Wordsworth m a g a z i n e
Somewhere, Sometime
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 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, once again, into the warming embrace of a Wordsworth issue. With the winter season nipping our noses, we once again find ourselves alongside the comfort and inner flame of a writer’s voice. Another anthology of distinctive skills, styles, and visual works awaits you amongst the following pages. Hopefully, you find our students’ talents and art just as enthralling as we do. We thank our advisor, Ms. Adams, once more for her support, but we also welcome through the door the lovely Mr. Welch, who has been just as much as a learner as an instructor. We thank him just as strongly; and of course, another huge thank you extends to the rest of our Wordsworth staff. Their dedication to this magazine and the literary arts as a whole does not go unrecognized, and we appreciate it tremendously.
With the fondest wishes, Wordsworth Staff
It is with pleasure that we present our Winter 2019 issue:
somewhere, sometime
t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s
somewhere Abby Steinke Abby Steinke
Growth 1 How to dance vs. How to Be a Dancer 2-3 Amy Lynn Inner Thoughts 4 Angelina Iefimchuk Nighttime 5 Ashley Jones Pink 6 Athena Kuhner The Protagonist 8 Athena Kuhner Curses 9 Darus Poling Horror Stories 10 e.b.c.k To e.e.w.m 11-13 Elijah Thomas An Ode to Hygge 13 Ella Vires The Library 14 Ellis Beck Ebony Rain- Part 1 16-17 ET Exhaustion 18 Gabriel Sobczak The Forest 18 Gabreil Sobczak You and I 19 grace e.k. Hollows 20-21 H. E. Gerdts Scouting 24 H. E. Gerdts Frozen 25 Isabel Giacchino Freckles of Night 26 Isabel Giacchino Two Worlds 27 Jaden Lindsey Miatmaker 28 Jazzy LiDrazzah Broken Hearts 29-30 Jazzy LiDrazzah Paper Face 31-32 Joel Yoko Uno 33 lisa plekhanov do you think? 36-38 m.w. papier-mâché 39-41 Max McRee My Gift to You 44 Maxwell Thomas Live 45 Mia Maggio Reflections 46 Mia Maggio Tug-Of-War 47-48 Mortiz Goodbye 49 Mortiz Ten Years 49 nora vanrees pollution, pollution 52 nora vanrees when we meet again 53 Scarlett Reeder Love 54 ShaltNotSay Cannot, Should Not, Must 55-56 ShaltNotSay i.e. You 57 Sydney Hines Through the Halls and Back 60 Table Group 6 Ballad to Bill 60 TJ New Year’s Day 61 TJ Stone 61 Truly Rylander Counting sheep 62-63 Wonderlust The sun is a star 63 Anonymous Untitled 64 Anonymous Untitled 64 Anonymous dream 64 Anonymous Fault 65
sometime Abbi Doddridge Abbi Doddridge Alexandra Lafayette Darus Poling E. Max E. S. Jaedon M. Lu Lucy Collmer Paige Liesenfelder River Almsted Sami Duncan Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) Spoons Truly Rylander uwu Vitaliy S-D Anonymous
Stranded 68-69 The Burbs 6: It Begins 71-74 Scarlet hands 75 One Time I Dreamt 78 The Ghosts of Evergreen: 1 Death 79-80 The Mirror Never Speaks 81 The Fire Hyrdrant 82-83 The Beauty of an Anticlimax 86 Meeting Cotton 87-91 Bells and Eyes 93-96 Wolf 97-98 Goodbye 99 Speak the Speech 100-101 The Battlefield 103-104 A Bridge Over River Obama 105 The adventures of margo and Octavia 106-107 A Terribly Strange Land of Violets and Love 108-110 The Closet 111 I break the tradition of lit mag = illuminati to raise you: scout finch from to kill a mockingbird is a lizard person 114 Anonymous Story About A Knight 115-120 Anonymous Untitled 121-125
somehow Adriana Mali Andilyn Halker Athena Kuhner Bre Jones Bre Jones Giavanna Shaw Giavanna Shaw mia veljacic mia veljacic nora vanrees Paige Liesenfelder Paige Liesenfelder RILEY SCHOONMAKER Vitality S-D
Bloom 7 Untitled 15 “So, this is what has become of us.� 22-23 Cultural View 34-35 Hidden Beneath 42-43 Forest Park 50-51 Bridge Passage 58-59 Loler 66 paradise cove 70 bittersweet 76-77 Christmas fox 84-85 Deinonychus antirrhopus 92 The Jazzy Jig Girl 102 Untitled 112-113
E
SOMEWHERE
[Growth] Abby Steinke She flies quickly and carefully Always looking towards the next place Not scared to stay too long but scared to miss out With each pulse of her heart Each beat of her wing She knows something new Never doubting what she does or what anybody tells her She’s ignorant That hummingbird. Her mind is full of careful memories Always looking towards the next place Yet scared to let go of the things that matter to her. With each pulse of her heart Each new encounter She tries desperately to forget But cannot shake nostalgia’s nagging. She’s ignorant That hummingbird.
