Wordsworth m a g a z i n e
Golden Shards
w o r d s w o r t h
Staff...
Nora VanRees, Co-Editor Jaden Lindsey, Co-Editor Truly Rylander, Co-Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Jason Welch, Advisor Abbigail Steinke Abbigail Doddridge Aidan Smith Ashley Jones Athena Kuhner Breanna Jones Darus Poling Ebie Katzenmeyer Eddie Sobczak
Elana Roldan Elijah Thomas Ella Thompson Ella Vires Elliot McClafferty Esperanza Vicencio-Meza Faith Ahola Flora Small Giavanna Shaw Grace Korthuis Hailey Gerdts Isabella Graves Kate Bias Lilian Hamideh Lisa Plekhanov Lucy Otto Madeline Lahodny
Marilyn Ingalls Mia Maggio Murphy Bradshaw Natalie Munson Nathan Keldsen Ruby Moss Samuel Edmundon Sofia Farmer TJ DeSemple Vitaliy Duvalko Vivi Winkley
[editor’s letter] Dear Reader, Welcome, for the final time this school year, into the comforting embrace of literature. Once more, as the changing season dances in the sky around us, so do the ideas and imagination of our writers. We are consistently humbled by the work we receive, and the human emotion, experience, and honesty it entails. Perhaps, with the conclusion of the school year in eyesight on the horizon, you find yourself busy as a bee, but as this magazine shows, you can always make certain to take a moment, sit down, and create. Us editors extend one final thank you to this year’s staff. We do have loyal members of our team who will be leaving us this year, and know that we appreciate every minute of dedication you’ve given to this publication, for however many years you’ve been with us. Thank you once more to the fantastical Mr. Welch, whose constant support and push to keep us going is as motivational as it is helpful; thank you to you, the reader, whom without we would not have this collection of works. Your engagement with Wordsworth does not go unrecognized. As our final hurrah for this year, please enjoy our Spring 2019 edition of your ever-lovable Lit Mag.
-The Editors It is with pleasure that we present our Spring 2019 issue:
golden shards
t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s
poetry Abbie Hembree Drowning 1 Abby Steinke 2 1 Abby Steinke For a Sibling (3) 2 Ace of Shadows Where Are Wild Winds 3 A.k.p The Flower 4 Alexandra Lafayette Honey 5 Ally Staples Untitled 6 Athy Kuhner Serendipities 7 Ava Arroyo The life that moves on 8-9 C. R. Campbell Thunderstorm 9 Darus Poling The Rain 10 Dylan Chumbley Mr Carr’s Class 11 Elana Shae Written on a Snowy March Wednesday 12-13 Ella Vires Forbidden 16-17 Elliot McClafferty That Old Door 18 Ellis Beck The Ebony Rain Part II 19-22 ET love is literary 23-24 ET color 25 Gabriel Sobczak Dear Plant Earth, 26 Gabriel Sobczak Untitled 27 Grace e.k The Plum Tree 28-30 H. E. Gerdts Untitled 31 Isabel Giacchino Stolen Moments 32 Isabella B.S Alone 33 Jaila blood. 34 Jazzimine Thatcher Silence 34 Lucy Collmer Hummingbird 35 M&M When I Close My Eyes 36-37 M&M Fireflies 38 Marley Red 39 Morgan Edenfield Dreaming 39 Murphy McDonald Bradshaw Hush 40-43 Natalie Munson Your Love Was Just A Game 43-44 Nora VanRees untitled 44-45 Shawn Nakayama Eel 46 Stella Galves Ukelele by the river 46 Taylor Jones Wither: to shrivel; fade; decay 47-48 TJ Aging 48 v.v Sweep me up in a story 49-50 v.v You’re in the rain 51-53 Yarah Youssef I am from 56 You can write down my name. Sad Flower 56 Zach B Love, Sky 57-61 Anonymous A Conversation between Spring and Winter 62-63 Anonymous One Last Smile 63 Anonymous Victory Amongst the Sky 64 Anonymous Untitled 65 Anonymous I Am From 66 Anonymous Politics 67 Anonymous untitled 67-68 Anonymous Untitled 69-70 anonymous december 71-72 anonymous the hero gives up 72-73 Anonymous End 73
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prose Abbi Doddridge The Burbs 7: The End 75-78 Ashley Jones Passing Times 79-80 Athena Kuhner Sugar Spun 80 E. Max The Ghosts of Evergreen 2: Argentum Lingua 81-82 E.S. Your Untypical Romance 83 Elliot McClafferty July 13, 1916 86 Ellis Beck Eylee Mosingham’s Scary Stories 1: The Gourd-Cutter 87-88 Esme Morgan Jailed 89- 93 Grace e.k The Littlest Ant and The Great Blue Sky 93-94 H. E. Gerdts Suceeding The Crimson Tide 94 Lucy Love is my Specialty 95-100 Lucy The Time We Met the Moon-Excerpt 101-103 Mia Lewis Control 104 Nora VanRees The Luna Expedition 105-109 Anonymous new town 110-111
visual arts Breanna Jones Breanna Jones Darus Poling Giavanna Shaw
Golden Arrangement Scholarly Soldier Gateway Rainy Day
14-15 54-55 84-85 112
E
POETRY
[Drowning]
Abbie Hembree
Gasping for air Falling, fumbling That’s how it feels I’m not underwater, I’m living. And that’s the worst part. The pain of being alive, Carrying the memories that are imprinted in my brain. There is a breeze now And everything is calm. Tranquil. It was life or death But which is better?
[2] Abby Steinke
Like the ocean gives and gives through rivers and streams Her heart is not her own. It’s impossible For her to take. Instead She is all too willing to give up every drop, Every pulse of the heart she wears on her sleeve, So she is unbalanced. But unlike the ocean she must learn To shift color to match the sky Or to follow the moon’s pull Is not what she wants. She must understand She loves to be loved back. In the same way she gives she longs to be given. She should know that she is loved And appreciated. Like the earth could not survive without the ocean So could her world not survive without her.
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[For a Sibling (3)] She looks in a cracked mirror. Her kind smile speaks of Her accolades. Instead of a button nose she sees Her accomplishments. Instead of bright eyes she notices What others want. Her freckles cover up her mistakes. They’re conscious of what she needs to do Who she needs to be Before she is good. She measures value by success And she’s the best at striving to be better. Slowly she uncovers a new mirror. Now her kind smile speaks Authenticity. In her button nose She feels priceless. Her bright eyes reflect What she really wants Her heart’s desires and her hopes. Her freckles whisper that success does not equal her value And nothing spectacular is needed to be worthwhile. This mirror This girl Reflects the truth. All of her is valuable.
Abby Steinke
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[Where Are Wild Winds] Ace of Shadows
I feel the breeze bluster across my face And as I close my eyes, I see it The wind growing stronger And stronger It howls at me as if to say “Come, Follow� As it howls I hesitantly lift my foot The images becoming clear The mighty trees The ferocious lake And me, standing atop this cliff If not atop the world I stamp my foot down and stand Tall and mighty With those wild winds Screaming and howling with pride Finally I open my eyes gently With a face now smiling The light breeze still pattering But me still standing tall
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[The flower] A.k.p The delicate blue petaled flower Sits. Gazing at the break of dawn in its pot outside. When you look at it your happy. Full of pride. When the sun comes out from hiding and ready to play, the flower keeps gazing in its pot, and there it will stay. Then the flower starts to die. It crumbles and shivers, But it just sits outside. Just a pile of dust, In an old broken pot, But there It gazes in the same spot.
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[Honey]
Alexandra Lafayette
They sit Saturday mornings, Snuggled in blankets that act like safety nets, Trading soft smiles like sweet honey. The clocks are off, As they sit together with no time to bind them. Laughs flow like a soft sea breeze, Brushing their sun kissed skin. Messy hair pushed up into a crooked ponytail. Soon they get restless and slowly make their way outside, The bees hum a love tune to them, As they run through fields of blooming flowers, The boy falls, gently pulling the girl with him. They lay together, Surrounded by content bliss. Their love is like butterfly wings, With their minds engulfed by its colors, Steady as the beats of its wings. They cling to each other, Like the lungs in them cling to air. The sun begins to set, Cooling the air between them, With their eyes lit with the light of love, And smiles so warm the cold doesn’t stand a chance. The music in her simple sight makes the boy want to dance, As they whisper sweet nothings to each other. She is the light when there is no sun, He is the moon that glows bright. Together they lift the world, With each smile, Each soft laugh, They are the beach the warm sun kisses. Their love only comes once in a lifetime, But lasts an eternity. People tell them they’re too young to understand, But they don’t listen. The boy laughs lightly, And the girl smiles like sweet honey.
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[Untitled] Countless perfect summers spent Ally Staples Eating huckleberry ice cream And going on boat rides A ten hour drive To our cozy little house in Priest Lake, Idaho It is always the same thing But I like it The lake as green as an emerald The sky painted a serene summer blue And the fluffy white clouds Big fat marshmallows floating in the sky A gentle breeze whispers in my ear Softly brushing through the tall evergreen trees And rustling the fallen leaves And the never ending thump of the waves against the rocky sand Inside the house it is always crowded Cousins, grandparents and little siblings Aunts and uncles, mom and dad But when we’re outside The vast expanse of little villages, tiny shops, tall evergreens And one big long lake Is the only home we need Warm days and chilly nights S’mores over a toasty fire way past our bedtimes Fireworks lighting up the night on the Fourth of July Swimming and eating And basking in the summer sun I feel safe and at home I am happy and free 6
[Serendipities] Happy music playing in my ears And pastel colors coming to mind Maybe in this moment, things are a bit alright.
Athy Kuhner
Fast beats to a fast tempo A few whimsical doodles Maybe in this moment, life is smooth. The weekend is coming very soon Promising rest and recovery Maybe in this moment, days are bright. Small little serendipities That to some are wonders of this world Maybe in this moment, everything’s alive.
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[The life that moves on] Ava Arroyo The hate that thou hath given to me, makes my heart sag, for to see the love that I give to you is more than enough. My Dear, my love for thee shalt never change for I am ever giving, and everlasting in the light of gold. The chariot that I drive shall never stop, for my love empowers my wheels in which I persevere every day. My Dear, the hate that thou hath given me is so ever churning in my heart, for the knife that thou hath stabbed in my heart is ever bleeding in the black blood from the bottom seas of rage. My Dear, I do not know for why thou hath so much hate and pure rage, for all that I give is the light in this ever changing world which winds blow, ticking the time away. Which the breath that I breathe is only pure goodness, and the breath that thou breathes is the raging storms that wreck the boats and damage the villages. My Dear, thou have meant so much to me in my ever growing world of change, and I feel great sadness to see you go down this path. My Dear, thou does not remember the days that we would sit under the Oak tree and contemplate of the meanings of life, and how we shall eventually find a cure to the raging seas, and the storms that diminish the dreams of the hearts of light. My Dear, thou does not know how much it saddens my memory of thee, when thy heart had turned to stone, and never returned to the Oak tree, one the raging seas finally, at last, took thee under thy waves of madness and rage.
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My Dear, I shall wish you the best, and though you hath brought me such sorrow, because my heart is filled with only good, I shall give you a last farewell as I come up to the heavens to meet the light which I descended from. Farewell my friend, I hope that thou shall find your peace as I have found mine...
[Thunderstorm]
[C. R. Campbell]
Bustling people, Running feet, Escaping from the snow and sleet. Run inside, In from the cold, Find a place to hide, All young and old. Sad and stormy, Rain clouds form, A raindrop army, Soon will be born. Thunder booms, Lighting crashes, The dark sky looms, Light comes in flashes. Watching, waiting, patient eyes, The storm is stopping, How time flies.
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[The Rain]
Darus Poling
You wrote a poem about how you love the rain Hastily scrawled in the back of my notebook You wanted to share it with the world But You decided against it, you didn’t like it You wrote a poem about how you love the rain Despite how others prefer bright sunny days How the cold and wet causes your bad knee to ache And how walking with shoes worn from use socks and squishes You wrote about the rain How you love the cool temperature outside Feeling drops on your face, gazing at a blanket of grey Even better when there’s fog and people to walk with I read your poem Smiled in disagreement I love dry days in the midst of fall Cool and crisp and only raining down brightly colored leaves I dislike water without consent to be wet Much like a sporty housecat in the bathroom sink I read your poem And my heart swelled with adoration So now when it rains (Which it does often here) I think of you and your messy handwriting And your love of grey skies and puddles I read your poem And now I too love the rain Because it reminds me of You
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[Mr. Carr’s Class] Sweat trickles down my face A burning headache pounds in my head My hands ache from hours of work back and forth, side to side, rub rub. Mr Carr’s class
Dylan Chumbley
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[Written On a Snowy March Wednesday] Elana Shae I asked you “What is love?” And you told me love is the snow. You told me each snowflake is a journey, Journeys that you hope land on the ground For the ground is permanence. You told me some snowflakes fall with speed, Some fall with time. Some are even carried back up by a breeze, But descend eventually. You told me they don’t always reach the ground. You told me some melt in the air, Some never fully form. You told me some were never really there at all. I asked you “What is permanence?” You told me you had already said. You told me permanence is the ground, That those that reach its surface Will remain. You told me the snowflakes, The journeys, Would stay there forever. Eternal love. “But,” I began, “When the sun returns, the snow melts.
