

Lots of red H’s and black A’s all in an infinite pattern making me feel trapped and small.

Then my red rose comes and grabs me with her green leaves.

She takes my pink dress and cleans it with water and her red petals.

I look at my red rose and I say, “Mom, is it okay if a wear a blue dress tomorrow?”

She embraced me and rubbed her love next to my cheek.

It’s okay to wear a blue dress, I told myself every time the black crows were flying on top of my head in circles.

“How do you never get dizzy of flying in circles without stopping?” I scream at them, because instead they wouldn’t have heard me... they are too deaf to listen.

I jumped to the sky, next to the sun...that’s my favorite spot.

I lie down over clouds, dreaming under these fluffy white, turquoise, pink and gold marshmallow.

The majestic sun singing to his children, telling them goodbye and hugging them until we all fall with him.

I waved goodbye, and my cheeks turned gold.

I love when my cheeks turn gold. Memories, memories, memories...

Still in the clouds looking at the stars, Noticing how the gold stars need a darkness to be able to shine...

Infinite black full of dots, full of points, full of sparkles, tiny little balls, gold glitter.

Eyes closed, but I was still awake...

“What do you see?” asked the pillows and the ceiling.

“Numbers,” I cried. Numbers and numbers and more numbers I cried, I screamed, but my mouth was closed.

“But you like numbers” The moon said, very confused and worried.

And I said “I like numbers, but not now, not like this” All around me, they can’t stop, there are more and more every time.

I cried, I screamed and this time my mouth wasn’t closed.

He came, he ran, he cried and he smiled.

He screamed at me, he got upset, got lonely and he smiled... again, and again.

The clouds broke into pieces.

Thunder, lightning, and I fell... that moment when touched the ground I realized I was alive and free.

He brought a yellow dress. I’ve never seen a yellow dress like this.

“This is for you,” he said.

I smiled, I’m happy.

“What a pain!” I said, confused. “My bamboo tree is such a pain.”

“I do not have the energy to deal with you, bamboo tree.”

Bamboo tree cried, cried a lot.

He’s playing the victim and I’m playing the same role too.

Are we both guilty? Maybe we are. I don’t really know and I don’t want to know.

Me again, me alone. Is this a new home? Yes? No? Maybe? I think it’s a maybe, I’m not sure.

I’ll never be sure. Maybe some times, and other times it is not. A big NO. Here I feel like wearing my pink dress again and also my white shoes.

I’m not ready for this. Am I? Flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. Flowers of lots of colors. New flowers that I’ve never seen.

Are they kind? Are they poisonous?

Red with yellow splashes, orange with pink shades, blue with silver highlights.

Red flower makes me cry all the time, Orange flower seems dangerous, Blue flower is not my favorite.

I hide inside my cave. My dark cave.

Creepy and scary for others, but cozy and perfect for me.

My time, me alone.

He’s not afraid of the cave, he’s not afraid of me.

Baby puppy comes and cries and cries all night.

They push me. They pull me. They make me escape.

They make me feel at ease.

Walking with my red dress, the dress I made for myself.

I walk, walk and walk.

I walk over rocks, walk over land, walk over nature, walk over everything.

But I’m not happy, I’m not sad. I’m wearing my red dress.

I see a light hanging from the ceiling. I see three more lights hanging next to the first one.

They are all white, white lights. I reach and I grab them.

Not like lightbulbs nor Christmas lights. They were beautiful. The most beautiful lights I have ever seen.

I see more lights, these are pink lights.

I see one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Six, Seven, and Eight are blinking.

Four white lights, Eight pink lights.

I reach to grab the eight pink lights. But they don’t wanna be reached. They don’t wanna leave either .

They are getting on my nerves.

One, Two, Three, Four and Five are mine.

But every time I try to reach Six, Seven and Eight, they turn dark and explode.

I cry and I run until I fall into water. Drowning and drowning until I can’t breath.

Drowning until I feel my lungs filling with blue and black bubbles of desperation and sorrow.

Bamboo tree talks and talks and sits me on a chair.

This table is majestic, full of delicacies. A buffet for the queen and the king.

In one side of the table there’s my red rose and in the other side my bamboo tree.

“Eat everything you want, but be wise and smart. Do not let the food cause you a stomach ache” After we had dinner we talk and talk.

Pieces of diamonds came from red rose and golden coins from bamboo tree.

“We have a gift for you,” they whispered A pot full of dirt and 3 flowers.

Red flower, orange flower and blue flower.

Red rose and bamboo tree guide me to the corner of the room, it was too dark I felt blind “Stay there” They went to turn on the lights.

I saw myself in the mirror: I was in between my bamboo tree and my red rose.

I was wearing a white-holographic dress, with my white shoes.

I’m not just one color anymore, I’m all the colors.

All the time.

They whisper, “We love you.”

Maria Vara

[sally mann inspired]

[untitled]

Marley

[i

am

wolf]

Melayna Campos

I am wind; swiftly leaping from rock to rock unscathed as I cross the river of life, alive with the water of spring. I am the breeze that carries the words of others and in turn learns from them. I am the force that blows trees, the force that can cause an empty sky to turn to one of gray.

I am earth; rising from fire like a phoenix, reborn anew with the lessons of my kin inside me. Everything I learn stays with me, as the trees roots stay in the Earth. My heart pounds with the instinct of all living creatures, and the one my Earth Father has set for me.

I am water; flowing with all living beings like the gracefulness of the streams running down the mountains. I am the lifeblood of the forest, giving the trees life as they soak me in, running along patches of dirt from which the grass is born from.

I am a leader; looking out for those who cannot defend themselves, like a kitten without its mother. I protect those who protect me, those who deserve a second chance. No matter what you say, I will protect them. I see the ones who have a future, though no one else does.

I am a flower; gentle, flowing from the earth and blooming for all to see and all to judge. I wave in the wind, seeming nothing more than a part of life. At the first sign of a threat, I lash out, defending myself as would you, my spikes digging into the deepest scores of the dirt.

I am living; thinking, feeling, learning, fearing. I am one in billions living, my friends those of wind, Earth, sea, plains, and mountains. Allied with all that listen, and all that care. For I do not believe it is wrong to care, to feel, to think. Were so similar, were all the same, no matter what form we take. Is it only me who sees this? Does not one of you understand there’s no difference between us? Do you not see that we too have feelings?

Do you really think we’re lower than you? Do you really, truly, feel we are inferior beings, not important and meaningless? Don’t we all mean something?

You know I am disappearing. Rapidly, paw prints disappear from this world without any a trace. Each day, fewer and fewer bird calls echo through the woods. Fewer and fewer mice squeak out from underneath their burrows. I have noticed the rivers start to run dry, the river beds a whisper of a life force long gone. The white flakes that used to fall are now few.

I am running. Running from the loss of these creatures, as I fear for myself too. I never have stopped running away from you. I do not remember a day when none of us ran, chased by our own brothers of the earth.

The birds move every year, farther and farther away. The deer track trails go deeper and deeper into the lands they never roamed.

Who am I running from? I am running from you. You have taken my friends, my family. You have took the earth, the land, and overruled it with tall, iron structures that reach up to the sky, turning the day gray, and the nights black. You take the lives of the ones who have so much ahead, so much in their future. You destroy whole generations by taking the lives of those who have not yet learned how to live, what it means to feel. You destroy the tiny flower that could start a field, the tiny stream that could start a river, the river that could support trees, the trees that could grow a forest, the forest that could give homes.

My home is gone. My family, you stole.

I run from the impending death that collapses in on me, the grass that dies and crumples behind me, the trees that fall beyond the grass, and the water that turns toxic, killing those who try to survive in your land by your rules.

I want to fight. I want to stand up. I want to lead an army against you. I want to run towards you, streams flowing behind me as I run, saplings growing back in the areas that used to belong to them, flowers blooming underneath my paws.

But I can’t stand against this alone.

I am dying.

You think by killing me, you will rid the Earth of me.

But I will never truly be dead. We are only dead when we are forgotten, wiped from the memories of every being.

My tracks may vanish into the Earth, my fur may become just a whisper in the wind, my legacy may be wiped, my being nothing but a mere shadow.

But I will never truly be gone. We are only gone when we are forgotten.

And I have made sure, I will never be forgotten.

I am here.

I am living.

I am breathing.

I am me.

I am wolf.

[me]

I am me, That’s all I can be.

People try to shape me, and make me.

I flow free as water, never hotter, just cool.

Phenomenal, bookish, laughing, Weird, quirky, amazing, artsy, eager and loving me.