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[How to dance vs. How to Be a Dancer] Every Tuesday after school I have an improvisation dance class. Every so often, we nonstop dance with no prompts for an hour and a half. During this particular class, we wrote before and after we danced. This is what I wrote. Before A lot of stuff is happening right now so I want to dance all I’m feeling Move big & go big so I can get as much out of this as possible Dreary words and Vivid, exotic words. Words are my impetus. The wind blows around Maybe the wind is my impetus. Move the wind vs. move like the wind How do I move the wind? How does the wind move? It doesn’t stay in one place. The only sound is the uneven wind and the scratch of pencils. And breath. Always remember to breathe vs. Always remember breath. After In a Big Loud Voice: Refreshed, powerful Excited to take on all I have. Energized EMPOWERED Yeah I did that.
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What I didn’t want turned out to be what I desperately needed I am feeling Loved by Myself performing for Nobody Grounded and Full of air being Inspired vs. being Inspiring A dance that MEANS something. To everybody. (Or nobody but me)
Abby Steinke
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[Inner Thoughts] Amy Lynn I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s okay. Trust me. Please, stop. Don’t push. I am trying. Breathe in. Hold. It’s okay. You don’t need to. Breath out. Hold. This is what dying feels like. This is like choking. Gasp in. Hold. Feelings are unnecessary. You are stronger without them. You need to breathe. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold. I can hold it. I can hold it for a while.
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[Nighttime] Angelina Iefimchuk
In the city, you look up and you see darkness. In the city, you look up and you see black. But when I look up, my heart is really happy, For when I look up, the sky is filled with stars. In the city, you sometimes look out the window. I look out the window just like you. You see sidewalks, stoplights, cars and buses, While I see mountains, forests, rivers, and Green grass. In the city, you lie still and listen to the noises. You hear rain, loud neighbors, honking cars. I lie still, like you, but I hear nothing. Nothing but the howl of wolves and rustling leaves. In the city, you wake up to an alarm clock. In the city, you wake up and go to work. In the morning, I wake up and hear a birdsong. In the morning, I wake up and watch the sun.
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[Pink] The blush that rises to flustered faces. The color of the warmth fluttering around my chest. The clouds as the sun hides from the moon, too shy to share the same sky. The color of love and adoration. A wind-kissed nose on a cold day. The color of candid photographs. Rosy fingertips bundled into warm pockets. Colored ink inscribing paper with happy endings and doodles. The color that fills hearts as laughs spill from smiling lips. Pink.
Ashley Jones
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[Bloom]
Adriana Mali 7
[The protagonist] One more time, let me say, Say what I am, who I am Because all this seems to Link Tie Connect Back to me, to memories See, I have never, ever, Ever been in a fist fight, yet I Grab Growl Command I remember, one was about to, ‘bout to be started, and I had enough, I have always had enough, because I fight within For I have learned to write, and That’s where I throw punches That’s how I fight back. That’s who I am, ...But, I know, the hero of the story, Chooses words to connect, not fight, So I am not yet the protagonist.
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Athy Kuhner
[Curses] Athy Kuhner
Oh deity of the believers, Oh patron of love, Arrow of cupid’s bow, And writer of the first word, Tell me of this sinking, This aching of my heart. Steal from me my eyes, For I am already blind. Oh Aphrodite and Venus, Oh twin snakes of the staff, Spirits of time unknown, And makers of serendipity, Remove your curse from me, As others strengthen it more, Breaking my defenses— I can’t take love for granted.