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When the sun returns, it’s all Gone.” You paused. You laughed. You laughed and you picked me up in your arms. I asked you “What’s so funny?” You told me I was a smart girl. You told me “Well, when it all melts, I guess that’s death.” I looked up at you. “But the snow always comes back, Mom.” You looked down at me. “Yes, sweetie, The snow always comes back.”
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[Golden Arrangement]
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Breanna Jones
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[Forbidden] Ella Vires I do not want you In fact I cannot want you Your very existence should not mean so much to me But here I am Stomach aflutter Unable to move Completely paralyzed by my overwhelming love for you It cannot be You do not wish for me In the way I need for you Like when I lay awake at night Dreaming of what could be You are deep in slumber Dreaming of fantastical adventures But never of me Life feels meaningless If I don’t know how it feels To be held in your arms until sunrise To feel your soft embrace Or to hear you softly murmur I love you When I use logic I should not want you like I do What do you possess that Makes you so desirable to me Absolutely nothing And yet here I am Feeling empty without you I know I need to move on To continue with my life
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And stop wasting it on a foolish dream But when you walk into a room My heart skips a beat And for a second It’s just me and you For that second I feel everything that could have been Had you felt the same Then I snap back to reality And I know it will never be
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[That old door] Elliot McClafferty What lies behind That old door? You just say; folklore Until you hear a roar Tempting to open More and more Scratch marks across the front Something to confront A cigarette blunt On the floor Before that old door Slowly it yawned The truth, not yet dawned The answer, quite beyond A black abyss of silence A pair of eyes Accompanied by flies Screams and cries Of those who’ve met their demise As you join them Missing forevermore Blood pours between the cracks Onto the floor Of that old door
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[Ebony Rain Part II] Ellis Beck Why can’t the wind, the rain die with the harsh and the shadows That perish in the ebony torrents, they be, lain in the shadows, lest half-forgotten souls Scourge thy hideous, hairy hearts, like a pan in the fryer Roasting its thoughts and horrors away in the depths of the ebony rain Rich opulence strikes the dove from its shell of demure hope, lest be in all the heart-rend’ding forms it takes, startling the chickens from their nests Taken aback by the a-sunder, staring, as the Star strikes the life from the crow Be the One may seem to a bird, with wings of pure, longing, and true Relates the old to the new, strewn about like a burnt tapestry amongst the ebony rain Could my hideous heart seem shallower, colder, deeper, as torn by the storm endearing Not, as it be, lying amongst the wreckage of a windswept plain Great Solace, I seek, to ponder and dream for the One, that glorious One Torn by pain and suffering, I recoil amongst the wide expanses of my regrets O, why not it be that the One seek this too, a great Nature aside from the one we have upended A place away from the scourge, the sullen atrocity of Humanity I seek the one place, that place like the One, that I can hold dear to my heart and call my own Far away from the treachery of our raging storm we have yet to succumb Torn like the heart of the countless Beasts that have fell, no worse, no more primeval, no crueler then it seems we have to be
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And abide to this rule, I dissent, may it be lest not for me Or that One, who is more Light, not a scythe of the ebony rain We hath torn thy life from thy earth as we sought flame in our terrible quest for Superiority As a mark of my struggles, I claim that thy One, that glorious One Hath not been the cure, the light, the beacon that my race hath been searching for to make themselves too, pure It is just a vestige, a servant, a utilization of the thing that throws us to thy flames Be it that thy torrents hath set my mind such, be it that I hath traveled these outlets, scourged and pillaged to extremes by the wrath of the ebony rain Just be how the dawn breeze sparkles the glints of the morning dew For the flowance in the river of my minds eye, has set me askew Be it that the One be just a creature that I hath pondered amongst the banks of the sea In extremity, it shows to us the horrors we less conspire our heart’s desire, like things we cannot see So be it that the One rests like the cracks in the dawn drought In the spires of Hope, how the lesser ones hath countlessly got upsot But the torrents still rage on the strands of the grind Yet the solemn voices still call, calling for the One, the glorious company of that One But then I fell to shadowy doom, just a serpent of the countless relenting of the ebony rain, over and over again Why can’t I stop this cycle as it rages The One must be here- they must conceive of the great prowess that hath brought me here And in the shackles of wavelength serpent and spirits of wraith Be it that thy cold strikes the old ones in the tourmaline palace of thy universe’s sorrows be it, not less regrets I am not a servant, my call repeats in the shadowy echoes in chasms of misty halls Do not take me, my heart repents, in the cold, damp endless plains
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of the open Still cold, my heart may be, but this be not thy wraiths Of how the icy frosted rain hath fallen, hard, ivory, almost stone Wood, may it be, let be conspired on the tip of thy relentless swiping of thy scythe To be it that one strikes the nest from the dove Silently, in silence my solemn self strikes a low note in a reverie May it be that this is not the relentless, heart-freezing, heart-churning, heart-changing depths of the endless, ebony rain The One’s name repeats over and over again in my head like the chorus of a sweet song One by one, four-four, like a chant sung in the endless grass of the rye In one place, the One may be an enemy, publicized as a horror, a threat, a scandal In a society that I would, too, so tear apart with my own hands like feeble pieces of parchment Do I feel that it is leaning towards me, leaning on me, the burden of a dozen forgotten centuries Does it push over my feeble body, stopping my life with the flick of a finger as if I was a spinning top Does it rage amongst the towering depths of the anvilous clouds in the towering depths of the atmospheric tide For it be, as I be concerned, as sure as the One be a bane of thy life, it shalt not reach the horrid trenches of the ebony rain Scalded by the tips of the flames, singed and burnt like a blackened cinder The One emerges from the rain, carrying the bodies of many souls that hath hopelessly fell Still be in the anvilous clouds that shrouds of hope enjamb themselves amongst the wreckage of a star-fought sky Be it that we sleep, as the corn pillage unfolds, to fly, drag and sneak in the pour-down plop-plop ebony rain Hear the crow call to its second neighbor in the airious clouds Asking the sky how the bird shall live, not biasing by false superstitious belief
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Facetiously, be it, it flew down and hit the pavement, still splaying its claws If the One be a bird, like I pondered before, then they less be not like this specimen As the dawn approaches, the One comes up to me, says, in a low, underlying whisper, that we will be together again I know that these moments shall cease soon, for the One needeth to leave, leave and lest never return As these days approach, the dawn strikes me with how beautiful it is Like a One held in tinfoil, unwrapped with a sense of ingenuity Alas, the day hath come, where the One shalt to leave And the dusk feels less cold, be it ice, but then I see The slamming of car doors and the sweeping of brooms Yet dark clouds scatter the cosmos above, like omens of dark, hailing death I rush to thy doorstep, be it so, how my mind turns still askew They rush to their car get ready to depart, as the ebony rain starts pouring down I grasp the back of the car, as the headlights turn on, keeping a steady hold As the One drags me through the downpour of harsh, cold ebony I try to hold on as I lose my arm’s feeling, losing my mind’s hope My face hangs down as I try to grab on through the torrential assault My body seems to fade and fall with the crackling of the clouds As I finally hang, low, lifting my head up, trying, and seeing the One, one last time, before sagging back, like an ember, now fully faded Four months later, as the great One, the only One returns, a tree has grown in the road near their house The work crews lest be planning to move it away in a matter of days They lean their solemn head against a hard, cold tree of pure ebony And lest it be, returns a small flash, a tiny flicker of an ancient memory. An ancient memory, it be, of the great, torrential, vestiges and chasms of the terrifying, horrific ebony rain.
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[love is literary] love is a brand new notebook, with pristine eggshell pages, and limitless possibilities. love is a brand new notebook, and one word can change everything.
ET
love is reading late at night, under the covers with a flashlight. your neck sore, eyes tired. love is reading late at night, exhausting, but worth it. love is how pencils glide across paper. how lead leaves a trail of ashy remains on the creamy canvas below, describing the mind’s vision so impeccably. love is how pencils glide across paper, how the little things add up, how the smallest acts make a difference. love is worn down erasers, with dusty rose bits, that twirl and scatter like dandelion seeds. your soft breath carries them, a light breeze in the starry night sky, and they dance like fireflies, under the moon’s pale glow. love is worn down erasers, and you forget how much you need it, until it’s lost forever. love is an old book, 23
with thin, velvety pages, that have been loved and treasured, for years, for generations. falling apart in too many places to even count. with tape lining the spine, the cover, in a failing attempt to reconnect the delicate fragments, that were once so splendid and proud. love is an old book, perfectly flawed and beautiful. love is listening to poetry, hearing gentle lyrics tumble and cascade through your peaceful, serene mind like a waterfall. creating a new cosmos, where heartbeats are the only way of telling time. love is listening to poetry, having bliss course through your brain, eternally, forever. love is a brilliant novel, with pages that are stained from crystal teardrops that spill from hazy dusk eyes, as honey sweet laughter escapes from your heart. love is a brilliant novel, difficult to discover, impossible to forget. love is literary, exquisitely lovely and entrancing, always in a charmingly special way.
[color] ET the world was once black and white, and that is what everybody thought was right. they would go around walking in a land that was gray, day after, day after, day after, day. except for one place, high up on some mountains, surrounded by a big circle of fountains, where buttercups were born, where roses did bloom, where bluebells took up most of the room. and the colors were there, undisturbed, but alone, from the time they first sprouted, to when they were all grown.
[Dear Planet Earth,] I am sorry We have stolen your soul, Hacked at your eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, Stealing your senses, snuffing them to nothing. We have torn you from your body, torturing you. We have drilled down to your insides, Immobilizing you. and all of this, is killing you Soon, you will be dead And, we are doing nothing. We don’t care.
Gabriel Sobczak
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[Untitled] Gabriel Sobczak You sit beneath the sturdy branch, and look up into a tearful sky. A bumbling cloud, lone in a field of grassy blue. At the center of it all is a melancholy sun, dripping honey down upon the branches of the sycamore. You lean back against the trunk, the rough bark beneath your head. Your eyes slide gently shut, the world blurring into a plain of glittering green, all waving grass and swaying trees. The plane cuts to black, dark, but slightly tinted at the edges, as if something was trying to break through. The world is still alive, not in rich colors, but in sounds and smells. You can hear the trees stepping out of the river and shaking off their wet fur from an afternoon swim. A small wisp of smoky pine slithers up to your nose, and you breathe in deeply with a contented sigh. Your eyes find their way open again, and you stand, checking your watch. Turning, you take a step down the hill, away from the sycamore.
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[The Plum Tree] Grace e.k. The first time I saw her I was fifteen and between loves She looked at me Like I was made of melting ice And I had never felt stronger Than there—at the very beginning When there was everything to be gained And nothing to lose She was clinging to sunlight then Her leaves were lunging and her fruits were full Every crack in the sidewalk below her was made new Through my stainless eyes The second time I passed the plum tree I was in love (And always had been) She was frost-bitten Iced like the sweets from the bakery on Main Street And frailer than the endings I had known She looked at me like I was frozen and crackling I was glowing then I had never felt warmer Than there—in the very middle When I had everything to love And half of it to lose The next time her roots met my footsteps Buried in hot sunshine Caught in the ripeness of August plums I was not sorry (And had been before) She looked at me Like my flesh was made of water And I had never felt more solid
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Than there—with my own regrets spelled out across her spindly branches Too close to the end And far too near the beginning When I didn’t know What there was left To be lost or gained Yesterday The plum tree on the corner Told me that I am unkind So I sat beneath the street sign and cried A soft wind pulled through us And the plum tree only sighed Her dwindling leaves Gently illuminated in the winter light She looked at me Like I was something to grow into And I had never felt more immediate Than there—in the liquid beginning of endings I was raining A drop for the one I had spoken ill of A drop for the one I had envied A splash for he whom I had loved all wrong The beginnings of a downpour For she whom I once knew For the one I had distrusted For those that had stood in the rain Sitting on the damp edge Of the corner of 33rd and Oak I apologized to the plum tree Together, we watched the sorrys Fall across my cheeks and chest Watched them tumble and twirl As the clouds poured across us Into the gutter below
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The last time I see her Will be when I am eighteen And in love (Having always been) She will look at me Like I am something to be forgotten And I will remember There—at the very end With all having been gained All to be lost And everything to miss I will miss it all Miss it like every mistake I have ever made Miss it like the lilting lines of love Miss it like memories moving through me Miss it like the sharp fall of the rain And the soft curves of the streets And her branches Reaching to me Miss it like the juicy purple plums at the end of summer Miss it like the plum tree on the corner
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[Untitled] H. E. Gerdts In sync, as one, Powering through The chilling water, A force of nature Like no other. Jet black bodies speed Along the surface, Dorsal fins slicing Wickedly through waves. As they near the Oncoming ice floe, They dive into the Midnight blue depths, The tidal wave surging Up and over The ice, Sweeping the seal Into salty currents. The hunt over, Jet black bodies speed Along the surface, Dorsal fins slicing Wickedly through waves, Diving and surfacing Playfully into the Scarlet horizon.