Mia Veljacic

[wedding]

Beams of fluorescent light ricochet off the lacquered wood of the court room, emitting a dull golden glow into the air Camera flashes ceremoniously permeate the faces of the couple With gaze unbroken they make prewritten promises through childlike grins She dances in place shifting weight from foot to foot, kicking the back of her red skirt with her heel He holds her hands like a kite in a typhoon His neck craned down to meet her eyes while she rocks forward and back on the tips of her toes to meet his With a wrapping of their words, a physical promise is exchanged A pairing of engraved silver bands symbolize a culmination of five years She latches hold of the back of his vest as he picks her up, closing the foot long gap I gain a brother

Micky McCafferty

[gold]

of course the story begins with a lonely gaze of sky blue that looks through a miniature window and seeps through a green village through lore and secret and when he comes brown hair curled ever so slightly, she turns her gaze to him and he turns his to her he swims through her golden river, and pulls her back down with him and she is now in the world. but in truth, her gaze is still lonely. still she waits by a window for him and his noble breath only this one is bigger and through it she can see what she was certain she wanted to see. her dresses now hang down below her knees in bunched up fabric of white and pink

she sings to him a song she forgot she knew, but the words don’t sound the same. her hair does not flow like it once did, golden and twisted and free. she does not see like she once did, she is no longer full of dreams in color and sure, she can see everything now with her window framing the world as she wants to see it before she was trapped by brick and height. but now she is trapped by everything below it.

murphy bradshaw

[ m r. m o r r i s ] Anonymous There is no sunshine anywhere in the world quite like Arizona sunshine. People have written songs about it; the way the tarmac turns into a great black stovetop rippling with the ire of an August afternoon.

Birds circle lazily in a robins-egg sky, cloudless as a postcard; or huddle in the shade beneath the overpass because that’s the only place the ground is cool enough to touch. This land doesn’t belong to them, no more than it does to people. The sun is a reminder of that.

Mister Morris’ house is the third from the end of the avenue, right before the place where it swirls about a bit like indecisive bathwater going down a drain and becomes a cul de sac. His lawn is dry and mostly dead—like the majority of Arizona lawns—and the paint on his home’s facade peels in that way where it looks like long, flat, curling hairs hanging off. If it came to pass that a breeze or some sort of gust swept through, they would likely shake and rattle and wave; but this was not the land of breezes, nor gusts, nor billows either for that matter. So the sheafs of dessicated solvent and resin remained as all things in this part of the world did: hot, dry, and deathly still.

There was no life about the house, just as there was—these days—little life about Mister Morris. The Volvo in the driveway wasted away, every year letting a few more flakes of rust settle alongside the airless rubber and occasional spur of jagged what-was-once-windshield.

All that would tell an observer that the place was even inhabited was the ritualistic depositing and disappearance of the Daily Sun. I lived across the street from Mister Morris for nineteen years and not once did I see him come out to take his newspaper from where it was so carelessly left; nor however did I ever see more than one newspaper on his porch at any time. It was rare even that I would see such a thing, for I am inclined to guess that he retrieved the publication in the early hours, when none would be around to witness the deed. The rare times that my morning march to school would give me a glimpse of the undisturbed print were the days I assumed Mister Morris had overslept.

The rumors about him were plentiful. He was a vampire; he was in witness protection. I never found much traction in any of them, at least not once I got older. To a child these things seem like a good way to write off the

strange old man across the street. As an adult though I realized that he was the sort of man you find everywhere in the world.

People come and people go. Sometimes there are things and people and places that they leave behind. Sometimes losing those things—whether you’re the one leaving or the poor soul being left—is more than a person can handle. Mister Morris might not have been a broken man; in fact I doubt he was. He lived far longer than I expect any “broken” person would have the will or desire to. Nonetheless, there were cracks in the persona that projected from that home: an air of something precious and irreplaceable that had been lost forever. The thought was sobering.

I scarcely believed my eyes when they rolled him out on a gurney, because if there was one thing that was consistent about my life up to that point, it was Mister Morris. Him and his vanishing newspapers; his rusting old car; his house peeling red skin from a bad sunburn. It was him and the secrets he knew that had forced him into hiding; or the sharp, white teeth that only came out on moonless nights as he departed his haunt in search of fresh blood.

I’ve long-since left Arizona: there is nothing left for me there. The mind, though, is a fickle thing. On sunny days I remember the heat; I remember the scorched earth and the blistering air. I remember that lyrical Arizona sunshine, and I remember the man that I never saw brave it.

[x, doll] RaindropMittens Photography

[where i’m from] Ryan Perlick I am from yelling, screaming, and waking up everyday at 3:00am to barking.

I am from sunshine in Cape Cod every summer to rainy days back home for the school year.

I am from a dirty room, a potato smelling coach, and an old dog that has been alive forever who just doesn’t care.

I am from a worn out basketball hoop, always being late to basketball games, and watching a little to much basketball.

I am from a brother who has fed every meal he has ever had to the dog, and a family who wonders why the dogs so fat.

I am from always eating at like 9 or 10pm, but always laughing it off in the end.

I am from a bed that is scratchy, moldy, and two feet two short.

I am from always going on vacation, and always showing up back home to a cold and for some reason wet house.

I am from lying in bed at 3am in a nice peaceful sleep, then realizing I have a packet of homework due tomorrow.

I am from home.

Samuel Edmundson

the [frag-nat] Albert Einstein once said, “As long as there are sovereign nations possessing great power, war is inevitable.” In the year 2107, war was nothing new. War had been waged many times before. With an ever increasing tension between two nations, the answer almost always escalated to war. In 2107 there was no exception. However, though war was nothing new, there was something new in war. People say that society wasn’t doomed when the first bomb hit D.C.; rather, they say society was doomed when the idea of nuclear technology was realized in the 1930’s.

Now the year is 2250 and the world is sparsely inhabited. The remaining people live lives of struggle and fight each day in the ruins of civilization just to survive. That is the case for everyone left; everyone except Tim and John. Tim, a middle aged man with a child aged mentality, travels the landscape with his brother John, an equally aged and dull witted human being. They were born into this post apocalyptic world together and spend most their time bickering with one another about petty things such as who was smarter or stronger. Being born into this landscape left them unknowing of their surroundings, leaving most things a mystery. However, now they found themselves in another ultimately pointless argument.

“Then you do better!” John yelled at Tim. Tim grabbed his now broken wrist watch out of Johns hands and held it in disbelief.

“How in the world did you get the hour hand to start acting like the minute hand!” Tim took his watch and walked off back towards the camp fire. John still stood there, not knowing what the big deal was.

The moonlight gleamed through the gaping hole in the roof of the ruined one story suburban house that Tim and John now called home.

They had a fire set up in the kitchen of the house that would make a simple lit match look impressive by comparison. Tim sat there on a wooden stool by the pathetic fire and fidgeted with the knobs on his golden wrist watch but no matter what he did, time would always just stand still; well, at least on his broken watch. John held Hams the Hamster in one hand and with the other hand was digging through cabinets trying to find any supplies he could muster. Cabinet after cabinet brought nothing but disappointment, and a look of sadness fell upon John’s scarred nose and open mouth. Just as all had seemed lost John opened the one last cabinet to see something of which he’d never seen before: a bowl.

“Hey Tim!” John said with a look of noticeable excitement on his face. Tim was so enveloped with fidgeting with his wrist watch that he gave no other response but a simple grunt. “Look what I found!” John made his way over to Tim with the new found object. John had placed Hams inside and set it down in front of them both. Tim didn’t bother to look up from his wrist watch and still sat fidgeting with the knobs. “What do ya reckon it is?” John said, now handling the object with Hams on his lap.

“Can we eat it?” Tim said, still concentrating on trying to fix his hopeless wrist watch.

“I don’t think so...” John replied.

“Well I’m starved, and up till now you’ve been keeping that hamster as a play mate when he could be dinner!” Tim said finally coming out of his state of watch fixing and reaching for Hams. As his hand got close to Hams face, Hams lunged out and gave his pointer finger one strong bite, and with a yell Tim sat back down holding his now bleeding finger.

“Probably wouldn’t even taste good anyway,” he said in a mocking mumble.

“Well if you don’t care about this thing, then I’m going to name it.

It’s... it’s... a fragnat!” John said, without even acknowledging the recent finger biting.

“Well wait a second, who put you in charge of naming it?” Tim said, grabbing the fragnat out of John’s hands. “What does it even do?” Tim said, eyeballing the ever confusing object.

“My bet is that it was a big fancy giant’s cup from before the war,” John said, trying to grab the bowl back from Tim. “That’s ridiculous.” Tim wrestled the bowl back from John.

“Well if you don’t like it, then you do better,” John said, crossing his arms.

“Fine! Let’s see here...” Tim handled the fragnat, then decidedly placed it on his balding head.

“It’s a helmet to cover up your baldness!” Tim said triumphantly, with his hands placed on his hips in an equally triumphant pose.

“You look stupid,” John said to Tim. “You are stupid!” Tim said back as his cheeks flushed an apple red.

John then got up and began to wrestle with Tim over the fragnat.

Agent Hams stood by, looking back and forth at the two as they shouted insult after insult at each other. “You dirty bagel nosed fragnat stealer,” John said, pushing at Tim’s face and reaching for the fragnat. “You two timey tidy widey fidey hamster lover,” Tim said, pushing John back on his rear end. John looked up and began to silently sob. Agent Hams went over to comfort him from the outrageous insult. Tim had a look of regretful reflection on his features and slowly took the fragnat off his head and held it in front of him.

He stared at it for a good minute or two, then spoke up to John who still sat there sobbing with Hams. “This fragnat isn’t a helmet or a giant’s cup, it’s a friendship destroyer!” Tim said, raising his voice at the last part as he took the fragnat and threw it against the ground. The fragnat shattered into a thousand tiny pieces that now scattered the floor. Tim extended his hand and helped John back onto his feet.