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Poor decisions made by all Ensuring the death of many All but the chosen one The good guy always wins
Were I to write horror This is how I would do it Force my readers to suffer these same horrors Terrorize them with every Last
Word
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Darus Poling
Certainly audiences would still become attached Desperately want their favorites to win Believe that since they’re prepared they’ll survive Only to have it all brutally ripped from them
Stories]
But wouldn’t the story be much more mortifying If the characters did everything right Only to meet the inevitable fate of early death Would that not scar the audience forever
[Horror
Horror stories generally end the same Protagonist’s friends and family die Protagonist defeats evil Cut to red, fade to black
[ To e . e . w . m . ] e.b.c.k. To e.e.w.m I have run a long ways from the chasms of true feeling to write this heartfelt memento It tells of my times that I wish hath not struck this earth and all this time, I have been worried that you would defy me Strike me Stab me with your words I know in you there lies a great soul, a soul who will accept me for who I am One who will not abscond my life just of some obscure phobic reaction For who I truly am is not the wronged one many see it as Not the hideous scourge of a human, hidden like a bilge rat in the sewers Rather it be that start that hath wronged me And I just want it to change Have you ever felt that your elders told you one way to be, based on who you were To wear your dress, eat your peas, play their way But you feel different, like a clam in a village of homely mussels For you should be able to choose the way and how you play your character in the game that we call life Historically, we have been judged by our thoughts and sent away as the unloved ones of society And when you hear that I am one of them, I do not want you to run 11
To attack To cry I just want you to understand sincerely, e.b.c.k. To e.e.w.m. I leave those thoughts away from others like a dark secret No one knows but one Only one, who I have trusted with it for many days, weeks, months And now, it has ballooned me to a point of implosion I just want to let it go Yet, through all of this I try to hold myself back As if I contained a monster inside me, a terrifying scourge of a human being That’s what it feels like now And once I will uncage it It will feel like a great burden has been lifted Off me Sincerely, e.b.c.k. To e.e.w.m. I know why you haven’t answered my letters I have slipped by many anecdotes in the past So maybe it is possible That you already knew? I just now know It has been for a while now 12
And I am writing to you Just to let it out. Sincerely, e.b.c.k.
[An
Ode to Hygge]
In a world of darkness, In a world of cold. In a world where freezing clouds Are kind of growing old. In a world where fire Is needed just for life. In a world where candles burn And ice is like a knife. We need a driving feeling, To help us keep our cheer. It keeps us in a peppy mood And shuns away our fear. This feeling brings an essence; Serenity and peace. It lets us blissfully relax And feel our stress release.
Elijah Thomas
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[The Library] Ella Vires A cautious mother scolds her son, As he precariously balances on the brightly colored structure. A toddler waddles past, arms full of books. His father, exasperated, follows. “Daddy! Daddy watch!” A young boy cries, right as Mr Potato Head makes contact with his block structure. Sending it tumbling to the floor. On the floor right above, a man exits the room. A grin reminiscent of his younger days, plastered on his face. In his frail hands, he carries two books. His hair is a mess, grey and sticking out all over, like Einstein. He doesn’t seem to care one bit though. Other writers are sitting at tables laptops and notebooks spread in front of them. They stare blankly at the window ahead, Giving a glimpse to the beautiful greenery of downtown Vancouver. In just two floors, such different atmospheres. Below it all, the entrance level. A coffee shop was housed here, The acidic yet sweet smell of coffee beans roasting, Wafted through the air. Though containing less books than the floors above, it still held the same energy. Of the thirst for knowledge, the curiosity, and the wonder. A place of learning, a place of quiet, a place of fun, and a place of exploration
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[Untitled]
Andilyn Halkner 15
[Ebony Rain] Ellis Beck One drop follows the other, as they crash like stones on a stainedglass wind Over the past few years, these flowers have been cold ebony, like a star-crossed sky They shut them out like cold, tired mice from a convalescent home But in reality, they might as well have been here too, like their victims, children of the ebony rain My heart used to burn bright, but now it is a damp cold Seeing how thy flames have singed the exterior with a blackened wraith Thy soul hath been tarnished by how thy amends have swooped down as unreal as thy soul is Thy falsehood is a dark storm blooming like hatred in thy somberly dark fathoms Seen how thy heartless shield hath been tarnished by the ashes of a half-forgotten past life I fell as a victim of the ebony rain, too It feeds on thy souls who are boiled by storms of hate And spares the ones not pure and clear, not white, not arrow pointing out or line in one dire, but of all A sparrow, torn by the wind that lies on the cusp of flame Returns to its home, a great beacon of the ones turned before A small light of hope in the forests carved out of bodies that fell all the same As the porch light flickers in thy tempestuous rest The ivory in my heart sleeps in the light of the sun and awakes with the coming of thy moon It threatens to tear me, my body, from all of my recollection
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For my reflection feels just like my heart, cold and stony, starstruck, spellbound Crossed by the words I hold dearly, somberly close to my heart One might have said I was a hopeless ember, destined to fade and die with the wind Yet my heart fills up with craving, solemn craving for that One Hapless dreaming, hardening back to dreams long forgotten, silently dreaming for that One That One, who’s name I dearly not tell, nor say But that One, who’s name starts with pure and goes second to dark I hope not to fall like I did, a cruel, damp soul with no feel and no heart Just please, do not fall like I did, for I wished you would join me, but now I repent Dear One, with the pure-to most dark name, please do not join me in the ebony rain Peace used to be the bane of thy existence, but now it cowers away Into the blacks of the great monster that renders its cruel form, shows its shapeless heart Like one, the One, rising from the shadows hath brought legions of untruth Slain in the vestiges, the harshly cold bowels of thy dark, empty sky
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[Exhaustion] ET The sticky sweat has dried onto my hands, As I walk in these lonely, unforgettable lands. My blonde, sun dyed hair has faded to brown, And the silk is ripped on my once lovely gown. My slippers are dirty, heavily worn, My feet aching, my toes all torn.