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[Stolent Moments] Isabel Giacchino It sprinkled my nose and grazed my eyelashes, covered my hair in cold, white, blanket. My hands turned red and frozen even resting inside my pockets. It silently drifted, turning, twisting in the air. My breath pushes it, the small shapes flinching away as if being grazed with a burning flame. It made his cheeks pink and fell on his nose, making him laugh in enjoyment, perhaps annoyance. I reached my fingertips up, brush it away, no words are whispered across his lips. I smile, enjoying the moment. He stretches his arm up to sweep it off my hair. This gesture sends a shudder, shiver, through me. I walk away, waving my hand in farewell. My smile rivals the sun, glowing, blinding, shining. I never turned, stayed to see his face, perhaps the mirror image of my own, perhaps not. Still now, I wonder what he felt, then, when the snow fell around us, encasing our bodies in a cocoon of white, what he saw in the girl across from him, standing, eyes tilted towards the clouds.
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[Alone] My limbs are broke My bones are froze My mouth can’t shut And my flesh is cold I keep hearing whispers I’m growing old In this world , I’m all alone My skin is pale My veins are bold The walls are still My heart is broke Here are the demons My secrets being told I’m so disappointed So alone In this world It’s growing cold
Isabella B.S
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[blood.]
Jaila
you were given two sets of knuckles, but only one heart. (You don’t have to think with the majority.) your heart pumps blood to the gaping gashes that you made on the tops of your knuckles. (Your heart has lost sympathy for your hands.) your heart and your head are in conflict. your head knows it would be healthy for you to stop while your heart aches for more. (Healing doesn’t happen overnight.) bloody knuckles are not an award. your heart is broken and bruised. just like the skin on your hands. (Don’t let pain in your fists distract you from the pain in your heart.)
[Silence]
Jazzimine Thatcher
I am trapped in a hole, A deep, endless hole. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to see. Nothing to eat. Nothing to smell. But the worst part is the silence. Silence. The loudest sound on earth. It’s what the voices inside thrive upon. Silence. When the voices awake. Silence. The loudest killer on earth. Silence.
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[Hummingbird] I spotted a hummingbird right next to me as I rushed to the car late to school yet I stopped wings beating so fast it seemed but an illusion shining in the morning light bright red and green beating its wings wanting nothing more than some nectar carefree calmly, carefully hovering not hurrying just hovering perfectly happy it was magical a good luck charm for me sparkling beautiful my mom called the moment passed and I ran but I always will love my hummingbird.
Lucy Collmer
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[When I Close My Eyes] I close my eyes and I see you.
M&M
Golden curls cut short at your shoulders. Sugar dusted on warm hands and cheeks. Eyes like mine, a cocoa swirl. Honey glazed lips and pearly smiles. We were supposed to be identical, and identical we were. Yet the one difference is one of us is gone. Skipping in the summer glow. Holding hands and running through fields of buttercups and blush colored poppies. We held each other close, laughter painted on our faces. You made me complete. Splashing in the crystal water, never wanting to leave and promising not to let go. Dancing in the moonlight, fighting for the spotlight. Singing out of tune, but it didn’t matter. We sounded good because we did it together. You were the other half of my whole. A hand that I could hold. The piece of the puzzle that I always lost, never knowing where it went until you found it.
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But one day you weren’t there to pick up the pieces. Two hearts beating as one, now only one is beating. I close my eyes and I see you. A picture painted in my mind, burned on the underside of my eyelids. Pressing down on my irises, forcing me to stare at the person I couldn’t save. One day you were gone, I didn’t know where you went. I couldn’t dance, not without you. I couldn’t sing, I didn’t sound as good alone. I didn’t want to put a puzzle together, because just like me, a piece was missing. Now I’m old, my life gone sour. My golden curls faded to white, time wrinkled my skin, sadness straining my eyes. Yet I still think of us as little girls. I close my eyes for the very last time and I see you. But this time, you’re really there.
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[Fireflies]
M&M
Reflecting off the waters of my sunken gray eyes are the twinkles and sparkles of the bright fireflies. My life gone by faster than you even know, my skin golden my eyes alive long, long ago. Staring at the bugs that float like stars, remembering a time when their home were jars. Then letting them go, watching them drift away, knowing they need to leave but wanting them to stay. Time has aged my skin and hair, the dust of time falling everywhere. My eyes an ocean now turned to stone, losing loved ones until I’m all alone. It’s only me and the fireflies, they’re all I have until I die. But I know I can count on them, even though I’m old, the fireflies will be there, like floating specks of gold. Because, unlike us, they don’t use their eyes to see every imperfection, they see what most don’t look for, something you won’t find in your reflection. Me and the fireflies, I wonder how long it’s been, but if I could, I would stop time and do it all over again.
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[Red]
Marley
Red Red, like the color of the blazing sun. Red, like the color of the autumn leaves swirling, spinning, sliding, till they land lightly like freshly fallen snow in the winter. Red, like the color of warm winter mittens being knitted by delicate fingers with love. Red, the color of feelings, of burning rage, of embarrassment, of shame, and of love. Red, like the color of hate that spilled the crimson blood of so many who never deserved it. Red, the color of passion that blinds us into making idiotic decisions. Red can describe feelings, feelings are like exercise, it’s great and all but if you have too much of it, then you feel funny and can’t see straight. Red.
[Dreaming] dreaming
Morgan Edenfield
drowning deep in the depths of dreams i am hit by a tornado of thoughts darkness deepens and lets my imagination run wild the thoughts of the day spin wildly mournful memories fill my mind i lay there as calm as the moon relaxed like the stars that shine bright in our night sky still as can be… i dream
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[Hush] [Murphy McDonald Bradshaw] There are days I must be lonely: where I know there’s only so much. Shaking hands with no one, holding whisper and hush. In this color unfamiliar, in this sea unexplored, I can capture your words and hope they mean something more. I do not yet know why the world doesn’t sweep all the scraps from the snowflakes I cut in my sleep. I cannot yet be lonesome. There is too much to know. There are ferns and violets and oak trees to grow. Where the lines of the trees fade darker to green, where the bark and the grass lend me somewhere to lean. There are times I must be lonely: where the hills are my own, and the sky doesn’t worry that I feel too alone. I do not feel that way, not with all that I know. Not with forest and field, not with quiet and snow.
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Not with eventual change, nor the season I love. A silent companion, the gray and beloved. I cannot yet be lonesome. There’s too much to see. There are things to remember: the sky and you and me. There are days I must be lonely: in stillness and hush. I cannot meet you there, I love you too much. Ask “why?” and “where?” forget if you wish. I will be back to learn what I’ve missed To hold all the things I still wish to know: the willows and lilies and trees that have grown. The snowflakes which fall in a wind-driven sweep. The hill and the sky which move as I sleep. The small things around me that I never saw before “I will know them all when I return” she swore. Believe her and I, there will be a time when I will not need to be lonesome,
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although is it a crime? There are days I must be lonely: take them if you will. I am never gone long, I will soon miss the thrill Of the blue and the knowing, of the things we all share. The way that she moves you, the curl in your hair. Of the moon and the sidewalk, of the hand that I hold. Of the houses I’ve lived in with windows grown old. We are all very lonely, we all see the same things. There are no golden hats. We are, none of us, kings. Be quiet, be still. Do not wake the world. Wake with it, next to it, be twisted and curled. Watch as it all rises, rise next to it, too. Be lonely, be lulled hold the things dear to you. Know there is only so much and at once, everything: in winter and autumn and summer and spring. There are pink skies and noses, and a city of seas, sidewalks which burn and yell
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“don’t step on me, please.” Keep all it if you can, in a jar or a box, so when I come back, I won’t be so lost.
[Your Love Was Just A Game] you hold back the tears so they don’t think you’re weak because you know if you show them you will get laughed at
Natalie Munson
love is an evil game know never know how much you loved someone till they are gone you never know the way you are viewed till you pull back that lining on the sticker and read the fine print suppressing your emotions because being open feels like a burden on others time casts an illusion on the brain so that those months that felt like forever were only a second their greatness does not overcome your self worth just because it wasn’t a success doesn’t mean you didn’t learn your lesson it’s that feeling inside that tells you “This would have happened, if I didn’t do this or that.”
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i miss you but the end has come, it’s time to move on your love was just a game
[untitled]
Nora VanRees
i find myself here with you, sneaking away into the night, clothed in a cocoon of secrets and rebellion. here is where the sky blankets us in a canopy of darkness, dim specks of stardust providing the only light. i lean into each breath, each word uttered from your parted lips, “i love you”s dripping away like honey, soaking into my skin, and dissolving into my thoughts. “love is a tainted thing,” my mother would tell me, brows furrowed in contentment, thin wisps of platinum hair pressed against a canvas of leathered skin. she pointed towards me, wrinkled finger extending into the darkness, “don’t ever fall in love,” she whispered, many years ago. i leaned onto her shoulder, unknowing of her words, letting my nostrils be devoured by the scents of childhood, a spell of drowsiness and innocence enchanting me. “love is pain, love is brutal,” she would say.
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yet i am here, disobeying the rule of all rules, falling in love without a second thought. i get drunk on the sweet upturned corners of your mouth and the words that echoed from them. i find myself here with you again and again, hundreds of horizons and sunsets later, with your fingertips you reached through my transparent skin and touched my heart, kindled a fire of affection with your words. after all this time has flown away, our love has diminished to ash, crumbling and drifting into the wind. you picked up my broken pieces, and wove them together, binded with the thin strands of your lies. you told me i was special, and i absorbed it, logic distorted by a watercolor of love. what once flourished has withered, and when i look into the sunset, watching the carnelian, and milky hues fold over the sky, it makes me think you of you, and reminds me of what my mother once said, that “love is a tainted thing.�
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[Eel] Once upon a time, a pirate-eel walked onto the beaches of Alaska. He was shot by hunters who thought he was a deer. But before that, he had children with a squid, and now they are pirate-eel-squid hybrids that live in Missouri. Their offspring had offspring with a goat, and now there are goat-pirate-eel-squid hybrids. So the next time you visit Kansas City, look for goats with tentacles, slimy bodies, and an eye patch.
Shawn Nakayama
[Ukelele by the river] Strumming, plucking, each note I sigh and smile, the sky looks like the gates of heaven. And enjoy the sherbet clouded view. Sit by the seaside, with coffee or tea. Sit by a tree, and let the breeze carry your worries away. Perch and relax, like a bird in its nest, Or like a panda on its favorite branch, And take in the beauty All around You.
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Stella Galves
[Wither: to shrivel; fade; decay] Taylor Jones Confined by a traumatizing cacophony of silence. He was (and always would be), a solitary soldier shivering under the silvery moon. Hanging in her grande violet-velvet sky. She will always ache for his attention; for him to share the intelligence that seems to elude her. Don’t look upon him. He sees the pity beyond your eyes. The smell of a decaying old man. He doesn’t recognize her love staring at his shriveled face. He wishes he could wither away. You wish he would thrive. So you can stop forcing yourself into her quiet home. She watches the clock as he slowly fades. Please, I beg you not to ask him to remember. He is more confused than you ever could imagine. A family- strangers in minutes. A friend- now a nameless face, plastered upon the shrinking walls of the sentences he can no longer form. As he’s forgotten how to make his tongue cry -let alone laugh. Memories fade into deteriorating skin as his envy eradicates all expectations. How could a body come up with a more cruel and unusual punishment? Incessantly killing his mind. A perpetual and distasteful version of paranoia his fear feeds upon.
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Ultimately a disguised smile is smothered in white noise and her depressed dream dies.
[Aging]
TJ
“Where did the poetry of living slip away to? To the old notebooks, hidden in the toolbox. The toolbox in my room at what is no longer my home, My home is now our home. Our home, yours and mine, will live beyond the days when the words run out, Run out of irony, rhyme, and synecdoche. Run out of necessary limits like paints without a canvas. When did the poetry of breathing gasp? Is that sharp inhale a perfect note or a broken melody? Does this song play when the sky burns pastel orange, or when the prodigal proverbial Son doesn’t rise for spring? Where did Freshman year end? Where are the bags of dirt, The “Everything is a perfectly imperfect word,” Where are the eyes of youth, Reaped like sprigs in the season of change, Blooming bitter blue flowers no good for brewing tea? Why must I always be asking, and only answer in riddles I can’t solve? Why was poetry, now gone, my only respite against the harsh gaze of my circumvented truth? Why must truth be harsh, to me? Where did the poetry of living slip away to? It’s dying, getting old only as slowly as I am.”