“Come on John, let’s go, this place has been nothing but trouble.”

John picked up Agent Hams and they set off into the night to find a new place to call home.

[i am from] Samuel Makoyed I am from a room I share with a brother I love I am from an iPad that I bought I am from a living room that is so comfy that I think it is made just for me I am from a 2 story house A swing set that’s been there since I was 4 Green grass that I try to cut correctly An evergreen tree that gives off too many pine needles A garden I helped plant A grape vine that my grandparents gave us I am from a basketball hoop my neighbors thought was theirs so they took it Trees I love to climb Friends around my neighborhood I am also from neighbors that blast music at night I am from my grandparents that I love to go to sleep overs with My parents who are always there for me My sister Yana who gets me stuff from her school My brother Mathew who I made my butler And my baby sister I always play with I am from deloie piano From za chto ya plochoo dengee From peeleesos dom I am from turkey with rice that only my grandma makes good From mashed potatoes that my mom makes so good, just thinking about it makes my mouth water From BBQ only my dad makes Plof that I help cook I am from football cards I collect Sharp sticks I make Emergency flash lights: 3 Stuff I took from my siblings I Am From a Loving Family

[glass bottles: an excerpt] The cerulean irises of her eyes seemed to be caught just slightly under the surface of a dulling grey haze. Looking past the fog, she noticed the little things. She took note in the idiosyncrasies around her, relishing in the various quirks of different beings.

Although outwardly observant, she was forced to be introspective. Her mind often ensnared her in emotions that she disliked showing.

Even so, she was more open than most people in her situation would be.

She lived in a one-story house that was of a pale yellow hue.

Yellow was her least favorite color, she did not understand the joy that its brightness brought to others. Alternatively, the putrid shade was her father’s favorite. She thought it was because that was the color of the paper labels on the beers that he so frequently drank. `Her mother did not stay in that yellow house. She stayed in a mental facility several blocks down the road. That might be the reason for all of the amber bottles strewn about the house. More bottles littered the living room table now that he had given up on visiting her. They made him numb, but they made him tired. Or rather, lazy.

She used to pick up after him, but the glass bottles had begun to accumulate too quickly for her to bother anymore. Instead, she cooked dinners for the both of them, but he rarely ate what he was served and if he did, he only showed his appreciation in a grunt and nod of approval after he deemed his first mouthful to be satisfactory. Never looking up from the luminescence of the television screen; never noticing that the face of his young daughter was beginning to carry the weight of his dejection.

He was too run-down to see that the girl holding him together was breaking apart herself. The dynamic within their house was beginning to match the exterior. Dilapidated and frail, they lived slowly, disjointed from one another, so as to not disrupt the delicate framework.

Sophie Lawrence

[milk] “I didn’t realize I was meeting a masterpiece.”

Jim’s date flushed, her sculpted, meticulously blushed cheeks turning an even brighter shade of pink. She shyly brushed a few locks of brilliant, light auburn hair away from her wide eyes. She was so, so cute. From the very luscious body tempered perfectly at her hips to the dainty lavender heels which, despite their great length, did little to increase their wearer’s height.

Jim reached out and took her small hands. They fit like kitten’s paws in his large, strong fingers—smooth and petite and warm. Hopefully she didn’t mind the callouses of his palm. Yesterday, his personal training session had been a long, exhausting battle rope routine. It helped to beat out his stress and exasperation at all the idiots who called him all day long at his job’s IT department. He took great pride in the balance he kept between his love of computers and electronics and also his physical fitness.

Christine, a sweet name for an exceedingly beautiful girl, certainly didn’t seem to mind his hand holding. She smiled widely, and her cheeks turned an even more radiant red.

“I guess I can tell my friends I’ve touched a god now,” she said sheepishly.

“Oh, stop,” Jim laughed, very much hoping she wouldn’t. “You’re the angel.”

“No, you are,” Christine said, a little more boldly now.

“No, you are,” Jim crooned.

“You are!”

“You are.”

“You are!”

“You are!”

Jim couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He began to lean forward, eyes fixed on Christine’s lips as they opened to dispute him. Christine looked surprised for a moment, the words caught in her throat, and then she began to lean forward as well. His heart began beating a faster pace in his chest as her glossy lips began to pucker. He could smell her perfume, they were so close. It smelled like lavender.

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

Jim jerked away from Christine’s approaching face, regretting it the

instant he did so. She kept leaning in, and almost lost her balance. She started to fall forward, and had to rip her hands out of his to slam them against the table. A curtain of timidity fell back over her face and she quickly averted her glowing cheeks.

Irked, Jim practically lunged for her little hands before she could slide them into her lap. He managed to catch them, and he pulled them close again to his. He tried to ignore the waiter who had materialized beside their table, and gave Christine’s hands a squeeze. She peeked out of the corner of her eyes, and then a little smile with a touch of coyness turned her glossy lips again.

“No thanks,” Jim said without giving his waiter so much as a glance.

He kept his eyes firmly on Christine’s, admiring their pale beryl tones. They were so wide—he could feel himself drowning in their depths...

“How about some drinks, then?”

Jim’s enchanted expression stiffened a little. “A milk will do me fine, thank you.”

Christine beamed.

“Oh, I love men who know what’s healthy for them,” Jim waggled an eyebrow and stroked her palm with his fingertip. “Gotta keep these bones strong, baby.”

“Well, we’ve got a great selection of milks to choose from. I can get you soy, rice, almond, hemp, lactose-free, cashew…”

Jim and Christine forgot about each other. They started staring at the waiter, who turned out to be the most acne-riddled teenager Jim had ever seen. Even his mouth had a gibbous, threatening zit clinging to his flapping lips that made it almost impossible not to stare at. However, the words that were coming from his mouth were so unusual that both Jim and Christine forgot about his appearance. It was like a hurricane was charging out of his mouth. “…coconut, oat, full cream, hazelnut, sunflower, goat’s, cream, fortified, flavored, organic—“ “Sunflower milk?” Christine stuttered.

“Lactose free milk?” Jim scoffed.

“All of our non-dairy milks really are delicious, ma’am,” the teenager exclaimed with a beaming smile. “We have nut based, seed based, so--” “Isn’t the whole point of milk to be dairy?’ Jim grumbled. He instantly wished he hadn’t. Better to store the question for a later Google when he didn’t have a wonderful lady across from him. Unfortunately, though, the waiter was only too eager to answer. In fact, he was down right passionate.

“Milk isn’t limited by lactose, or dairy! We’ve got milk for all to enjoy! It’s practically the same, anyhow. Our lactose comes in fat-free, 1%, 2%, whole, half and half--” “I get it!” Jim snarled. Christine shrunk a little bit at the anger and frustration clipping his speech, but Jim didn’t notice. What did it take to have a little time with a girl? There were few that were as kind and insightful as her. She knew how to recognize a real man when she saw one. This teenager and his asinine interest in milk was ruining his date.

“Can I just have some regular milk?” Jim asked. “You know, like from a cow?” He looked back towards Christine, trying to hide his rapidly stripped nerves beneath a wide, charming smile.

The one Christine returned him with was equally unenthusiastic.

“I just want milk. Please. Just milk.”

The teenager looked rather confused. For a moment, he just stared at Jim with a blank expression, his mouth pursed tightly so that the zit stood out large and red against his white lips. Then his face lit up with recognition.

“Oh! You mean raw milk!”

“Yes, yes!” Jim exclaimed. He felt on the verge of tears, he was so happy. “From a cow. Please.”

“Absolutely sir! Stupendous choice. Would you like that from bST treated cow, pasteurized milk, free-range—” Jim was done. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating. “I’ll just take water,” he gasped.

“Oh. Ok. Would you like mineral water, purified, sparkly…?”

Jim slammed his head on the table.

Tina Starks

[the v e g e t e r i a n ’s crux] My friend, she was the sweetest thing With every step, her stride a spring To me she was the kindest nurturer My friend, she was a murderer.

My friend, she wouldn’t hurt a fly, (Although she couldn’t if she’d tried)-Her glasses hid quite awful eyes, My friend, she was a murderer So, how, you ask Can such character endureA daily killer, But in manner demure?

Well, the reason I can tell you now Is the sweet barbarian, Of whom I once counted as my friend Is in reality a vegetarian Seek pity to any poor plant Which finds itself along her path For their demise is sure to follow As her victim is gleefully devoured Poor broccoli with flowered cap To her is a delicious snack, While bananas cringe in golden cloaks Fearing death from her approach The grapes all huddle Side to side Praying neighbors will provide Distraction so that they can hide From my friend, the vegetarian

Tina Starks

It broke my heart when first I saw A victim fall within her maw-An infant carrot barely sprout Perished sin a moment’s doubt My knees near buckled ‘pon the crack From that carrot’s fragile back As fierce her teeth cleaved through its spine As if the act were but benign She smiled, happy, satisfied Hunger shortly pacified And with a smile cloaking terror I hastily fled from there So fear those fingers, so refined For it’s with these that she will dine And remember that the hand bequest Savagely scalps sweet orange’s crest And when you offer her your trust— Dare to give confidence in killer’s lust— Just know that soon you’ll see the truth In the massacre of flora’s youth By my friend, the vegetarian

[ b o l d ] Truly As a child, I was wild.