[The Forest] The Forest. A home. A school. A sanctuary. A graveyard. The Forest is full of life, Of living and breathing things. It is full of marvels, beautiful and unexplainable. The Forest supports it self, relying on everything, big, and small. Some, are the predator, Some, are the preyed upon. But, the Forest gives life to everyone. A home. A school, A sanctuary. A graveyard. 18
Gabriel Sobczak
[You and I] If you are the sun, Then I am the night sky, Dark and endless, full of small blips of glowing light, encased in a black cocoon.
Gabriel Sobczak
If you are a tree, standing tall and grand, Then I am the ground, a home to everything. If you are an island, a nose sticking out of the sea, Then I am the water in which you lay, constantly shifting and shaking, for the fish that tickle my belly. If you are a traveler, weary and ravenous, Then I am the road that you walk upon, stretching farther than the eye can see. If you are the hero, shining bright in the spotlight, Then I am the villain, collecting my ranks, then sending them onward, to throw you from your throne. If you are a house, small but sturdy, Then I am the foundation, a stepping stone for your walls to rise higher and higher.
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[Hollows] grace e.k.
The precision with which it curls Tight around my stomach Here, yes here Is the place where my breath comes from Here is the space where my heart shifts with each beat Here are the soles of my feet Rubbed rough and dirty-sunset pink Curving upwards Hollowing at the center Here is where I am hollow On winding walks Through undressed trees And tangled bushes reduced to brittle I look at the world And speak to you of its great emptiness Of the way our own hearts arch and pit And leave hollow spaces In their wake Here is the rise of my chest and the cold of my skin Here is the gentle warmth of two hands together Here are the spaces between fingers Here is where we wish to be felt Rather than feel Like these barren trees Here is where we hope to be filled and made solid Droplets to icicles Here is where we are incomplete And that is all Here, beneath the rough shine of blonde hair And the shades of brown it faithfully conceals Here is where I reason Here, above purple twin half moons And below the twist of dark brow
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Here is where I see Here is where I find the longing To be warm and full as the moon Above a deserted forest Here is where I stand searching For the missing places of my heart Listening to the chill of early winter breezes Pass through me What has left Cannot be returned What is here I find myself unable to place Here, here is where I bear witness And here is where these eyelids Are forced shut To love is an act of blindness Here, yes here Is the place where I am unknowing Here is where my heart shifts now Here are the precious hollows
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[So, this is what has become of us]
Athy Kuhner
[Scouting] A thick cloud of fog Blankets the canyon, Penetrating each tree limb and leaf With cold, wispy fingers. It dissipates as the sun rises Over the horizon, but still lingers In the shadows and crevices of A long-dried riverbed At the base of two cliffs that Soar above the treetops in height. The sun sits above the canopy In an everlasting staring competition It will eternally win. My eyes squinting, I try To locate the 4-point I was watching A few small moments ago. And then I see him Against the rest of the forest, Antlers like a labyrinth, head held high, Soft brown eyes focused and determined, As if challenging anyone who Defies his wishes. After a few moments, He bounds off into the brush, His white tail the last I see Of the astonishingly handsome creature. I quietly rise and tread on silent feet Back down the overgrown trail.