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[Sweep me up in a story] v.v Sweep me up in a story Drown the world out with nothing but printed ink Show me a world with powerful young women A crown fought for by sword A rebellion sparked by inequality A lost kids left behind by society Show me it all Sweep me up in a story Where the pages no longer exist because though I feel them, I forget Give me words that form images of places I’ve never been Yet, these words make it so I am there I am there with the giant trees where communities live I am there with fairies and werewolves and mermaids in a deep lagoon I am there with a hero by my side as we fight through a war everyone thinks is already won But we don’t know and we shouldn’t assume Sweep me up in a story Make it so I feel these characters created are real As though I would meet them on the street somewhere And they would have the same complexity as myself A young boy with naturally blue hair who just lost his mother A grandmotherly lady who bakes cookies for the local gang A gender neutral teen just trying to survive Highschool I want to meet them all Names like Bethany and Mike and Sam Or Bear and Venus and Cherry Or Songwyn and Darakai and Aroha And Surya and Kumiko and Riaz Bethany is sweet, she loves apples Mike is quiet, he prefers music to conversation
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Sam is snappish, they don’t have time for lies Bear is large, he enjoys honey and irony Venus is a fighter, Cherry is a war criminal Songwyn a singer Darakai a doting father Aroha, Independent Surya, ignorant Kumiko, careful Riaz, powerful Show me they are more than a name, more than a word Show me Bethany throwing her shovel at someone who stepped all over her garden Show me Mike being forced to be confronted with words Show me Sam at loss of words because they found their match Sweep me up in a story The printed ink on paper bound by leather is more than a thing It’s pain and suffering and knowledge and wisdom and strength and progress and death It is life Now, this isn’t easy You can’t just string words along You must pour blood, sweat, and tears into a creation of place, people, and their purpose You must ooze passion Without that, you won’t sweep me up You won’t show me a world unseen You won’t introduce me to people unknown You will only give me printed ink, plain pages, and show me nothing
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[You’re in the rain] v.v You’re in the rain You’re in pain Everything is overwhelming your senses The internal collapsing of your mind It now reaches the surface Salty tears stream down your face Everything hurts But it’s not physical No one can see it Not until you allow yourself to break You refuse to break You say you’re fine, nothing is wrong You’re a liar Inside your head is a storm Maybe it’s like a tornado You’re spiraling Maybe it’s like a hurricane You go around and around, only to pick something up And throw it around in a frenzy Maybe it’s like a tsunami Everything feels fine All the pain pulls back Only to crash against you when you least expect it Or maybe Maybe it’s not a storm Maybe it’s an earthquake Everything feels like it’s shattering An uncontrolled feeling of everything falling apart You have no control The pain It won’t leave You stand in the rain Tears streaming down your face
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You want to harm yourself You don’t want to keep holding on It’s all too much You can’t handle this anymore It’s too much It doesn’t matter whether or not people care It doesn’t matter whether there are good things It doesn’t matter if you can do everything perfectly You can’t handle it anymore You want it to stop You say it has to stop Why won’t it stop?! But wait Give me a moment I want to tell you something Take my hand and stand under my umbrella Your tears are running down your face But so are mine Listen and breathe Listen to the rain It’s not angry The sky cries for you The sky is here for you just as I am I was there I was where you stand now I felt like a tornado I felt like a hurricane I felt like a tsunami and earthquake I’ve felt it all It hurt I wanted it to stop I wanted everything to give me a second to breathe I wanted it to all disappear All because it hurt It was too much It was all too much for me But I got out At least enough to understand I saw the world for what it was It was so much bigger
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People are so much more So we can stand in the rain You want to hurt yourself I’ll stay with you Because I know It’s better to be held, than to try to hold on We’re in the rain
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[Scholarly Soldier]
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Breanna Jones
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[I am from] Yarah Youssef I AM FROM I am from pillows. Some are soft, some big, and others are small. I am from Vancouver, the place I call home. I am from rosemary, sometimes on a piece of sourdough bread, or maybe fresh from the bush that grows in my very backyard. I am from a yellow house with a plum tree that is making fresh plums every summer, every year. The plums can be as sweet as candy or bitter as a lime. I am from beautiful soup, or that’s what we call it. That has brought memories filled with smiles and hugs. I am from smiles and lots of support. I am from school and friends who are nice. I am from crafts that make a big mess. Or none at all sometimes it takes twenty minutes to clean up with a big gooey mess that falls apart the next day. I am from this poem that must have a end.
[Sad Flower] You can write down my name. Sad, sad, flower, the defeating dead Dreams and the hopes of the hopeless Hills, leaves the flower untouched
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[Love, Sky] Zach B Dear Sky, In the darkness, I feel your presence as my feet brush the ground I know the wonder The feeling that awakens inside when I am with you Dear Child, A tiny creature, miles away I watch as you stand alone in the night I want to reach out to you give you a little of my light To share this brilliance I feel inside when I am with you Dear Sky, Sometimes, when I can’t sleep I turn to you and you comfort me the light you send guides me as I tread lightly around the deserted streets your warmth reminds me I am not alone Dear Child, Sometimes, when you can’t sleep,
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you tilt back your fragile head and with eyes filled with tears you ask of me “Why am I alone?” “You are not alone,” I reply Dear Sky, “I am here for you,” the glow within me pulses in time with your own heart you turn to me, my own light gleaming in your eyes, and whisper for all the universe to witness “Thank you.” Dear Sky, The universe takes a breath then another, and another as you and I stand here lost in time and each other the universe goes on. I will grow old but you will always be here, your shimmer dancing over me as do you among the stars. And when I am lost I think of you, your light will guide me home. with you, my friend, what need have I, to fear the dark? Dear Child, You are a curious little thing, so full of life and emotion awe, joy, anger, wonder,
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jealousy, kindness, spite, and love when you look at me, there is something in your eyes that tells me you are fragile and yet, despite your pain you see me and wonder fills your heart though you have known me all your life as I have known you I hope you never stop seeing the wonder of the universe that created us both Despite the distance between us we are connected and I will always be here I suppose in a way we are both children although I have existed for time uncountable You and I, we are always growing, learning, pushing ever outward into the unknown Dear Sky As I lie here lost in thought lost in my self lost in you I realize that no one else sees me in exactly the same way as you do Your limbs spread out above me the light of your untold billions of stars shining on me in such a way that every angle is illuminated
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every fabric of my being is exposed you see me in a way that people, bound by the chains of sight can rarely accomplish You see me for who I am. Nothing more. Nothing less. Love Your Child. Dear Child, You cannot possibly understand the complexity of my body I surround you, all encompassing as you drift through my fingers on you path among my stars. And yet, as you lie there, you see me as no one of your kind has ever seen me before. Not a single human being or any being has truly seen me from the exact same place as you are in now. You see me in a way that I have never been seen and will never be seen in again. In a moment, the river of life will take you back into its billowing currents to be buffeted around by forces you cannot control As you tumble end over end on your headlong plunge through you galaxy
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whirling around and around your own tiny star lift your sparkling eyes to my own and I will be your guide when you feel you lack control turn to me, and I will show you how to swim your way through of this tumultuous river over the rapids and down the waterfalls of life “Can the Sky teach a Child to swim?� You ask me, disbelieving, uncertain. Only if you want to learn my child. Only then. Love Your Sky.
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[A conversation between Spring and Winter] Anonymous
What’s it like Being so cold A daffodil Whispered To a Fallen snowflake It’s an Experience Not for the Faint hearted The snowflake responded It’s years of drifting Up Down Left Right Do you ever Stop The curious daffodil Pressed The snowflake began to Sparkle To Melt To Disappear It began to Return Back home Dancing amongst The Light Clouds
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WellThe snowflake Stopped The snowflake Smiled The snowflake Returned back Home To leave the Daffodil Full Of questions Come back next Winter Asked the daffodil.
[One Last Smile] One last smile, one last grip, one last something Before the closure of my mission, The pain and everything I have to hold in, Everything that scares me, That won’t exist, From then on I carry my future, my heart, My everything, so I can live one last smile, That one last smile holds everything.
Anonymous
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[Victory Amongst the Sky] Victory Amongst the Sky Dark, gloomy, the world looks grainy, like rough static, on an old tv. The light feels deluded, filtered through, the gutters of gray filling the sky. You walk, slowly along the crisp, cold pavement. Each step heavier. But suddenly you feel lighter, the faintest bit of sun starts to peak, and emerges from the clouds. It’s shine extends off of the sky. The air holds a glow, the clouds part, leaving trails of where they once were, the sunlight hits the pavement, and the sun has won.
Anonymous
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[Untitled] Anonymous My grandparents property... There is the old workshop, littered with slightly worn out tools and creaky drawers filled with bent nails and old washers. The splintery wood taking over the dusty and cold concrete floor. There is the long creek, carving through the moss protected rocks and dirt. The lone trouts and salmon swimming its way to unsuspecting bugs that have fallen into to the clear, shallow water. There is the small clay oven outside cowering from the rain below the metallic covering. The tired, chatty people lining up after dark, prepared for any individual to slide their very own handmade pizza into the warm clay oven. There is the small brand new house sitting at the side of the road, looking as brand new as a shiny coin. The sound of chatting and then the occasional car, driving past the house like a half asleep cheetah with its deep engine rumbling. There is my grandparents property. Kind of old and rustic, but filled with life and happiness. Filled with bustling people and 3 foot high snow in March. That is my grandparents property.
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[I Am From] Anonymous I am from my family, My parents, always supportive My brother, always loving and funny My sister, always happy to help. I am from breezy summer nights, Filled with the smell of smores and the sound of my mothers cackling Coming into the house never able to get rid of that smokey campfire smell, always there. I am from bleach stains in our carpets caused by oh so many coffee spills, I am from my brother’s clumsiness, My mother’s anxiety, And my father’s horrible dad jokes, I am from cozy days spent snowed in, watching Elf with my family reading curled up with a blanket in the living room while the smell of chocolate chip cookies filled the air. I am from my family, friends, the many many schools I have been to, but most importantly, I am from my home
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[Politics] Anonymous Just because you disagree with me, it doesn’t make me wrong. No one is right and no one is wrong. All we have is our values, And that’s ok. Because in the end, politics aren’t everything. Why does the other side have to be false? They were simply raised differently than us. Politics aren’t everything.
[untitl i love you but i’m busy. Anonymous i love you but i need to talk to my friends instead. i would spend time with you but i have to go to the mall. a list of excuses piles up in the text messages i’ve sent to my grandma over the past few months. but its not just my grandma. its my aunt my cousins my dad. in the corner of my closet there’s a box filled with old birthday cards old christmas cards old easter cards that i probably didn’t read all
ed]
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the way through. cards with cute stickers and nice thoughts someone decided to write for me. i read through more texts i haven’t answered on my phone. i love you. i love you, please visit me soon. all of these texts i’ve been ignoring all because i’m selfish. all because i thought i had more fun more important things to do. slowly the i love you texts stopped being so frequent. i only saw my relatives on holidays. but something has to change. let the people you love know you love them. tell them how much you appreciate having them in your life. don’t ever take them for granted. because one day there will come a time where it’s too late to say i love you.
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[Untitled]
Anonymous
I am from a family of four, a mom, a dad, a brother and me. Constantly laughing, teasing, singing and dancing Never letting go of our love for one another even when we get angry at each other, because that’s what love is about. I am from the wonderful sound of silence. Because there’s nothing like sitting outside gazing at the stars twinkling and twirling and dancing in the sky. And listening for something, the sound of nothingness, the sound that may help you think while you take a quiz, the sound that may ease your pain, or the sound that just makes you think of your old lost memories that are not lost any more because of the sound of silence. I am from the art and magic of creative movement in dance, the torch that lights up in my eye when I see dancing. Dance to me is the umbrella when it’s rainy, shielding me from what people tell me, the drama that is going on or even my inner critic. Dance is my passion, the only thing that keeps me in place. I am from the wonderful friends that surround me with love. The wonderful friends that won’t let you think bad about yourself, that won’t let you feel pain when they can make it numb, that won’t let you do things that can make you worse because they care. The amazing friends that put their problems out of the way so they can help clean up yours. Those wonderful friends, that everyone needs, because you can’t live without them. I am from sitting behind large, and colorful stacks of books, entering different worlds, talking with walking frogs, wizards, and warlocks, and watching as some of my favorite characters die, not being able to do anything about it. And complaining all week about why the author killed off my favorite character and not someone else’s. I am from the Monday’s, Friday’s, and sometimes Saturday’s, spending my afternoon riding on my sweet-red dotted horse. The horse that’s always full of never dying energy, the horse that soothes my anger and stress. The horse that I love unconditionally.
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I am from this “I Am From” poem. The one that tells everything I am from. The one that you are reading or listening to right now. The one that is supposed to make me feel free as a creative writer, but yet I don’t feel free at all because my work is being judged by Mr. Lauderbaugh.
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[december] anonymous i look at her under these rays of pale moonlight, eyes glowing their soft blue, riddled with specks of silver that match the stars. she smiles at me. i am in awe of the unique beauty she wears so effortlessly. apple red lips, cracked like the icy windowsill in her lavender-painted bedroom. small pink nose, scrunched and hidden behind a torn maroon scarf, dotted white by the frost in the wind. she is impossibly beautiful, imperfect in all the right ways. faint smell of peppermint lurking on the insides of her wrists, hazel hair tucked behind diamond-pierced ears, oversized black coat hanging on both shoulders. i know she does not see me the way i want her to, but just being here with her on this grey december night is enough. i have told her i love her a thousand times over. every time she has walked away, leaving my heart empty and numb, forcing me to wait in agony, unknowing as i fall apart again and again telling myself over and over that
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i ruined what little we had. and when she comes back, ignoring my declaration, i follow her once more, determined to never feel anything. but somehow tonight feels different. tonight feels like i am allowed to love her, like i am allowed to tell her. it comes out as a whisper, barely audible through the whir of cars desperately trying to get home before the snow turns to a blizzard, but she hears me. she always did. she looks up hesitantly, the foggy remains of my admittance still staining the freezing air, and for the first time, it is almost as if she sees me.