I ran around, wreaking havoc on the playground.

Until my parents put me to bed, That is when I read.

The pages of my books seemed to come alive, I began to thrive.

The battered books, their alluring hooks.

I was not wild, I did not feel like a child.

I strained my eyes, I learned to read in the dark skies.

Soon the checklist of books I’d read, Had soared above my head.

Half the books were falling apart, To me they seemed works of art.

Though as a child, I was wild.

I still yearned, For the pages left unturned.

My story is still untold, It’s a good thing I am bold.

[ U n t i t l e d ] Mud-caked mountains of cans and bottles rested beneath her worn shoes, decorated with holes and hollows.

She folded down, reaching for a browned bottle.

Inside swam a leaden liquid, slowly sloshing.

Her five fingers poked out of a pair of hand gloves too many sizes too big.

An ecumene of dirt hid under each of her fingernails.

The dry cracks in her coffee-colored skin were filled with layer upon layer of dirt and grime, permanently stained.

Fingernails forever chipped and broken.

Face forever wrinkled and eyes forever sunk.

When she looked down she saw a pile of snow, as soft as a warm towel and as white as powdered sugar.

When she reached down, she told herself it felt good on her old knees.

She wasn’t picking trash, she was bending down to pick flowers in a field.

When she glanced down she saw a beautiful pair of hands.

Clean, soft, and the color of warm hazelnut. Smooth skin and polished nails.

Face new and eyes bright.

Anonymous

[ U n t i t l e d ] I made a mistake and lost you, I said some things I shouldn’t have, We weren’t even together In the romantic sense But I needed you, I still need you Though you’re no longer there I see you Every Day And it kills me That you hate me And I don’t know why Because, you see, I need you Before you came into my life I was miserable You set me on track, Made me better, And this year, god, this year, I have veered and crashed and am so far off the rails I can’t make it without you, I just can’t And I know you’ll never know this And if you do you won’t care but Please, please Set me on track and steady me once more

Anonymous

places

[the burbs 2: conundrum of the mislaid pets]

Abbi Doddridge

The last story left off with a bit of a cliff hanger, wouldn’t you agree?

But I can’t give away the end just yet, that would be far too boring. That’s why I’m back to tell you the story of the same girl, the same neighborhood, on a typical sunny summer day.

And here she is now walking down the sidewalk, her dog’s leash wrapped around her hand. The dog prances along in front of her, his tail gently wagging with his movements. She sighs, shaking her head at the dog before looping around the corner of the neighborhood, finding herself face to face with the house that used to belong to ‘The Burbs’.

An eerie feeling creeps up her spine as she stares at the bright yet terrifying looming stature of the tangerine house. Months ago she had found herself inside with a blade to her neck and on the edge of death, but luckily the deranged family was caught and were spending the rest of their lives in prison. The girl’s hair has grown back from when it was brutally taken off her head, but only to her chin.

“Come on boy, we shouldn’t be hanging out around here,” she mutters to the dog before petting the top of his head.

Just as she is about to leave, she notices something quite odd. The for sale sign was gone from the front yard of the house. The girl frowns, peeking inside the front window out of curiosity. Not in a stalker-like way though it’s just as if she’s walking by.

“You know, curiosity killed the cat.”

With a shocked shriek, the girl turns around to find a boy around seventeen, the same age as her, standing there with an egotistical smirk. Her dog cowers in fear hiding behind the girl’s legs as she stares at the boy with wide eyes. He merely chuckles before extending his hand to her.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you? My name’s Brad. My family just moved in a few days ago, and I happened to notice you staring...” the boy trails off awkwardly, putting his hand down as the girl continued to look at him.

“Oh, um, well hi. I didn’t mean to stare, this house just brings back memories.” The girl casually replies, acting as if her actions weren’t at all odd.

“Good ones I hope, no serial killers right?” The boy chuckles at his very ironic joke.

Oh, if only he knew.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, you caught me off guard,” the girl quickly spits out

while a light blush covers her cheeks.

He simply shrugs it off and holds out a plate towards her. Oh, she hadn’t noticed that before. It was a plate of tarts, the kind with the golden flaky crust and a red raspberry center.

“For your family, to show our appreciation for welcoming us into the neighborhood.” He says while handing her the plate. She mutters a quick thank you as she grabs hold of the plate. Her eyes scanning the contents for anything suspicious...like human hair.

What? After eating a pie made of teenage girls, you would think she would have the right to question everything!

He stares at her expectantly, which only results in her becoming more nervous under his penetrating gaze. It was as if he was studying every little aspect of her. Without thinking, she cracks under pressure and says a quick goodbye before heading off in the opposite direction towards her house.

The boy watches her leave, the girl’s short legs seeming to walk at an inhuman speed. Her dog following quickly behind, its head turning to look back every once in a while. The boy shakes his head with a soft smile before muttering a soft, “bye,” to himself as he walks back into his house.

Cautiously turning her head, the girl is relieved to find that the boy isn’t watching her anymore. It may have just been the house, but she has a very odd feeling about him. Although she was a little rude to him, he just moved in after all, who was she to judge? xxx The next morning, a rapid knocking was heard at the front door.

The girl makes her way downstairs just in time to find her mom opening the door to reveal their neighbor lady. The old woman has a panicked look in her old aging eyes, and her hands are shaking uncontrollably.

As the girl continues to stand and listen from the stairway, she hears that their neighbor’s cat had gone missing last night, and hasn’t been seen all morning. The girl’s mom reassures their neighbor that they would keep an eye out for the cat, but they all know the cat was probably stuck in the couch again. After all, that was the case the last three times.

Closing the door, her mother calls out to her, “Sweetheart, can you take some cookies over to the new neighbors? Oh, and thank them for the delicious tarts!”

She willingly obliges, knowing she didn’t really have a choice, and puts a dozen cookies on a paper plate. The girl says goodbye to her mom before making her way down the street towards ‘The Burbs’ hou---Maybe it’s time to get rid of that nickname.

As she walks past another house, she finds a neighbor crying on his porch steps.

“What’s wrong?” she questions while approaching the older man.

He simply waves a flyer in her direction, his other hand covering his tearful eyes. The girl grabs the flyer reading the words, “Missing dogs, please call if found.” Her eyebrows furrow in confusion as she looks at the picture of the two beagles. How is it that three pets have gone missing?

She gives the man an apology before giving back the flyer and continuing down to the house. The girl passes by the mailbox, which has three missing pet flyers on it: the two beagles, another cat, and a bunny. That was odd...

Shaking off the situation, she approaches the front door of the boy’s house, taking in a deep breath before gently knocking on the door. It soon opens to reveal a beautiful middle aged women with an apron on.

“Our family wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, and thank you for the delicious tarts your son gave us yesterday,” the girl says while handing her the plate of cookies.

“Oh, why thank you!” the lady replies with an odd accent. “That’s so sweet, it’s nice to finally meet some people after moving here from Ethiopia.”

“That’s cool, we’re learning about Ethiopia in school. What area are you from?” the girl questions, suddenly interested in her new neighbors.

“The Ethiopian part.”

With that the door is closed, leaving the girl confused and somewhat irritated. The Ethiopian part? What does that even mean?

Just as she is about to walk away, she hears a strange sound coming from afar. She quickly turns her head towards the house once again only to find it hauntingly strange as normal. So she keeps walking until she’s on the sidewalk in front of the house.

“You okay?”

The girl yelps at the sudden voice before turning around to find the boy from yesterday. He was smirking at her reaction to his simple question as she struggles to catch her breath.

“I was, I just thought I heard a noise,” she jokes with a soft smile.

That’s when it happens again. A bark? She’s not entirely sure, but that noise almost sounds like a dog bark. Her eyes narrow in confusion as she looks back at the house once more. The sound comes a bit louder from the area behind the house.

“Oh I’m sure it’s nothing. Anyways, I was about to bring you this--” he pauses to hand her a pure white bone, “--for your dog.”

“Thank you, that’s really nice, do you have a dog too?” the girl questions, peering over his shoulder and towards the side of the house.

“Uh no...I should probably get going. I still have lots to unpack, I’ll see you around though?” he questions, raising his eyebrows as he slowly backs away.

“Yeah, definitely, bye!” She waves to him until he is back inside that awful house.

Her smile quickly fades as she narrows her eyes at the side of the house once again, a small whimper resounding throughout the air. She hesitates, her eyes shifting from the house to the way back home.

The girl carefully weighs her options before deciding it was better to be safe than sorry... she’s going to scout out their backyard. What’s the worst that could happen? She could get kidnapped, fed a human pie, and almost killed...again.

With a small shrug, she quickly sneaks into the backyard through the gap next to the house. As she peers her head around the corner, she hears that high pitch bark once again, and this time she could tell exactly where it was coming from.

“We meet again,” she mutters as her eyes fall upon the pile of rocks in the backyard. With a quick glance to make sure no one is in the downstairs level of the house, she runs to the pile of rocks.