[the hero gives up] i’m sorry to all those i let die, to all those who believed in me, who had hope in a better future. i am not special, i am not powerful, i cannot save you. i’m sorry to all those who put faith in me, to those i led on, to the ones i could not avenge. and to the one i could not defeat, i am sorry most of all.
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because of my surrender, your darkness will only grow, your pain will only worsen, your cold heart will only freeze. my chains will rust, your glare will stick, the kingdom will perish because of my cowardice. i’m sorry to my princess, to my army, to my people, for not being the hero you told me i could be.
[End]
Anonymous
Shooting, shhhhh, sharp. You see a situation with a red brick school, you hear yelling and crying. You decide to not do anything for there could be nothing wrong. Little do you know, little children are dying, drowning, and donating their life for someone’s pleasure You don’t know, so you do nothing Later in the day, you sit on your comfortable light gray 20 by 40 inch sofa Turn on the news and you see a reporter at the same school you were near with the sounds, saying children under the age of 10 were killed in a shooting. They came to an end for someone’s fun, fantasy, fantastic. All are inappropriate words for this event. Now you have to live with this weight, that you could have done something. You didn’t A bundled up ball of guilt weighs on your small in comparison arms You feel like you brought them to an end.
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PROSE 74
[The Burbs 7: The End] Abbi Doddridge White. The walls, the floor, her skin. Bright white. Her head dropped back against the cushioned wall, eyes trained on the fluorescent lighting above. It was silent and calm, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. A soft creaking was heard as the door to her room opened, the familiar silhouette of her peppy nurse coming into view. “It’s time for your meds hun,” the nurse states, carrying a glass of water in one hand and a cup of pills in the other. The girl tilts her head downwards slightly, her numb stare meeting the nurse. She didn’t understand why she needed medicine, she wasn’t sick. There wasn’t anything wrong with her. At least she didn’t think so. “Why?” the girl asks, like she does every day when it comes to dosing time. “Like I told you yesterday, we need you to get better.” The nurse sighs, walking closer to the girl. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” the girl screams curling up into a ball as her heart rate steadily increases. “You falsely accused your neighbors of murder, then stalked them for months on end. The poor people almost had to serve time for-“ “Almost?” The girl’s screams fall quiet as she registers what the nurse had said. “Yes, they were in the middle of a party and you called the police. Luckily they didn’t press charges, you just need to stay here a few more days,” the nurse responds handing the girl her cup of pills. “I’m afraid not, I’ve decided to release her,” a voice echos from the doorway.
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The girl’s foggy stare glances around the nurse to find a group of people standing in the doorway. She cautiously stands to her feet, hobbling over with her last remaining energy to the door. There stood her mother, doctor, and the old man from next door. “No...what is he doing here?” the girl stutters, shuddering back into her room. “Honey be nice, you get to come home today.” Her mom smiles opening her arms to embrace her daughter. The girl stiffly walks towards her mother, her eyes never leaving the old man. “I was thinking, you should come over for dinner tonight. We can start over.” He suggests calmly smiling at the young girl as if nothing had ever happened between the two of them. Before the girl could respond her mother eagerly accepts, beginning a conversation with the old man and the nurse. The girl stood there numbly, she was there but not in the way a normal person should be. Mainly because she couldn’t understand how everyone had forgotten what happened besides her. She was kidnapped, prodded, and almost turned into a pie...yet her mother is conversing with the criminal like it never happened. Her things were collected, and just like that the day went by in a blur. The next thing she knew she was standing on the porch of the orange devil house holding a casserole. The girl’s eyes still staring blankly into the distance. “Welcome, we’re so glad you could join us!” A peppy voice greets the two. The girl suddenly snaps back into reality, recognizing the voice. Her eyes focus on the aged yet crazed face of The tart lady. Why was she here? Before she could react her mother guides her into the home, where they all sat. All three families, every single one of them. The girl’s heart begins to race as her mind flashes back to the night when they were planning her demise. The night that put her in the mental hospital, she had almost gotten rid of them for good.
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She got caught though, and while she was gone they had time to plan. Locking her up was only part of the revenge, who knows what else they had in store.This was it, this was the big plan. In the center of the room is a table piled high with pies, tarts, smoothies, and a blank spot for the casserole. What kind of sick dinner party is this? The girl panics, turning around to make a run for it. She is instantly stopped in her tracks by the old man. “Would you like some pie dear?” He questions holding out a slice of pie towards her. She screams dodging around him and running right back out the door and into the night. This couldn’t be happening. As she ran her eyes kept looking back to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Due to this she ran straight into something...or someone. “Hey!” A boy’s voice groans upon the impact. The girl smiles, a plan formulating in her head. Maybe she didn’t need to run after all... “What’s your name?” She asks trying her best to not let the fear in her eyes scare him away. “Jaden...” he cautiously replies sensing the suspicious tone of the girl. “Okay, cool. Well...Jaden, I have something for you,” The girl reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pen, “it’s your turn now. I’m done, I can’t do this anymore.” Just as fast as she arrived the girl began to sprint away, down towards the edge of the neighborhood. “Wait...what’s your name?” Jaden calls after her, not really sure as to what had happened in their exchange. “Abbi, but that doesn’t matter anymore!” She calls back before running off into the distance, leaving the boy by himself. He shrugs, confused but not too worried about what had happened. The boy looks down at the pen in his hands, it was red as blood with
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gold etching. He holds the pen into the light of the street lamp to see what it says. “The Burbs.�
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[Passing Times] Ashley Jones
I wonder how many twinkling stars are now just ghosts. How long since their empty shells were a glow. The time it takes for their lovely light to cast onto us. Time didn’t stop for them. Trees, tall as skyscrapers, brimming with vibrancy and life. Their colorful fruits and flowers beautiful. The trunk shrivels and hallows. Limbs snap and flora rots. Trees, broken and withered, lay decomposing. Time didn’t stop for them. Time starts slipping faster when we need it most. The grains turned water, cascading through fingers before you’ve realized it’s changed. Staring as the time you thought you had spills onto the floor, soaking you as it falls. Time doesn’t stop for us either. --I wonder how many stars have filled up the sky that we just can’t see yet. Their youth and bright nature just waiting to punch through our pitch black nights. They wish to shower us in their ethereal glow, their excitement slowed by distance but never truly stopped. Sprouts take hold in soil filled with nutrients and love. Their colors peaking through the browns that shelter and protect them. It may not be soon, but they too will stand tall and gather life up in their loving embrace and curving branches. You realize the time that’s slipped through your fingers have left little puddles. Their reflections show moments that aren’t bound to time, moments that are woven through your very being. The water that’s soaked your front feels heavy before it’s gone. It reminds you of the people who’ve built you back up 79
after life got rough. Who’ve dried your tears and given you the love to keep moving. Suddenly the restrictions of time aren’t so tight. It’s no longer the ticking of your demise, but a scrapbook of you. Of the small details that our fear of time steals from us.
[Sugar Spun] Athy Kuhner I glide on a cotton cloud. Up in the sky, you can see me, slowly floating down, relaxed comfortably on my sugary bed. Little tufts litter the ground for all the world to enjoy. But it rains. It rains chocolate milk, silk smooth, sprinkling, and melts every puff of sweetness. And then my cloud disappears. I fall, to the ground, with all these drops, and it only matters for a while. Because the weather reports that the lemon drop sun has disappeared, that the chocolate was without sugar, and the world of rock candy is being filled with flooding and smoke. I never really liked cotton candy. Honestly, I never liked chocolate milk or rock candy either, but I thought that cotton candy might help. It’s soft, it’s sweet. Other people seem to like cotton candy. Guess I should have known that in the end, it’s all just too much Sugar. 80
[T h e G h o s t s o f E v e r g r e e n 2 : Argentum Lingua] E. Max “AAAHHH!!!” “Just take some deep breaths…” I started to hyperventilate. He sighed and put his hands up to his forehead. A million thoughts were rushing through my head at a million miles per hour. Who was this person? It seemed as though this worry, this confusion and this fury was being drained into my body like a flash. A shock sent down my spine, intense heat gathered at the tips of my fingers, and then, as the unknown man speedily fled out of the barn with the Click of a lock, and a similar ringing noise gathered at my ears, all the gathered energy burst. Not literally… but that’s certainly how it felt! “Crack!” In an instant, the heat left my fingers, the ringing fled my ears. It gathered into a burning… blue… orb. “Ohh, no…” I breathed deeply. I looked around. What should I do? Did I start this fire and forget about it? I needed to do something… anything to help me think about something better. The crystalline, burning orb still glowed and crackled in my open hand. “I wonder what would happen if I…” I thrust my hand directly at the locked door, and quick as a bolt, the blue fire shot from my hand and seared a hole in the already burnt wood, making the entirety of the barn start to crumble I guess that was overkill. I could’ve justA tiny scream went off in my head as I noticed that shards of the towering mortar and wood above me were starting to fall like large daggers. Eh… I’m already dead, so… “You know, you can still die, you’d just be wasting a life.” A silver arrow flew unnaturally far, spreading snow in its path, and eventually knocked a large piece of mortar away from my head. It twirled around in mid-air, and the same ghost’s voice came. 81
“Grab on!” I put my fingertips to the edge of the silver, ghostly arrow, and a wave of pure, chilling cold shocked my body. I hesitated. Then, I tightened my grip, closed my eyes, and braced myself. The arrow yanked and twirled, dragging me in the air like an oversized ribbon, and eventually, lifelessly fell to the ground, with me, no longer in harm’s way. Where I had fell was a place that seemed to be at the outskirts of some large forest composed of what may have been pine trees and evergreens. Exiting the forest, at the tip of my view existed a giant, gray lake, inside of which, something was restlessly burbling and splashing. The entire scene was lit by ghostly, haunting moonlight that radiated a cool, cold feel. My fingers were still wrapped tight around the once frost bitten arrow. “I’ll take that!” The ghost I had talked to earlier smiled at me and held out his hand. “My name is Jeffrey Gwin. Welcome to Argentum Lingua, A province of death!”
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[Your Untypical Romance] E.S.
Jenna and Sam reached in, fingers barely touching each other’s faces. Then, with nothing but a breath between them, they kissed. Sam’s mouth was soft and warm, and the kiss deepe“Wait, wait, wait. Do I have to use tongue?” The narrator sighed. “Yes, Jenna, you have to use tongue.” “Can we compromise? I mean, he’s cute, but not that cute. My standards are higher than this. I want Mark, not Sam.” “But, Sam is what the author wants, so Sam it must be.” The narrator’s distaste was palatable. “Maybe she likes rough ‘n ready tractor boys covered in their own sweat, but I don’t!” “Too. Bad, Jenna! Just kiss him already! Ahem-” Sam’s lips were soft and warm, and“Ew! God! Gross!” “What is it now?” “He’s slobbering all over me!!” “It’s a passionate kiss! For all the love in the world, just make out with him and get it over with!” “I don’t want to! Does he even want to? You’re omnipotent, go see!” The narrator peeked into Sam’s mind. “There’s only… grunting. Manly grunting. I don’t speak human male.” “I told you I wanted Mark! … How about I faint? Is that romantic enough for you?” Overcome by emotion, Jenna fainted gently into Sam’s strong and muscular arms. He carried her home like a princess returning to her castle. With every step he took, he could almost hear“This. Freaking. Sucks.” “Jenna!” “Get out of my head!” 83
[Gateway]
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Darus Poling
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[July 13, 1916]
Elliot McClafferty
Dear mother, Today me and my battalion are being transported to the frontlines, far from the safe and secure town of Poperinge. There, we all had a good rest, but before we knew it we were back on the Somme. The exact location we will be taken to is Delville wood. There is talk that our battalion will be placed there, for the Germans have been entering through the trees and conducting raids on our trenches. For now we drive past the city of Lille...do you remember when I was a child, when we traveled into Belgium just to vacation there? I sure do. The cathedrals there are quite exquisite, the Belgium’s love their architecture after all. If you can recall like I do, the people there were always so friendly, and treated us as if we were one of their own. Now I am saddened, the city we once adored is now reduced to no]thing, as I pass the half destroyed church, it’s angel on top leaning forward, looking down on us all. I know all of you back in Paris must be very worried about me, but you must understand; I will not fall, nor will I get sucked into the ground like so many have over the two years we have defended our homeland. I will push through, and come out safe and sound on the other side. I will return home, as safe as when I had left it. Your son, Echard Henri 86
[Eylee Mosingham’s Scary Stories 1: The Gourd-Cutter] Ellis Beck The gourd-cutter stood in the cellar, as she slashed at the gourd with her serrated knife, before drawing out a vial of liquid from beneath her apron. She then reached down and bit into the hollow gourd with her teeth, making two bite-marks in its exterior. Then she opened the vial and poured the contents into the gourd, before refilling it and closing its lid, leaving only the two bite-marks as evidence of the crime. Done, thought the gourd-cutter. The trap is set. Time to face the music. But before the gourd-cutter could make another move, she heard footsteps and turned around to see a colossal man standing before her. The man was ten feet high and was so skinny that you might think he was a runt in a village of giants. His face was covered by a long and thin wooden Elder mask, while a three foot long sheet of white-blond hair streamed out from behind it. He was the Leader XVII, the Seventeenth Leader. Then Leader XVII snapped his fingers, he sound so loud that it vibrated the cellar walls. In response, the thirty-or-so men seated around the gourd-cutter rose to their feet, all of them holding huge white plates, an elaborate dish on each and every one. The gourd-cutter looked down at her pumpkin in shame, wondering why she chose such a paltry dish, but all thoughts were interrupted by the first Rebel presenting his offering. It was a beautiful, succulent caramel apple, seated on one of the best plates the Rebel could come by. With outstretched arms, he presented his creation to Leader XVII, who scanned it over, and, when Leader XVII found nothing suspicious, he took a bite. After he finished, Leader XVII bowed his head and moved out of the way to allow the man to pass. Leader XVII then did the same for the next three Rebels’ dishes, thoroughly looking them over before trying them and eventually letting the Rebels pass into their quarters. But when he got to the fifth Rebel, his expression changed. The fifth Rebel’s dish was a spinach quiche, with a kneaded crust and cheese oozing out from the center, but in the filling, black bubbles of goo were rising up and popping. Leader XVII immediately saw this as a betrayal, and turned to 87
face the fifth Rebel. “This,” he spat, “is a betrayal.” The man tried to interject, but was swiftly pinned to the ground by the great, hallowing form of Leader XVII. Then Leader XVII’s eyes began to fade into a creepy, milky white, showing no expression, no feeling. The Rebel tried to look away, but within seconds he was entranced. With the Fifth rebel entranced, he blew a sharp breath out of his eyes, as a cold chill spread around the room that seemed to melt the world around it. And when Leader XVII rose to his feet less than a minute later, lying where he had been was the stone body of the fifth Rebel. Within the next hour, Leader XVII saw all twenty-five remaining dishes. Twenty-two of them he gladly ate and soon allowed their makers to pass, but in three more he saw signs of a betrayal in the first look and turned their makers to stone. But as he turned to leave, the gourd-cutter yelled out “Sir! You haven’t tasted my creation yet!” Leader XVII turned around and saw the gourd-cutter standing in the corner by the stone bodies, holding up her gourd. Then Leader XVII walked over briskly as a look of disapproval formed on his face. A mere pumpkin, thought Leader XVII. Was this really her offering? Assuming that no one would even think to poison a dish as peddly as a mere gourd, he shoved the gourd into the mask’s void. Within moments, he began to flail around, inhaling a deep breath and gently exhaling three times, before running out of breath as the wind exploded out of him, causing the walls to turn to stone, and sending the mask hurtling over o the gourd-cutter. Then the wind cleared, and lying on the ground were a pile of stone bones and a frozen heart. The gourd-cutter sat in the corner, contemplating her next move, before she tossed the stone body of Leader XVII with the others. Then the gourd-cutter picked the bodies up, a look of triumph blazing on her face. They were hers now. As the gourd-cutter left the cellar, she put on the mask. Almost instantly, she felt a freezing pain in her chest as her body burned up in a streak of flames as robes grew around her as she emitted a guttural shriek, before she lost consciousness and the whole world went black. But one thing was for certain. Leader XVIII had been born.