Knowing exactly where the trap door is, she struggles as she pulls away the heavy rocks. Her blisters that had finally healed to scars are torn open like the first time, and her eyebrows furrow in concentration as sweat drips down her forehead. After what feels like hours, she finally sees the handle of the door. Ripping it open, the sunlight outside illuminates the dark and eerie basement. The stench of animals intoxicates the air as pairs and pairs of innocent eyes stare up at her.

They’re all trapped together inside a wire caged area, and next to them is a pile of bones. An overwhelming sensation of deja vu comes over the girl as she looks upon the scene. She has to clench a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming at the sight. That’s where all the pets went!

Before she could even think about running to get help, someone shoves her from behind. She topples forward into the dark abyss, landing right in the center of the animal pen. As she glares up into the light to see who had pushed her, she finds herself looking into the eyes of the mother who had opened the door. In her hands she holds a tray of tarts.

With the most horrifying smile the girl has ever seen, the mom utters the single word. “Tarts?� xxx Well, with that, I hope to see you all tuned in next year for Fall Lit Mag 2017 to see what happens next!

[the coffin ship] Out of one grave, and straight into another. That’s what they were all whispering, that first day. Five-hundred of us, crammed into our ship, the Barc Larc. Mammy and Da said, “Don’t worry about it. Us three, we stick together and it’s gonna be ok.”

That first day, I chose not to listen to the whispers surrounding us. I should have.

It started with a reeling in the head. Without a care in the world, the captain wrote it off. “Seasickness. You’ll get over it.”

The next day Mammy said she thought her head was gonna burst.

Excruciating pain swelled up her bones as yellow sores crept up her skin.

Even stacked body to body, the other passengers found space to get away from my family.

I knew what was about to happen. Out of one grave, and straight to the next, right? My momma died, three days into the journey and the captain made us throw her body overboard.

I swear I told him not to.

“Me and my family, we stick together, you hear me? Everything will be ok, we just gotta stick together.” But the captain didn’t listen. He threw her body into the raging water and he threw a little of my hope in right along with her.

Passenger after passenger dropped dead over the next week. The fish in the ocean must of drowned a little bit, at the sight of all those bodies.

Eventually, the disease slowed down. Not before it took the life of a hundred people, and not before it took the life of my Da, but it wobbled to a stop.

On that ship, with no food and no space and no family, I wasn’t sure how I could keep going. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. Sometimes when the moon came out and everyone else was asleep, I mumbled a prayer.

“Please God. I miss my parents. I miss Ireland, I miss my school, I miss that teacher I hated, I miss being starving and complaining to Mammy about it. I miss my old life. If another disease comes, I don’t want to live

through it. Can you give me that one favor?”

And then I would go back to sleep, waiting for the sun to rise again.

One particular morning, I woke up before everyone else. Like always, I stared out at the endless horizon. A black dot came into view. It grew larger and larger, and suddenly I could make out a port far, far away.

“Wake up! Wake up, everyone! We’re there, we made it!”

The people grumbled at first, not realizing what was happening. But then they looked outwards, following my gaze and seeing what I saw. For the first time in weeks, I praised God. When we docked at the port, not all of us got to leave the ship.

This trip began with five-hundred people. Along the way, 200 died, and now the man from Canada says he can only take fifty.

“We’re sorry.” The man who decided each of our fates said.

“We’re sorry, but there’s no space. Try America.” After spending weeks at sea on the cramped little boat, I couldn’t imagine how a place as giant as Canada had no space.

But fifty people were chosen, and I was one of them. The picture of the boat leaving the dock will always be etched in my mind. After the boat had left, many people continued to stare, hoping for one more glimpse of the people sent to their deaths. But I turned away, looking at the vastness of Canada. Looking at my new home.

Allie Mikalatos

[alone] Amy S.

I see the trees sway in the wind, yet I hear nothing in the cold shell that has formed around me Around me I see people with smiles on their face, yet nobody knows if they are fake My heart has sunk and I believe it has turned black without rescue; once you show yourself you can’t go back Alone is what I am in this cold dark winter day without a friend or face in sight Low beneath the food chain in school, in life, call it what you must.

On everyday I am left behind from groups, from friends, from faces in past No olive branch has been extended, no kind words towards me through the sharp and harsh days Everyone has forgotten me, yet I don’t show my face. The part of me I show them is the one they want to see so I am alone

[ a s s e e n o n t . v. ] She sat there, slack, sinking into the cushions of her tattered 70’s avocado green couch. Mindlessly, she was staring into the eyes of another television personality on the screen.

The room looked blue in the dark because of the luminescent light radiating from the staticky television box that sat on a scruffy beige rug. The porous carpet was coffee stained and showed signs of wear and tear from sharp kitty claws that hacked away at the synthetic fibers.

The mindless woman coughed and tasted her last cigarette in the back of her throat. Her wrinkled hand came up to scratch away at an itch on her cheek and when she laid it back down it landed in a pile of cat fur and dander. It didn’t seem to bother her; she didn’t even curl her mouth into an expression of disgust, she only snorted and sneezed and then went blank once again.

Despite her plain and utterly wrinkled appearance, her mind was buzzing. She pulled her attention away from the handsome man who was showcasing a new ladder on the hour-long infomercial to look around at her lovely collection.

Shiny colorful cardboard boxes surrounded her slippered feet and yellow coffee table. How they glistened so beautifully from the light of the screen! The handsome young man was there too! He so elegantly showcased the newest As Seen On TV product of their time. It was a shiny zip-up hazmat suit for taking a walk outside. It protected pedestrians from the toxic waste littering the air and the streets. When they showed the test video, the young handsome man zipped himself up and went for a stroll. When he removed the suit he was still breathing.

“Not everyone can breathe you know.” The handsome man had flashed a smile when he said this. His eyes had drifted and stared directly into that of the viewers.

She wasn’t sure when she’d be walking outside next, but her mind stopped buzzing for a moment when she dialed the 1-800 number that flashed across her face. When the buzzing ceased, she took it as a sign that it was morally good for her to pay $19.99 for a shiny zebra hazmat suit.

She sighed longingly as the memory replayed in her mind.

“What a lovely man he is,” she said out loud, stroking her silvery one-legged cat who had slipped under her arm and into her lap, “that handsome TV fellow”.

The glass of her sliding back door was smudged with fingerprints from her days spent dragging her hands across it and staring into the constant green fog that filled the air. It wasn’t as if she wanted to leave the handsome man she watched in her sitting room. She never really intended to use that hazmat suit either; she just stared when the television turned off as it does every night at midnight leaving her with nothing to do. Sleeping wasn’t an option, but staring was so it would have to do.

Tonight she would stare at her collection whether the TV was on or not. The infomercial about the hottest step ladder had ended when she had let her mind wander.

“Stupid old gal,” she chastised herself for missing it! She really liked that ladder!

The handsome man said she would enjoy it and therefore he must be right.

The program playing now was one she had seen before. It was a young blonde lady advertising a special stamp for painting one’s nails. She found no use in the product so she looked out across the sea of boxes that she was so proud to call her own once more—the boxes that entered her room when she was staring out at the green fog that clouded her windows.

Reminiscing only dulled the buzz, but it was better than hearing it at full volume. The television buzzed, her head buzzed, something outside buzzed, and one of her trinkets buzzed when the silvery cat brushed up against its box. This caused the plastic musical yo-yo she had ordered last month to make beeping and whirring sounds in its box. The cat skittered away, frightened.

There was a tapping sound that followed the skittering and it masked the buzz because when she looked up the handsome man stood where the blonde woman once did. He tapped the glass and his eyes drifted to hers.

“Consumers should be emptying their wallets as all good consumers do.”

This was followed by a blinding white smile and the television shut off as the two hands on the clock aligned themselves under the 12.

It was midnight and the woman found herself standing, lighting a cigarette from her robe pocket, and dragging her hand across the window. The smoke filled her sitting room and it mirrored the air outside. Only, outside fog was a putrid olive color and the smoke she breathed through her nose was a dull cloudy gray.

“The air is toxic no matter where you go,” she thought and dragged her hand down the glass.

“Maybe that handsome man has something to fix that too.”

Andy Winner

Morning light filters through sleepy eyelashes, pressed tight against a neck as if it is the only form of p r o t e c t i o n t h e y w i l l e v e r n e e d / / Yo u & I communicate through the words left on the tips of our tongues, to come out only when they collide // Coffee flavored lips left stains where they kissed my skin last night, and fingertips illustrate where they are yet to explore.

[communication] anna g

[today]

Warm as the sun, together our hearts will fill holes of darkness with love.

Smile, nod, wave, say “hello”.

Greet your fellow people with kindness.

Today is a great day to start something wonderful.

Ash

[where the grass grows] I sit upon a grassy hill and beside me lies my best friend, Caramel. She has long, shaggy auburn hair, warm brown eyes, and a toothy grin with her tongue lolled out. She’s my two year old dog, not much of a puppy, but just as energetic as one.

Standing, I throw the tennis ball that sat waiting in my palm.

Off she goes, running to catch the neon green orb flying through the air. With one giant leap she’s caught it in her mouth.

Sprinting back towards me, she gives me a big, green and white smile. While I’m bent down to take the ball back that she laid down for me, Caramel tackles me to the ground, giving me big sloppy kisses. Laughing, I try to get up, only for her to push me down again. Caramel, having decided I would stay there, lays on my stomach, unperturbed by my prods and groans.

Looking around for any means of escape, I find the tennis ball lying among freshly cut grass. Grabbing it, I toss it away from myself, hoping that Caramel would run after it. That’s not what happens. She continues to sit. And sit. And sit.

After maybe three minutes, although it had felt like hours, she moves off of me to sit by my side. I lean up from my

spot on the floor to look Caramel in the eyes, giving her a fake frown, before bursting into giggles. My laughter excites her and I once again find her jumping at me, although this time we began to roll down hill.

Thump.

I hit the ground, thinking in the back of my head that it didn’t hurt as much as it should have, before opening my eyes to see the grass my face was pressed against.

Hearing laughter beside me I sit up quickly, only to relax after spotting the faces of my other friends who, unlike my dog Caramel, are humans. One of them extends a hand to me to help me up, which I grab only to pull them down to me, causing them to fall. The rest decide to flop down on the soft grass too, as their bursts of laughter steal the strength their legs needed to hold their weight.

This is how we spend the rest of the sunny Saturday, laughing and goofing off, the bright green grass in which we rest on reflecting our happiness.

These are the times I’m going to look back on when I’m older. This is what I want to remember, laughing and having fun. It’ll remind me how much fun you can have while the grass grows.

Ashley Jones

in ninth grade, the power of dibs was all ruling, dibs failed. young love (with someone else) prevailed.

[the pages aren’t crisp anymore]

in tenth grade, I fell in love with a love story that I wouldn’t let myself have: Setting fire to the storybook.

But here, the steed was a bike And he was just a kid. in eleventh grade, I felt it all superficially and cried over boys that would amount to nothing but faded memories. in twelfth grade, we talked ‘might haves’ and looked in mirrors and knew from each other’s eyes that “sorry” wasn’t a word deep enough.

Betsy Hanrahan

Daniel Conway

[lateral]

Emanuel Gales

[timberline]

she rushes forward, greeted by applause from joyous waves, creating a confetti of minuscule sand bits. the sound fades to a shadow in comparison to laughter and frigid shrieks. she inches into the fated sensation. ocean creeps on her unsuspecting toes, shattering nerves and rippling around foreign objects. her eyelids close, capturing grains of sand, ending their briny journey. salty wind dances on her tongue, tangoing with the longing for a chilly frappuccino. slowly her eyes flutter open, revealing brush strokes of clouds embraced by a sapphire sky, swaying tourists in bright eyed tide pools, and rows of shops selling shanty collectibles. a smile joins her features as she allows the seaweed stained water to wash over her, creating symmetry with the nostalgic comfort of home. k.c.m.

Kailee Cyanne

[cannon beach//08.28.16]

[adrift]

The street lamps shone above, Lighting the rain-covered town, No one to be seen for miles around, I was alone as the small white dove, Alone as the heavenly sign of love, My face marked with a permanent frown, For in my land of sorrows I will drown, Pulled down by the cruel world I am a part of.

For years, I have been in this boat, Sailing across the turning waves, Barely keeping afloat, Looking for someone who saves, Someone who could save me from the sob trapped in my throat, Before I end up among the forest of graves.

Kristina Van Houten

[the squirrel] Lou

The trees are my home My tall and lovely home It’s always there and ready to care, especially when the winters are cold But then the men came Men with tools of destruction in their hands With their minds only thinking the worst of plans They wanted to take my home The one which I have grown And without hesitation they chopped it down, and stole it for their own Now I have no home

[sunset on the canal] Maggie Hildreth

[today] Maggie Hildreth

Today is November 29, 2016. Maybe it’s just a normal day. You go to school at eight, get home at four, and make yourself a snack. Maybe you go to soccer practice, or youth group, or flute lessons.

But maybe it’s your mom’s birthday, or the day your grandpa died three years ago. Today is different for everyone. And what if today is you and your future spouse’s marriage anniversary. In twelve years to this day, you could be out celebrating the wonderful person who you are happy to call your husband or wife. It could be the day your first child is born.

We always seem to take these days for granted, but just remember you will never get this moment back. Time is a precious gift. Use it wisely.

[untitled]

Micky McCafferty

The water rose, ensnaring my body, paralyzing me It flooded my nostrils, igniting my throat with salt My lungs grew dense as the water passed my eyes, hazing my vision and filtering in a false sense of quiescence But it kept ascending Engulfing the world and swallowing my fellow man Until sunlight could just barely spear through the depths above my head The last of my breath gave way The bubbles of my air shimmer in the golden rays of sun As they rise, I descend I wake, feasting on the salt kissed air in large inelegant gasps My body remains motionless from the aching of lungs and limbs But I feel a peculiar tickle on my arm With great strain and effort I tilt my head My eyes still shuttering, capture glimpses of a mass of long brown hair containing waves reminiscent of those that just spat me out With the strength I possess I regain control of my sight and follow the trail of hair back to its origin Only to be met with an inscrutable gaze set forth from eyes with the color and vehemency of a typhoon

[hot roof]

Mish

After standing on the hot part of the roof under the sun for a long time, you realize how much of your being is actually inside of you. Up here in the heat, the wind is like a soft friend with a cool touch. I almost missed her when she left. Back then I didn’t know that you could drown in the sky. Get so hypnotized by the feeling of freedom and comfort that you forget to breathe. You can suffocate yourself in the beauty up there. I didn’t know that then. Not till I felt myself falling, rolling, spinning wildly back to the Earth. The same Earth that I got as far away from as I could in the attempt to understand her better. The hot part of the roof tore my skin on the way down. I could see the red that would normally cause me to cry out like the small child I once allowed myself to be. The child was now buried in the ground beneath the cement and was pulling me furiously from the whispering sky. I saw myself fall, but heard no noise; complete silence in the swirling hysteria that I didn’t know was up there. I almost felt happy, like the calm sort of happiness that comes with safety. She didn’t let me touch the Earth. Instead I cascaded past my buried childhood and I just kept falling. Falling forever. Too long was I waiting to feel the flat embrace of concrete. The tension in my body made my mind go weak. Weaker and fainter I felt until I finally knew the nostalgia of salty water around me. I hit the bottom of the ocean. The sharp rocks scraped my elbows and knees as I floated with no control of my weighted limbs. I still can’t breathe. I remember hating that feeling as a kid. But not now; now it’s like I am keeping my breath preciously inside my lungs until the very last moment when they steal it away along with my restless freedom. It feels like a rebellion, like something I can call my own. When you have no control over anything, not even the body you live in, it can feel good to know you hold your last breath inside you. The dark of the bottom of the ocean feels perfect when it kisses my cheeks and lashes. My glazed eyes stay open to see nothing in the darkness but the ghostly lines that live underneath all the things we see, just sitting on our eyes like a secret message, one only you get when you go to sleep. Only for you. And no one else. That could be selfish; maybe I should give you my eyes for a day and I could take yours to see the world like you do—all your little ghost lines in the dark. But only if you find me. I’m still sinking in this bitter ink. My clothes are a refuge for the air I stole from you. Slowly floating up and around me, abandoning this sunken battle ship with no remorse. All the red, the red that the roof caused when it caught me, curls around my leg. The hot strings of life signing away my fate, knitting me closer to the depths. Can you find me here? I’m lost I think, and all I have are my ghosts to show me the way home. I’ll try to meet you at the gate, near the hot summer roof where I saw you last. You remember the gate don’t you? The one where you cut my wings off.

[ l i f e ’s b e t t e r w i t h t r e e s ] r.w.

When in the heart of a forest, Alongside the sea, Upon a mountain peak, In the very midst of nature Do you feel a sense of the sacred?

We are citizens of a celestial space, Yet we have lost our citizenship of this planet We have obtained the strength to modify life, To distort the earth itself and jeopardize the future Of each and every species, without exception, including our own Thus, we risk compromising our fragile foothold in the cosmos Humans must be willing to be a part of nature, Rather than being superior to it We are simply a limb of the universe We are at rest in nature and within our mortal vessels This is our place, it is where we belong And this, is where we must remain

[dusted]

Raindrop Mittens Photography

White Cliffs of Dover thou white cliffs I see,

[white cliffs of dover]

For miles I come and what is there for me, A blue bird for peace flys over the sea and a dove for feelings of love, The White Cliffs of Dover My love of the land and my love of the sea In loving memory of Elsa Laurenza, This lovely green anole will forever hold a place in our hearts

Rowan Laurenza

[path]

Ryan Bittner

[sentient]

Ryan Bittner

[the odd creatures]

Sam McMann

In these woods I meditate, to make the rough chaotic sea of my mind placid and without thought. However, as of late something has been disturbing these woods. It makes gouges in the trees, scares away the animals, steals trees, and worst of all, it kills for sport! It is not even aware of the harm it causes. But most of all, I’m shocked to see how much it takes. Yet at the end of its life, it doesn’t go back to the earth. It instead is put into a box and put into the earth. But the madness goes on—these odd creatures take oddly shaped things and dig holes into the earth and sometimes bring back discolored stones. I don’t know what they really are, but I think they call themselves humans.