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[Jailed] Esme Morgan Eylee had never understood why people disliked rain. The world
revolved around rain. Every person in the world was endlessly dependent on it. The rain has done so much for you, so let it fall. Eylee loved that saying so much her whole house was built around it. The middle part of her roof was cut out just to let the rain into her home. She did have a way to close her ceiling, but only did so on sunny days claiming “Humidity does terrible things to my hair. It makes it look brushed!” On this rainy day, however, Eylee was not doing her usual activities. Today there was no time for playing chess, doing algebra, or reading “Harry Potter” for the 27th time. She had just received a call from the New Town Prison saying her friend, Enzong, had been jailed! “No time for potions today,” she muttered and took off in her newest Tesla. Eylee had always been convinced magic was real (she’d probably gotten that idea from her favorite book series) and was out to prove she was right. If she could transform herself into a full-on fire-breathing chicken-eating dragon then anyone who doubted her would be devoured. Eylee had planned to do this with alchemy, or potions, as she preferred to call it, but had so far only succeeded in giving herself three sharp teeth, which lead to a small overbite. To say it simply, Eylee was rather unusual. A vibrant purple Tesla pulled into a parking lot crowded with gray police cars. Eylee casualty skipped to the prison gates purposely forgetting to use an umbrella. Two guards who both looked like they’d eaten one too many doughnuts in their lifetime were standing under the small awning of the jail like they were afraid of getting wet. “Mosingham?” one of the guards called, addressing Eylee by her last name “What’re you doin’ out on a day like this?” The guards were usually friendly with Eylee, as she’d caught most of their prisoners herself. “I’m here to see Enzong. Would you lead me to her?” she asked. “Oh Enzong, huh? She was more than a little difficult during the crime interview. I suppose you might want to know just who caught her?” the guard said, oblivious to Eylee’s friendship with Enzong. “No, I don’t care who caught her, just take me to her!” Eylee had never been a patient person. “Calm down, I’m sure you’ll have the honor of catching the next criminal. After what you’ve done for the prison in the past I’m sure you can see this “Enzong”. Come along.” He thinks I’m angry because I didn’t catch Enzong. Eylee thought bitterly as she followed the guard into the ominous gray building.
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Enzong had known Eylee since her first college. (She’d been to 36.) They were roommates and quickly became friends. They both agreed on equal rights for fowls and did calculus for fun. Enzong was taller than Eylee by a good half foot, and not because the dragon wanna-be was short. Still she had no interest in volleyball or basketball. She spent her time reading and rereading classical literature such as The Hunger Games and practicing electronics. She was basically a more nervous version of Eylee with quite a bit more self control. They reached Enzong’s cell, which originally probably looked a lot like all the others. The guard seemed surprised, and Eylee too was shocked. Enzong must’ve known she’d be going to jail because she had sure prepared. The ground was covered in a red carpet, a few pillows were spread about, there was a book on silkie chicken breeds on the bed and Enzong was adjusting a small lava lamp. “H-how??” the guard stuttered. “Oh, do you like my decorations?” Enzong asked pleasantly “I thought this room could use a nice touch.” “But... how did you get this past the security? We have a metal detector and everything!” the guard stuttered. “Simple,” she replied, “I called my pet hawk to drop it off a few minutes after you left.” At that moment a small falcon appeared at the cell’s window. In its talons it carried a laptop. Enzong held up a piece of bread and the hawk swooped down to eat it. “Chicken gets the food and I get the stuff,” Enzong caught the laptop as it fell. “It’s a win-win.” “You named your hawk Chicken?” Eylee asked. “Yes, obviously. Now be a good chicken, Chicken, and go fetch me a notebook.” Chicken obediently flew off, ignoring the oncoming rain, which was now more like sleet. “So, what do you want with me?” Enzong asked sinking into a large pile of pillows. “It’s kind of a private matter,” Eylee said eyeing the prison guard. The guard made no response. He was too surprised about his prisoner’s cell, which by now looked more like a luxury apartment. Eylee sighed and lead him out into the prison courtyard. Before leaving him she did a little burglary for his keys. The only thought on her mind was freeing Enzong. When she returned to the cell, Enzong had also obtained an orange notebook and a blue ballpoint pen. “How did you get captured in the first place?” Eylee decided to learn about her friend’s situation before planning a breakout. “Smuggling chickens from local farms. I didn’t want them to be eaten. They deserved a free life.” “They arrested you for THAT?”
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“Not just any chickens. SILKIE chickens.” “Oh, that changes things,” Eylee agreed. “So how’re you planning to escape?” “I actually wasn’t going to,” Enzong said “I have all the things I need in here and the jail food is actually pretty good since the prison teamed up with Burgerville. Plus being in jail is a better excuse to skip the town meeting than back pains.” “Back pains?” Eylee asked. “Yeah, it started after I drank that soda at your place yesterday.” “What soda? I hate carbonation! You know that!” “Oh yeaaaaah. Then why did you have a soda on that counter?” “I didn’t... oh no.” “What? What was it?” “My latest potion. I didn’t have a container so I stuck it in a soda bottle. I claimed it ‘unusable’ after I spilled cyanide in it.” “You spilled CYANIDE and put it in a COKE BOTTLE??!! I drank that bottle, Eylee! You can’t just leave cyanide lying around! Are you trying to murder someone?!” “Well, yes, actually, but not you. I met this really annoying guy in Yosemite and I plan for him not to see his next birthday. Also that idiot who wouldn’t let me participate on a male wrestling team. But not you, no.” “Eylee, you may have just killed me! Do you not realize that?” “I don’t think you’ll die, it was only a little bit of cyanide.” “You don’t THINK?” Eylee shrugged “Well if you’re going to die I don’t think you want to do it in jail. Let me get you out of there.” “I really wouldn’t.” “I really would.” “Of course you would. I know you too well, Eylee.” “So OK, I’ll get you out,” Eylee held up the keys she stole from the guard. “Eylee, those keys are to the prison’s pantry. These things open with a barcode, and if you get anything wrong on the code the alarms sound.” “Oof, tough lock.” “These doors were your own idea.” “True. Good job, me.” “Does that mean you know the code?” “I have the guards change it regularly, so no.” “Well, they let me out in a month and I’m totally fine here with all of this,” She gestured around the room “So you should go home and work up a potion to cure cyanide. I won’t be lonely, I see Chicken coming right now.” “Hah! I’m not leaving till you leave.” “So you’ll be sitting here for a month?” “No! I’m busting this cell open.” Before Enzong could speak Eylee pulled out a small pack of dynamite and
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placed it by the door. “Back up, or you will be dead,” she advised. Enzong might be stubborn, but she wasn’t dumb. She scooted to the far corner and waited for impact. There was a very loud explosion that can only be described as Boom! The guards came running from every corner of the prison to see the commotion. “Eylee! Did you do this?” one guard boomed. Eylee glanced at the wall. The blast had most definitely destroyed the door and then some, but Enzong was just as trapped as ever. The prison had installed a backup gate that dropped whenever a “Boom” was heard. “No prisoners have escaped, but this sure will cost a lot of money. I don’t think our insurance will cover all of the damage,” one guard said. Others were more emotional. One guard was collapsed on his knees sobbing “You were a beautiful wall, a little rusty on the hinges, but you were beautiful. We will build a shrine for you. A monument for the whole world to see you in your full glory. We will never forget you!” And in the middle of the mess was Eylee Mosingham. Suddenly all eyes were on her. Four hours later Eylee was finally calmed down. The day had taken a terrible turn. She had been blamed for exploding the wall and immediately been taken to trial. In court all she had said was “Silence!” “I have been falsely accused!” “You will suffer the consequences for locking up a Mosingham!” and “You’re all imbeciles! Every last one of you! This is totally unfair!”. The real struggle was getting Eylee into the cell. Even without her sword it took five guards to hold her down. And once inside the cage she had tried every stone for a weak spot, pried on the iron bars until her fingers bled, and tried to flush herself into the plumbing through the toilet. But she still had ten years in the cell. Soon Enzong would be freed and Eylee would be the one trapped. She wouldn’t be able to feel the rain for ten years. And now the sun had begun to shine. That was the worst omen. The rain had stopped. This is terrible, Eylee thought. At that moment a loud crash was heard. Eylee sat up abruptly. The crash was followed by screaming and a booming roar. Suddenly a claw burst through the ceiling! Not just any claw, a dragon claw! The claw pulled apart the rest of the roof to reveal a looming serpent with wings as long as a chicken ranch! Eylee was lost for words. On one hand she was face to face with a real live dragon! On the other she was face to face with a real live dragon! Was she to scream or cheer? “I guess this explains the back pains,” the dragon said. “E-Enzong?” Eylee asked. “Uh, yeah! Who else?” Enzong the dragon answered.
“But how?” Eylee wondered. “I think it was that “coke” I had that was really your potion. After the explosion and you were taken away I had Chicken bring me a book on poisons. Cyanide is an acid. I thought if I could counter it with a strong base I might have a better chance of survival. So I ate the prison soap. I think the mix of the two strong ingredients created, well, this!” Enzong spread her wings proudly. Without further warning, she picked Eylee up and placed her on the back of the newly-made dragon. “Wow, I created the world’s first magic!” The Mosingham said happily “If I can’t be a dragon, why not have a friend who is one?” As a light rain began to fall the girl and dragon flew off, imagining the great adventures to come. Chicken was happily swooping close behind.
[T h e L i t t l e s t A n t a n d T h e G r e a t Blue Sky] Grace e.k. Once upon a time, a little ant (littler even than his brothers and sisters) rolled onto his back and found himself strangely and unexpectedly looking up at the great blue sky. This was quite a new sensation for the little ant, who had only just been born three days prior. He had never seen the color blue before; his time was spent moving across gray cobbled pavement and brown soil, sometimes looking ahead at the green grass and green leaves, and every once in a while, from the very top edge of his vision, a pink or white flower blossom. But blue—that was something utterly unknown to the little ant. It appeared clear and smooth and soft. Lying on his back, he raised his legs to touch it, but found that it was out of reach, though it appeared to be all around. He was puzzled. How could this bright and gentle color be so far away? For many hours, the ant remained there on the ground. He had the unsettling idea that perhaps if he turned away from the great blue sky it might disappear, never to be seen again. Though it was very big, bigger than anything the little ant had seen before, there was something about the sky that seemed fragile too. The little ant wondered if it could float away. If the sky did leave, as the ant supposed it very well might, what would be left in its place? A new color? An old one? Brown like the soil or gray like the cobblestones? Pink or white like the flowers or green like newly fallen leaves? He pondered this with fascination. The world, so it seemed, could be anything at all. When they saw his little body spread across the ground with his legs in the air, the little ant’s brothers and sisters laughed. “Look, look,” they called out. “The littlest one has gotten stuck on his back!”
And they laughed some more. This, in fact, had not yet occurred to the little ant. He was so enthralled that not once had he suspected he might be stuck. It was a curious discovery, but the little ant supposed that if he was indeed stuck, there was perhaps no better place to be than in the great blue sky.
[S u c c e e d i n g t h e C r i m s o n T i d e s ] H. E. Gerdts
Sapphire water skips down ash-smothered rocks, creating a murky cerulean pool at the base of the hill. Ebony hued trees exhibit remnants of crimson tide licking at the forest, devouring it whole, leaving charred trunks and barren terrain in its wake. Even so, jade stems and scarlet buds peek out from where they are obscured by fragments of destruction, peppering the forestry with raw life, like snow dusting the ground. Flora and fauna alike flourish, even succeeding the blistering blaze that scorched everything that was alive.
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[Love is my Specialty] Lucy Calypso’s shop was located in an alley on the outskirts of town, the alley itself was rumored to only be accessible at dusk. The nondescript wooden door was easily passed by, almost blending into the side of the building. There was no sign outside, no one calling people in or advertising any products; in fact, there was no indication that there was a shop at all. Except for that strange wooden door, passed over by everyone, except those who wanted to find it and knew of its secrets. The inside of the shop was a stark difference from the door in the alley. The only sources of light were the crystals placed strategically around the room, all of them glowing in different shades of pink. There was nothing to illuminate the ceiling, in fact, there was nothing to indicate that there was even a ceiling at all past the towering shadows untouched by pink. The shop’s shelves reached up to brush the darkness, the wood fading seamlessly into the vast expanse of shadows. The floor was a labyrinth, the shelves conveniently placed with the apparent goal of eventually getting customers to the back counter to purchase their goods. The tall shelves, with their rich black wood, were nothing spectacular compared to what was on them. The glass vials that sat vigil were the only reason that anybody ever came to the shop in the first place. Each one a different shape, each one filled with a colored liquid, all of them a different shade of pink or purple. No two vials were exactly the same, some had clear liquid just barely tinted with color, others were filled with a murky substance that moved slowly and menacingly, and some had an iridescent liquid that sparkled in the light of the crystals. No shelf was ever empty, there were never any empty spots at all. Each shelf was meticulously maintained by the shop’s owner, 95
who was often seen carefully placing the vials in their places. Calypso herself was even more mysterious than her little shop. Nobody had ever seen her outside the door, but she made a point to greet every customer that entered and call them by their name. She was pleasant in her own way, with a smile that showed just a few too many teeth, a face that seemed just a few years too young for her demeanor, and moon-grey eyes that looked like they’d seen just a few too many things. When she wasn’t saying hello to customers or stocking the maze of shelves, she was behind the counter in the back of the shop, deep magenta curtains obscuring the doorway into a room darker than the night. No one except Calypso even knew what was in the back room, and nobody ever dared to ask. On a seemingly ordinary Tuesday evening, the sun started to fall and cast a shadow over the little wooden door. In that moment, a lone figure strode through the alley, hands deep in her pockets to fight the sudden chill. She stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and twisted the knob. The girl blinked as she entered the dark shop, the crystals flickering and the vials on the shelves gleaming in their pink light. “H-hello?” she called, voice bouncing through the apparently empty labyrinth. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” another voice echoed across the room, as cold and crisp as a typical autumn day. The girl strained to see the source of the rustling and rattles that followed, until finally another woman stepped out of the shadows. “Welcome, it seems you’ve found my shop,” the woman started, rich chocolate locks falling in front of her face. “What can I do for you today, love? Someone break your heart? Someone steal your heart? Or is it something else that you desire?” “Are… are you… are you Calypso?” the girl stammered, struggling to meet the shopkeeper’s wide grey eyes. “Yes I am,” Calypso replied, “and who might you be?” “K-Katelyn.” “Katelyn? A beautiful name for a beautiful young lady. So tell 96
me Katelyn, what brings you to my humble establishment on this fine evening?” “Well there’s… there’s this… uh…” “It’s okay love, take your time.” “There’s… there’s this guy.” “Oh?” Calypso raised an eyebrow. “He and I… we… we work together. And we…. we started…. we started to meet up outside of work. Lunches and coffee and… and that kind of thing. And then… I… uh… I…” Katelyn’s face went red as she suddenly became very interested in her shoes. “You what, love?” Calypso prompted gently. “I… I…” Katelyn glanced up at her host, who gave her an encouraging nod. “I started to get feelings for him!” she yelped, eyes beginning to water. “And then… and then I told him. And he… and now he… he doesn’t even want to talk to me. Even… even when… even when we’re just… just at work. But Calypso, I… I really love him. Please… please make him love me!” She buried her face in her hands, choking back sobs. “It’s alright, miss Katelyn,” Calypso placed a hand on her shoulder, “I have just the thing for you. Lucky you came to me, love is my specialty.” Calypso led the sniffling girl through the endless expanse of shelves, mumbling to herself as they passed each vial. Somewhere in the middle, she finally took a vial from its resting place. She shook the heart-shaped glass, both she and her customer watching the pink-tinted liquid splash. “Now this little thing,” Calypso explained to a wide-eyed Katelyn, “is exactly what you need. Tell me, what do you want him to love about you?” “I… I want him to… I want him to love me for who I am. I want him to… I want him to think that… that I’m the type of person… the type of person that he wants to be around.” “Very wonderful reasons, love. With this,” she held up the vial, “What you’re going to do with this is pour most of it, it is very important that you don’t pour all of it, into something that you 97
know he’s going to drink. Does he have a water bottle or a coffee cup that you could do this with? Without him seeing?” Katelyn nodded. “Lovely. Now as for the rest of it, you’re going to drink it yourself. And then the two of you will be connected through this little concoction, and he’s going to start noticing what a wonderful person you are, he’ll love the pretty little things that you say, and he’ll love spending time in your company. But don’t worry, love. This isn’t a strong one, he won’t become maniacal or possessive. Exactly the kind of sweetness that you want.” “C-Calypso, thank you, but… uh… but…” “Go on and say it, I’m happy to listen.” “Will… will it… the love… will it be real?” Katelyn whispered, wringing her hands and biting her lip. “Oh Katelyn, my dear,” Calypso smiled gently, stroking her hair. “I know that it’s an unfamiliar solution, and that you have a tender heart. That’s the beauty of these little ones, they light the spark. And he will fall into real, genuine love, just the same as if it started any other way.” “And… and you’re sure that he’ll love me?” “Of course he will. What is there for him not to love? Now, if you’re going to get this little beauty, let’s get you all sorted.” Katelyn followed Calypso to the back of the shop, weaving through the shelves of twinkling vials. The counter came into their view, in front of the magenta curtains, which covered the mysterious back room, which Katelyn squinted at in an attempt to discern its purpose. Calypso, however, paid no mind to her customer’s curiosity, and simply took her place in front of the counter as if there was no room behind her at all. Forcing her gaze away from the room, Katelyn reached into her pocket and pulled out three crisp bills. “Is… is this enough? I have… I have more if you… if you want it…” “My dear, that’s plenty. Here, let me grab a bag for you. Wouldn’t want everyone to know what you have, now would you? And here it is.” Calypso passed a small paper bag over the counter, vial nestled 98
inside. Her customer took it, before turning to the maze between her and the door. “Can you find the exit yourself, love? Or would you like me to walk you through?” “Oh… I… I think I can make it.” She started to walk away, before suddenly spinning back around to face the counter. “Th… thank you! For… for this,” she said, holding up the bag. “You are most welcome, dear. Love is my specialty, after all.” When Calypso heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing, she immediately turned around and pushed aside the magenta curtains. The back room was even darker than the rest of the shop, lit by a single dark pink crystal. She walked into it, toward an ornate chest with a seemingly ordinary padlock. “Time to restock, I suppose. I can’t exactly have an empty spot on one of my shelves, after all.” Calypso kneeled down in front of the chest, took the padlock in her hand, brought her face close, and spoke. “Pretium caritate.” The lock snapped open, and she pulled it off of the chest and heaved the lid open. Her face didn’t change at the cacophony of screams that cried from the inside, or at the small, distorted ghostly figures that tried to crawl out. “Oh you get back in there,” she snapped, swatting at one of the transparent shriveled hands. “Now, which one of you will help me today?” The twisted faces dove to the bottom of the chest, trembling as Calypso reached toward them. The screams grew louder as her hand got closer, until finally she got her fingers around a spindly arm and tugged it free. “You know, none of you would be in this situation if you’d paid the price I gave for my services. Love is easy, you don’t need a deal for that. But anything else costs much more than money. And if you can’t pay up, you stay here and help me with my shop. But you know that firsthand, don’t you?” she said, holding up the writhing spirit. “Take that fellow that helped me with that cutesy mix I just sold to that girl. He wanted a family, so I 99
gave him a little concoction that would help him and his wife in exchange for his firstborn. But when the time came, he couldn’t bring himself to pay up. But a soul like that helping me out made for a very genuine, sweet sort of love. Oh, but you don’t care about that, do you? I remember you very well, you only cared for yourself.” Slamming the trunk’s lid shut, Calypso dragged the struggling soul to another side of the room, towards a countertop with a marble bowl, black jars and several empty vials, as well as various herbs hanging on the wall. “Now, let’s see what kind of love comes out of a soul who only ever cared about achieving fame.” The spirit shrieked as it was carelessly tossed into the bowl, withered hands clawing at the slippery edges, only to be smacked back into the marble by Calypso. She pulled from the wall of herbs a sprig of lavender and handful of dried rose petals, tossing them into the bowl. The spirit shrank away from the plants as they landed next to it, wailing in agony. “Oh you stop that,” Calypso spat as she grabbed a handful of poppy seeds from one of the jars. “You and I have both known that this was coming.” An unearthly scream rose from the bowl as she sprinkled the poppyseed over it, the spirit’s futile attempts to escape becoming more and more frantic. Calypso’s expression didn’t change, her movements never wavered, as she knelt down so that she was eye level with the bowl, before she spoke, just as she had when unlocking the chest. “Pretium non reddere tibi.” The desperate wails were suddenly lost in thick purple smoke, rising from the bowl but quickly obscuring most of the room. Just as soon as it appeared, it faded away, and everything went silent. Calypso looked into the bowl, nodding in satisfaction. Pulling a ladle out from behind the jars, she scooped the liquid into a new vial, watching iridescent purple swirl as it settled. “A mix that’ll cause everybody to love whoever drinks it. What a fitting end to such an arrogant soul.”
Vial in hand, Calypso strode out of the back room, through the magenta curtains, into the maze of shelves, and placed it in the only empty space.
[The Time We Met the Moon Excerpt] Lucy “Grandmother, can you tell me a story?” “Which story would you like tonight, my dear?” “The one about the end of the Lunar Era.” “Again? You’ve already heard that story many times.” “I know, Grandmother. But it’s my favorite.” “Very well, my dear. The end of the Lunar Era.” “Over one hundred years ago, a strange phenomenon was seen in the night sky. Many said that it was a comet, but those who had studied them knew that it was no comet. It landed on Earth, and as people gathered in fear and awe at the large, unknown object, it began to open.” “The object opened?” “You have heard this story many times, yes it opened. Now, listen. The object opened, and a man stepped out from within. He introduced himself as Mercury Io, claiming that he was seeking refuge from cruel leaders from his home. The kingdom of Nix-” “Our home, Grandmother!” “Yes, our home, you know this, it shouldn’t be a surprise. The kingdom of Nix welcomed the man called Mercury with open arms, willing to offer the refugee shelter from whatever fate awaited him from among the stars. He was a very grateful man, and offered anything he could to repay the kindness he had been shown. He soon integrated himself into society, the very model of a hardworking, honest, and humble man. He was well loved by many, for good reasons. 101
“But it didn’t last, did it?” “Yes and no. For several years everything was good, but just as the seasons change so do people’s hearts. One fateful night, Mercury stood up in front of all the citizens of Nix, claiming to have killed the king and declaring himself the supreme leader. Everyone scoffed at his declaration, for what power did a refugee from the unknown have against a strong and powerful kingdom?” “But he had lots of power, didn’t he Grandmother?” “Just listen to the story, dear. Just as people began to discuss arresting him for his acts, the object that he emerged from opened once again. But instead of a man emerging, legions of robots came out, glowing in the moonlight. The citizens of Nix were powerless to stop them, and several lost their lives that night. Thus, the Lunar Era began.” “They say it was terrible.” “That is correct, my dear. With an unknown power, Mercury was able to harness the moonlight that gave strength to his robots and plunged the kingdom into an eternal night, him and his robot army growing stronger with the moon. But the citizens suffered greatly, for humanity was never meant to survive without light. So after many more years, when crops were failing and the cold became unbearable, the citizens of Nix led a revolt against Mercury and his robots. They were vastly outmatched, under the full moon the robots were stronger than ever, and all humanity had to defend itself was sheer force of will. Just when all hope seemed lost-” “This is my favorite part, Grandmother!” “I know, dear. Just when all hope seemed lost, the Temple of the Moon on Crescent Hill lit up with a brilliant light, brighter than anything that humanity had seen in the entire Lunar Era. From that radiant light came a woman, none other than the moon spirit Callisto. The robots turned to face her, for they were powered by moonlight and Callisto controlled it. She declared the Lunar Era and Mercury Io’s reign of terror over, calling his robots to her side. Mercury tried to order his robots to kill her, but they had a new master. With her power, Callisto 102
struck down Mercury and freed Nix from his control.” “And the robots, Grandmother?” “As for the robots, Callisto gathered vast amounts of moonlight around herself and cast it out onto the robots. She told them that they were free to go home, for they were no longer slaves. The citizens of Nix watched in amazement as every activated robot lifted itself into the air. And with the moon spirit’s power, the robots rose into the sky, free at last. Before Callisto returned to the heavens, she freed the kingdom from its eternal night, promising to keep it safe for all eternity. Almost a hundred years have passed, and all has been peaceful ever since.” “That’s why we pray at the temple, right Grandmother? To thank the moon spirit for her protection?” “Correct, my dear.” “May I ask a question, Grandmother?” “Of course.” “You told me that my parents are with the moon spirit now. If we pray hard enough, will I see them again? Will they come home?” “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for that. But it’s time to sleep now. Goodnight, my dear.” “Goodnight, Grandmother.”