[pendant: a reversible poem] I choose the cage Never will it be that I should fly unencumbered The cage with a broken door I would leave But I sit imprisoned Closed to the rest of the world Breathing in stale air I feel the strain on my damaged body Clipped wings yearn Never seeing freedom Under the azure sky that beckons me I reside in bleak confinement Never will it be that I choose the bird

Sophie Lawrence

and you wish that you could sit and hear the wind as it brushes past your ears with soothing pale blue light and lungs so satisfied. and you long to look out clean windows and watch the sea lap itself a rhapsody in blue a romance in indigo hues. and you hope that some hazed pink day your soft skin won’t stick to the white plastic chairs and you will listen to the sparrow’s song that bleeds through the sycamore tree and into your bright eyes. but this is not the world you wake into. and all the same, it is.

[the wind, the birds, & the sea] anonymous

your honey hair can only grow for so long before it begins to knot at the ends like the knots behind your brain which seep pain like tar through the folds in your flesh.

[i like this]

TJ

I remember the way the sunlight would gleam off your sweet orange hair, Molten bronze wisping about in strands of well brushed silk.

You were laughing, rocking in and out of that blinding light, the face you made coming in and out of shadow.

Sitting there, huddled and cuddled in that inbetween of dark and sun, I’ve got my arms around you to say, ‘I like this’, And your arms are around me, saying ‘Me too.’

things

[a pencil]

Sharpened to a point, A golden yellow beauty, The tip black as pitch, A small simple thing, It seems to attract paper, Its tip scratching it, First a line and loop, Then words of meaning appear, Beautiful in shape, Worlds rise and fall, On the paper’s wrinkled face, People die and love, A small simple thing, A golden yellow beauty, Glowing in the sun, Upon a table, White flowers all around it, Giving emotion

Alex Goff

Dear Mrs. Rotherham

[a treatise on mental and physical time] To begin with, let us establish the fact that there are two types of time, the first of which is universal time. This is time such as the half life of uranium, relative time by Einstein, which, unlike mental time, relates to exterior speed, and how long a meat suit strung on pieces of calcium can last before complete decay. This is the first of the two; the second one, which shall be this articles focus, I will call mental time.

This mental time is much more complicated than universal time, for it revolves around its perception. Take, for instance, the last five days of a class before summer vacation, verses the first five days of summer vacation after school. While universally the same time, mentally they are far different. The reason for this, as said before, is that mental time is the perception of universal time, which can be very different.

In option one, the human brain is agonizingly waiting for freedom of two whole months, also known as summer break, and thus there is less happy stuff floating in the brain. Happiness causes you to relax, so you think less of time and in general, and thus time passes quickly due to the slowing of your brain, such as in option two. However in option one, given how there is less happy stuff, the mind is less relaxed, with more jumbled thoughts and responses, as well as longing. These forms of anxiety which keeps you from relaxing, making each second seem like an eternity, given how your mind has more thoughts per second. Essentially you mentally are going faster than when relaxed and thus, mental time.

Extreme cases of this are when your asleep, and have no mental function, and bam!, instant breakfast. On the flip side, say you’re about to die.

In your mind you evaluate yourself and all you have ever done, and you experience every possible unit of time, because you are thinking.

In conclusion, mental time is caused by the relaxation of the brain, dependent upon the amount of happiness. To truly prove this theory though,I will need more data. However, I have high hopes. I hope that you, Mrs. Rotherham, as a woman of science, will help me by making summer break last for six months, so I can experience the effects of mental time. Please, don’t stand in the way of scientific progress, and give me the tiny, miniscule amount of help I require. Thank you in advance.

Your faithful scientist,

Alex Goff

[ h e l l o ]

Alexus Taylor

My eyes opened to the sight of nothing.

Thick darkness shrouded the area for as far, or as short, as I could see. I was unsure how long I had been out; could be seconds, hell, even days or weeks.

As feeling crawled down my spine, and into my legs, I began to realize that I was contained. Whatever I was in was damp, slightly muggy, and it sagged under my weight.

I began to become aware of my whole body again. Stuck in fetal position, I attempted to get up, resulting in a mouthful of damp cloth. I tried again, instead trying to get upright on my knees. This worked, the cloth dampening my bare legs.

I pressed my hand against the smooth edges around me, condensation dripping. I pushed harder, in a vain attempt to free myself from this encasement. I continued to press harder, silently praying to whoever or whatever would listen.

The bag grew hotter and hotter as sweat began to drip off of me.

A light turned on, blinding my already adjusted eyes. Clicks of heels on stone echoed around me.

I balanced on my knees, carefully placing my hands on the surface of the bag. I suddenly became self-conscious, my hair was plastered to my scalp and back. There was a hint of body odor now wafting around the bag.

The footsteps grew louder and stopped. I balanced, silent. I could hear breathing coming from outside of my confinement. My heart began to speed, as I realized that they were out there, right outside of this bag. I could see their shadow.

Memories came flooding back, and I took a breath. The shadow moved closer, the figurine covering me.

I gulped down my fear, attempting to calm my racing heartbeat.

I opened my mouth. “Hello.�

[shadows]

Do you ever look at your shadow, and think to yourself: is that really me?

I only ask because recently I’ve had the time to think about shadows and how they are the silhouette of our bodies. we only have shadows because we have abstructed the pathway of the molecules of light, and they either find the earth or they are stuck on our bodies casting shadows. nevertheless they are a temporary representation of ourselves, and who we are. the way we carry ourselves as we walk down the street, and how we fashion our clothes. none of this matters, what’s important is who we are when we aren’t looking at our shadows.

Ash

[out of the blue] Do you ever think about your thumb?

Oddly shaped and strangely wrinkled, Bending every which way.

Not like any of its brothers But important just the same.

Small but mighty.

Do you ever think about eyebrows?

Above our eyes Shielding them from harm.

Fashionable in some cases, Devastating in others, But important always.

Do you ever think about words?

Giving us the ability to share.

Share our experiences, Express our feelings, Learn from one another.

Grow together.

Do you ever think about time?

Ever turning, pushing us forward into the future, Our limited future.

One life.

One lifetime in this universe.

Then onto the next.

Do you ever think about the universe?

Its infinite stars spanning infinite space, Those beams of light traveling years to reach us, The constellations they create showing us the way, Divine direction from ancient galaxies.

Never asking anything in return.

Do you ever think about Love?

Filling every corner of the universe Giving birth to all that we know, all that we are, Breathing life into the simplest of creatures, Encircling us and granting us the ability to recognize that feeling from which we came.

Do you?

Yeah. Me neither.

Aubrey Porter

[hands up, foot down] Betsy Hanrahan

the bite of a sandy ankle begged the question: If self-entitlement could be mocked up to: bigger, faster, stronger or if—by simple calculations— the flea had been here longer But, had man not conquered the planet and Executed self determination perfectly (In spite of being in the form of worldly extermination)?

Here was man’s expanse.

Greed and loathing Which showed no glimmer of hope And no remorse For those who came before Who forged, fought, and fumbled, held steadfast to morals long betrayed.

Hands up, Foot down It was and always would be: the death of a flea.

[science]

Carson Valenta

Science Most people don’t understand you They think it’s weird, or confusing, but it makes up our whole world Atoms Neutrons Protons People don’t understand you We the people think you’re weird just because we don’t understand you We just think everything happens because it does But I don’t I take in all the possibilities The chance of change The equation of life You make my world Not figuratively, physically You are a part of me My soul My heart I breathe you in and out of my lungs You keep me alive with your oxygen, water and food And I’m thankful for your existence Even though people don’t understand, like, or agree with your laws You keep them safe and in the ground breathing calmly And I know I’m right.

[iron] [Trigger warning: The following piece references domestic violence.]

Your fist causes my cheek to tear on my teeth This isn’t the first time you’ve hit me But it’s alright I’ve acquired an appetite for my own blood And the taste of iron lingers long after the blood is gone.

Anonymous

[macro bee]

Emanuel Gales

[the fall of the orange dress]

Homemade orange dress, with yellow flowers Naked feet gathering calluses with each splinter Biting dirt, Cradles toes, leaving brown smudges instead of teeth marks Small foot prints frozen to the ground Crashed by a sneaker The foot that was once familiar Confined to tough rubber and inky laces Sleeping breath covers the golden flowers The slow jaws of heavy eyelids leaves innocence tired and fading The orange dress is put away The closet wraps itself around the dress Dust and damp mildew permeate the threads The discarded orange dress, with the old yellow flowers turns brown, The chilling soil nibbling at the hems

Anonymous

[lemongrass] The rough tips of words, sweet smells of anguish The red tips of sadness bleaches the white crust of the earth On the tear-soaked land is where we lie Among the lemongrass Loss of pieces to your puzzle Your heart I cannot mend As we lie at the bottom of sadness Among the lemongrass We have fought, stayed strong too long And only left our anger Now we have come to rest Among the lemongrass

Flora Small

[lightning love]

Isabel Barrueta

Happiness pours from my heart to yours.