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[C o n t r o l ] Mia Lewis Tears stream down her dirt streaked face like rivers parting the Earth. “Are you sure?” She asks cautiously, drawing in one forced breath after another. You nod, you have to. The one thing you have been avoiding the whole journey… Your whole life. She nods reluctantly, understanding what needs to be done, wanting it, but hating it as much as you do. A male figure walks next to the girl. Showing almost no emotion, yet when he speaks, the tone is soft and kind. “You don’t have to do this,” his emotions start to show through as you see his eyebrows scrunch together in thought and his lips pressing together in worry. Smiling to yourself, so ever thankful to have these two companions with you, you pull them into a hug. Looking at the two, you slowly back away. You will never forget the two friends you love, and trust most. Letting the dark shadows consume you, transferring you to a different, darker world, you hear a hollow, raw voice call out to you, “Will you let me control you forever? Will you prove yourself weak and a coward?” the voice taunts you. For you now know, it is time to face what has held you back. All this time. And now no more. It is now, time to face your darkest, deepest Fear.
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[The Luna Expedition] Nora VanRees From a young age children learn that our future lies among the clouds- hidden up in the midst of stardust, celestial bodies and darkness. Up is where our future lives would reside, the home to our children and our children’s children. We sought out life in space because the Earth is dying. The air has gone sour, it is tainted with poison, tangled in the claws of pollution. Our once cerulean seas are soaked with gasoline, devoured by chemicals. Plastic swirls amiss the depths, all tides drained of life and color. Forests are slashed to bits, terrain torn and tarnished for the sake of corporation expansion. We were never taught what laid on the ground before us but rather what laid above us the stars. The steel body of the Luna I ship floated aimlessly, wandering the sky as if it had no destination. After three days of intergalactic travel, Luna I would reach the final stop. I take a look at the families around me, all clothed in white jumpsuits that cling to their skin. Many eyes are nervous, swollen with fear and anxiety. Others are fearless, gleaming with hope at what the future will bring. Spouses entangle their fingers in one another’s and whisper sweet murmurs into each other’s ears. Friends exchange glances, and children tightly clasp their hands onto their mother’s hips. The air is heavy with tension. I press my cheek into the thin pane of glass beside me. A sea of midnight wisps and specks of stardust stretch forever into the distance. My eyes whirl through an ocean of cosmos, dazzled at how the pale dots of light dress the darkness in luminescence. We would land at the moon, and then my future would begin. I will be free to breathe, and free to live. Memories whirl through my mind, thoughts and images of this distant past. The careless days of my childhood, the
fragments of a world that never felt like home, but mostly the moment of when I discovered my parents devised and carried out their own deaths. The sky was left clear and filled with specks of light for just a moment, dotted with stars that represented an escape from our tarnished world. My parents always dreamed of going up, religiously even. With the air devoured by smoke and cloudy hues, clear nights were almost impossible to find. They always wanted to go join the Luna Expedition, but they never got the chance. They died dreaming of what could’ve been, both my mother and father rushing outside to fill their lungs with poisonous air. The quality of life on Earth was so low that they both saw death as the only escape. Sometimes I think it would just be better for me to stay there on that waste of a planet, rotting away just like they did. They left me to die and face the turmoils of Earth alone. Not thinking about their only child, just thinking about themselves. They left me without a family, and without a purpose. The Luna Expedition would be the only way to leave all of those memories behind, and to escape that hell of a planet forever. A clear, masculine voice interrupts my thoughts, the loud crackle of the intercom ringing in my ears. “Attention. Luna I passengers must report to their designated landing pods immediately.” The voice repeats itself until the bellow numbs to a monotonous lull. I squeeze into the moving ocean of white clothed arms, legs and rushing feet, squirming my way through the crowd. “Attention. All Luna I passengers must report their to designated landing pods immediately,” the intercom buzzes again. I turn the corner towards my pod, almost carried past it by the scrambling herd of people. I brush my fingertips against the translucent keypad, shutting the door behind me. I settle into my seat, the white plastic material engraved with my name; Elise Meza. I scratch out the last name with the clip that was fastened to my platinum blond hair. Meza is a name of deranged, lackadaisical nothing. Mom and Dad never loved me, and I carry no desire to hold on to the last piece of them that I have. As I buckle myself into the seat, I can hear nothing
but my heart rattling in my ears. The other seats in my pod are all vacant, and it feels as if I’m surrounded by ghosts. There wasn’t enough survivors on Earth to maximize Luna I’s capacity. “Prepare for landing,” the voice commands. The empty room echoes with the loud crackle of the speaker. I lean backwards, closing my eyes. I made it, I think. I’m going to the Moon. I jolt awake hours later, startled by the sound of air whipping through my eardrums. A thick layer of sweat rests against my temple, my fingertips shaking and numb. The pod rattles uncontrollably, jerking manically from side to side. The emergency lights of my pod flash between bright red and white, an alarm pulsing through my skull. The speaker is clearly broken but it still faintly crackles; “This is a stage 9 emergency. Please contact the captain immediately. There is an engine failure within this landing pod. Please contact the captain immediately.” I gag, coating my lap in a thick layer of liquid. Everything I see is smeared together, and I can barely stretch my arm to reach the emergency contact button. I reach my fingertips forward, pressing them into the button, but no emergency dispatch responds. Confused and disoriented, my head slumps against my shoulder and I fall into unconsciousness. I wake again to a sharp pain in my temple, and a faint beep echoing in the background. The beeping grows louder, and my ears ring as I struggle to unstrap myself from my seat. My vision is completely blurred by my dizziness, and I feel the warmth of vomit rising up my throat. I hurl forward, stomach acid spewing from my mouth onto the inside of my helmet. I stumble onto the floor groping at my throat for air. My oxygen monitor beeps, “Oxygen level critical.” I collapse onto my side, wincing from the ache I feel in my right arm. I look around, and everything I see is blurred from my disorientation. “Oxygen level critical,” my monitor beeps again. I struggle towards the emergency medical kit, barely able to move. I remove a shard of
glass from my arm with a pair of oversized tweezers. My gloved fingers tremble as I brush them against the wound, covering it with a bandage. The bandage is instantly soaked in a crimson hue, staining my breached suit in blood. The beeping of my monitor intensifies as I frantically seal the breach. After a few minutes, my oxygen level stabilizes and I open the emergency exit of my pod to find the others. My boots strike the ground, crisp, grey dust stretching in all directions. The sky is a sea of darkness, dotted with blips of light that sparkle. In the distance I see Earth, a wasteland of midnight blue and deep green. Other landing pods are littered everywhere, some crumpled and dented, others creating craters in the Moon’s surface. My pod is the only one that is slightly intact that can be seen from here. I wander past each pod, peering through the shattered glass of each window. Through each empty hole I see overturned chairs, caved in walls, and men, women, and children slumped over on the ground, all splattered in their own blood. I search each pod for survivors of the crash until my oxygen level runs low, and I am forced to turn back. Day after day, I search for survivors, and none have yet to be found. Using a large multi tool, I dig shallow graves in the Moon’s dust for all those that I have the strength to carry. I work all day burying people I never knew, weeping silently at the sight of paralyzed faces hardened by the cold and eyes frozen by the frigidity of the air. Using my barrette that I scratched out the name Meza with, I carve small tally marks into the side of my pod for each day that passes. Once I bury the deceased, I raid their pod for supplies and store it in my own. After gathering provisions from everywhere possible, I calculate that I have three years of food supply. Hopefully I’ll be long dead by then. There is nothing here for me on this failed Luna Expedition. Sometimes I think I never should have sealed the breach in my spacesuit, then it would be all over and I wouldn’t have to keep trying to stay alive.
517 days have passed since the crash. The only thing keeping me sane is the whistle of dust storms, and the writing that I scratch on the walls of my pod. From time to time I search for survivors, hoping that I’m not the only one alive. When there is no tasks that need to be done to keep my pod running, I lay beneath the stars with my spacesuit on, watching them flicker and glow. I waste away the days as much as I can, trying to escape a world where I’m completely alone. I wander back to my pod after a lengthy stargaze, drunk on dreams and memories. I open the airlock to my pod, seeking out to repair a piece of the multi tool that broke off. I start the repair, humming sweet tunes of swing and jazz to myself. I am suddenly alarmed by a faint rustle that I hear coming from the storage room. Closing my eyes, I anticipate the winds of a sandstorm, or the buzz of electronics but no other noises occur except for the repeated shuffling and clattering. I creak open the door, and I hear something else. Footsteps? It couldn’t be. I peer inside the storage room, and I turn the multitool so the knife is pointing outwards. Seeing a shadow of a woman, I tighten my grip on the knife. Once I push past the door, I am immediately shoved against the wall, my knife removed and reversed, pointed in my direction. My eyes meet a woman who seems no younger than 40, warm chestnut skin and eyes worn by time and age. Her expression hardens, emerald eyes sinking deep into my soul. She inches the knife closer to me, and opens her lips to speak. “Who are you?!” she screams.
[new town] Anonymous Being shy is really difficult. It makes everything in life harder. I recently moved into a new town where I don’t know anyone. I have a really hard time introducing myself to others even though I really want to be close to my neighbors and make friends. For the first couple of days, I spent all of my time inside trying to unpack some of the many boxes I have. I moved to a small town in Ohio, mainly because I’m going to be starting college in a month, but also because I hated living in San Francisco. I prefer smaller towns, where it’s quiet and calm. Somewhere peaceful and less overwhelming than California. So far I’ve been in my neighborhood for about a week and all I’ve done besides unpack is visit a Whole Foods and meet a black and white cat that was sitting on my porch. There’s lots of pets in this neighborhood. I’m really enjoying seeing all of the people that are walking their dogs at the park right across the street from my house. Sometimes I’ll look out my living room window and just watch all of the people who are talking and having fun at the park. I wish that was me. Over the next few months I finally start talking to my neighbors and I even met some friends in college. Life in Ohio can be pretty fun, but nothing special ever happens. That was until the next summer rolled around. It’s the Fourth of July and my friend is at my house and everything is going well. We’re listening to music and eating chips on my couch waiting for the sky to get dark enough to start fireworks. Everyone in my neighborhood is so friendly and nice. We all began setting up lawn chairs so we could watch the fireworks together. Once the fireworks finally started, that’s when the calm of my day started to end. All of the dogs in the neighborhood started barking immediately when the fireworks started to go off. Out of the corner of my eye I see an older lady who had her dog on a leash get yanked down onto the cement as her dog bolted away. I helped her up and asked if she was okay, but the bloody scrapes on her hands and knees were the least of her worries. 110
“I don’t know what to do! Daisy has never run away before and it’s too dark for me to go out searching for her.” “Don’t worry, I’ll go try and go find her. I don’t want her getting lost at night,” I said. “Thank you so much. You have no clue how much that means to me.” My friend Ashley stayed with the woman to help her bandage her cuts, while I went walking down to the street with my phone flashlight on desperately calling for Daisy. Around an hour later I found Daisy clearly scared from all the noise laying down by a tall tree. I put her back on the leash and took the long walk back home, relieved I was able to find her. When I returned back to my neighborhood I went straight to the woman who was sitting on her porch in a rocking chair. She immediately hugged me and told me how grateful she was to have Daisy back with her. She called me a hero that saved the day but I didn’t really feel like a hero. I’m just happy to help people whenever they need it. I’m really glad I could help out one of my neighbors. Today was a success.
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[Rainy Day]
Giavanna Shaw
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Cover Art “Golden Arangement� by Breanne Jones Wordsworth Literary Magazine Spring 2019