Smiles stretch from one ear to the next, together we are a symphonic melody with crashing cymbals, that so incredibly resound with splashes of color for the world to envy.

[bittersweet] Isabel Barrueta We walk through these halls, along the masterpieces.

Weaving in and out of the sunny rays peering through welcoming windows.

Looking behind us, we watch the past playback— each moment as vivid and meaningful as when it first happened.

And the future: staring us right in the face, urging us to come near.

A call to action; whether it be math, science, english, history, art or an undecided path we choose to take… we know our roots will be firmly planted here.

Whether it’s been seven years, two, or somewhere in between, we know that this sanctuary of arts and academics has shaped who we are today and where we will be going tomorrow.

“Bittersweet”, we’ll say as we walk through these halls for the last time, along the masterpieces.

Weaving in and out of the sunny rays peering through those always welcoming windows.

[shivers] J.P.

(lyrics) Stop sending me shivers, I’m already too cold to be needing to kiss her, To only be loved by you would be a pleasure, Don’t make me change my mind

Don’t make me go running, I’ve already got enough on my mind I just want to have some fun in My own little inside room my head I’m not trying to lead you on, I’m just a little lost and I need someone To pretend they care, It won’t take long Please don’t come to close, I’m already confused and I just need to know, You make my head spin around, I hope it doesn’t show Do you see the nervous look in my eye I really hope it doesn’t make me lie About the things I think when you are around Please don’t make me regret all the things I’ve found So stop sending me shivers

[sun & rain] Jaden Lindsey Light.

Beautiful, radiant light.

He reached out his hand, then drew it back swiftly, for he belonged to the rain.

Her fingers stretched longingly, Grasping for the elusive, pure water dancing from the vast, vast sky.

A droplet pricked her finger.

She recoiled, for she belonged to the sun.

He saw her hand, soft and welcoming, attempt to pass into the downpour, and then shy away.

He was surprised.

She saw his hand, slim and graceful, pierce through the veil of moisture, and then dart back.

She was intrigued.

He reached, She reached.

Their hands intertwined.

There was a balance.

Eyes, shining and soft, fell upon each other.

A sea of whites and greys swam across them from their fingertips.

They looked upon each other, and then laughed and laughed and loved.

There once was a broken desk.

[drawers]

All tattered and worn and filled with regrets.

As the days went by it filled up more and more, making your things harder and harder to store.

But hey, these regrets aren’t something to be so upset about; you can go through your desk and pull each one out.

But keep in mind that they may come back, stronger than ever and ready to attack.

They’ve gotten to me; don’t let them get to you too.

Stay strong, and always remember, mistakes are mistakes, not what defines you

nN

K

ly ait

rom

t ors

[blind ho

Jan

We met on a day The flowers were in bloom and her soft golden hair became one with the wheat meadow we rested in.

We lay under a lilac sky With rich pink brush strokes intertwined paired with cotton candy clouds.

And we scarcely noticed when pink turned to black pe] Flowers turned to mud And sun rays in the morning Turned to days curled under a blanket inside In salvation from the brewing storm.

Plum sweetened kisses Paired with sugar crystal eyes Glazed over with blind hope that forever truly means forever.

[ U n t i t l e d ]

The verbal evolution Of love An exterior shell Vaporizing Before our time dies And all lies Are uncovered

Lecette Burke & Mubarik Alfablondi Lily EngblomStryker

[objective vs. subjective] No one person is always objective.

We all have preferences, likes, dislikes, and disgust.

And most of us act upon it in some way.

Whether we smile, laugh, cheer, frown, yell, run, destroy, jeer, tease.

Even if we seem to be completely Neutral.

We all think.

We are all human, and that is the most dangerous thing about our race.

We can choose.

We have choices, and we make them.

Ever influencing others, their lives, homes, family, brain, body, mentality.

Everything you do is a ripple in this small pond we call life.

Almost everything is subjective.

Our words.

Our tastes.

Our Loves.

Our hobbies.

Our colors.

But what isn’t biased is frozen solid in truth and fact.

And we humans are subjective.

We are a cruel, indecisive species and we have choices.

Good and bad ones.

Yet we belittle others because of objective facts.

they hide back, back in the dark, back where their presence is only mentioned in a hush whisper or seen from the corner of an eye. shadows cover their path, concealing their secrets, their aching desires. pushed to the farthest corner of the mind — you desperately wish to forget, but they wait, they watch,

they prepare for the perfect moment to materialize and take hold of you. and when they do, oh, when they do, you must be ready. you must be brave. m.m.

[the things no one tells you about depression]

Madeleine Surface

[serenity]

[11:47 pm 03/26/17, 9:25 pm 03/27/17] Mubarik Alfablondi Picking up low class habits Chasing expensive rabbits Running to a wonderland of magic Dreaming a land of riches Momma said be careful with the money and the snitches Running to a dome of my own thoughts Could never trust a women with my own heart Shame and agony with a hint of regret My own fate is locked as hard as cement Wishing to change the past and sometimes not Hearing and seeing myself in mock Mocking myself in the reservation of my own mind ...constantly screaming Never paying attention to time.

Calm within the chaos Chaos within the calm This is the epitome of my dangerous thoughts Dangerous thoughts that torment me for what I’ve been though Dangerous thoughts that know what I did and didn’t do Homie, this is forever you I never format with no crew cause I’m all alone in the end The only true friend is the pad and pen And I condemn with these self doubts I condemn with my own route How long can I mount with these thoughts in me The pressure to explode is within me

I’m sorry I’m a born sinner b I’m bad for you but you can’t let me go I cause trouble, I’m probably friends with the devil I tried to make everything sweet for you I tried to make everything neat for you I tried to I tried to make everything not so blue I’m afraid would you hate me for the change Would you hate me for being... Strange -----

eauty and the beast [flowers]

Flowers in a petal as they fall like beauty and the beast As they fight in the night but make it out of this heat The rage, The pain, They gain Flowers in a petal And she said I don’t care if you’re bad You’re right for me and no one can tell me that I love you for the things you do I love you cause you’re sweet too It doesn’t matter about your religion Baby you’re forgiving You don’t have to hide the beast from me Cause you know that we...are Flowers in a petal as they fall like beauty and the beast As they fight in the night but make it out of this heat The rage, The pain, They gain Flowers in a petal Her: “Are you falling in love with her?”

Him: (pause) “Does that make me a freak?”

Her: “No no I think it’s.. I think anybody who falls in love is a freak.”

Him: *laughs a little* Her: “It’s a crazy thing to do..it’s kinda like a form of socially acceptable insanity” Him: *laughs* It’s crazy how the world looks different, It’s crazy how the food tastes different, It’s crazy how you’re so vivid, Always questioning the word love, You’re a must, You’re the person I truly trust ...I love you.

Mubarik Alfablondi

[the only time ice cream is sad] The dripping ice cream cone plummeted towards the ground, unfortunately disregarded by its owner due to its unusual salted caramel flavor.

The waffle cone shattered against the stiff wooden planks as candied pecans were violently thrown across the the boardwalk, only to be eaten by gray-feathered birds. To the ice cream cone, everything soon faded its vibrant colors, the once flamboyant seaside walkway rendered a desolate wasteland of silence. But in that moment, the caramel ice cream cone considered his small, but humble life, and rested his final thoughts in serenity.

He was not scared He was not sad

Nate Dawg

He was okay

[blossom speckled cherry tree]

blossom speckled cherry tree carved with our initials thee a strong B and a rugged M as if our love would never end blossom speckled cherry tree under its blooms sat did we hand in hand was you and I what if it was all a lie blossom speckled cherry tree swarmed with busy buzzing bees in the midst of spring, your arms spread wide another girl by your side blossom speckled cherry tree how can I be so jealous of she I weep alone in the autumn grass thinking of love that would never last

Nora VanRees

[subtle flavors]

Oregon spearmint and lemon myrtle, evocative of the old Morocco that tastes best when shared with friends while lounging on pillows a Cabernet of Hibiscus, a delicious infusion of Rooibos artfully combined with rich and malty Indian Assam, the taste is dense, robust and delicious somewhat superior to traditional Earl Grey, scented with the essence of Egyptian Chamomile petals and Chinese Osmanthus flowers, the leaves themselves are placed amid just-picked Jasmine blossoms, paired with a succulent dose of neighboring Honeybush and just a bit of natural orchard fruit lightly sweet, medium-bodied and highly quaffable, many consider it a perfect marriage with its deep color, complex aroma and nuanced flavor;

r.w.

[life is a puddle]

Sloshing through the tall damp grass, Hear the frogs croak in the night, The stars are all a glimmer Like my heart that shines so bright, As I jump in the muddy water below.

Because life is like a puddle, You never know where one might show up, And before you even know it it fades away And as you grow older, as the night turns to day The puddle dries up And your childhood goes away A sneaky rock collides with my boot, The stars seem to shift out of view, I tumble and I hit the ground, The crickets cease their song, The world seems to be holding its breath.

Looking over the the window sill Watch the rain pool on the ground I no longer jump and play With my clothes all sopping wet But that will always be in my memory

The Puddle People

Tina Starks

[ S P E E D

D E M O N ]

cover art by Ryan Bittner Wordsworth Literary Magazine spring 2017