H. E. Gerdts
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[Frozen] H. E. Gerdts Intricately patterned snowflakes Float On wisps of wind, Spiraling downward Toward the frozen earth. Once snagged on needles of Emerald and jade, they dissolve, Magnifying Each and every detail in-laid On the spears, Exposing them to the eyes Of the watchful world. A soft breeze sends a quiver Along the evergreen branch, Distressing the calm and Sending beads of water Cascading down, through the frigid air To the soft, ashen blanket Beneath.
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[Freckles of Night] Isabel Giacchino
The light drips through the windowpane, falling, softly on a flower, corpsed and gray, but still the light glows upon its once beautiful petals, crinkled, dry. The light shines upon a field, not quite woken yet by the burning, the freckles of night drifting away, as if on clouds, running through the deepest depths of mind, fingering around your thoughts. The appears on a snow covered tree, glistening in sun. The snow sparkles and moves, transfixing your eyes upon the heavy, white, boughs. The light bursts over the hilltop, drenching everything in its glowing calm. It slowly creeps until all is grazed with golden, stunning, brightness. Your hand reaches, as if to steal it from where it rests, but, you stop, and return your hand to your side. The light gives, the most joyous sight to all, if they choose to look, to breathe, to feel all of the glory, the calm the peacefulness. The freckles of night drift away, so all that remains is morning.
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[Two Worlds] Isabel Giacchino In your America, there are rules, strict laws, for everything. What you do, what you say, how you look, everything in between. In my America, we are free. Not a care in the world. No burdens, no weight on our shoulders. We are light, sweet butterflies, dancing in the sun. In your America, people are discarded, thrown away, disgraced, if they are not the same, not normal. In my America, everyone is treated equal, no one is treated, less, beautiful, amazing, human. Their America is, cruel, cold, gray. The slightest disfunction, difference, then they are cast out, blown away, a piece of dust. My America is, warm, welcoming, golden. Those who are, different, are treated exactly the same as all else around them, everyone that belongs in their world. As thoughts of your America drift like clouds through my head, I shiver, distaste runs through me, a cold snake, slipping under my fingers. When my America comes and passes, in my head, I smile, my mind dances with pleasant images of equality.
Once, across the golden hill, I noticed a figure, strung in the spindled fibers of the clouds,
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[Mistmaker] Jaden Lindsey
It did not move, did not lean, did not breathe. Instead, it shimmered alongside the weariness of my mind. I stepped a moment closer, then another, but it only seemed so distant, further. Soon, my shaking steps growled into running, pleading strides, and I ran. I needed to know. I felt it strong; felt it far. But a second more, and the world was grey, and it and the hill and I were lost once more.
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[Broken Hearts] Jazzy LiDrazzah I stare At the wall I listen to you scream at me About something I never did About my flaws But then In one second You turn to me You tell me I’m special You tell me I’m loved By who? By you? No Judging by the things you say I’m not important at all Who could ever love me I’m too selfish I’m too fat I’m too ugly I never do anything right But then I’m beautiful I’m skinny I’m kind What is this? What are you trying to do? I try to get away But I can’t I come back for more I don’t know why I don’t know how Everyone else doesn’t know Doesn’t care
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I’m two different people At the same time I’m fine Really Don’t I look normal? Don’t I look happy? There are no bruises No cuts No scratches you can see They say words can never hurt me But I don’t believe that anymore It’s not something we talk about Something we know well We don’t talk about those Broken hearts How it hurts How it feels To be shattered Simply by the words you say And with a simple whisper A simple phrase Like the candles glowing And burning away I burn out I go away All that’s left Are the pieces Of those Broken hearts
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[Paper Face] Jazzy LiDrazzah When will you see me Standing there Remember that I even exist Remember when we were friends You didn’t know I never said a word But then you started to fade away Leave me for everyone else Leave me for her We don’t talk anymore But I still have our memories I still remember the little things I don’t know what I’ve become My face is like paper Pale and blank Expressionless I wait for you Wait And wait And wait But you don’t notice You don’t remember how well I know you You don’t know how much I miss you You don’t know how you broke me Ripped me apart I wait for you still Wait 31
And wait And wait Until one day I feel your hand on mine And look into your tear filled eyes Suddenly I don’t want to feel your soft hands I don’t want to see your face in front of mine I turn and run Never to be disappointed by you again My heart becomes glass Completely shattering As my paper face crumples The stark white Becomes tear stained And dissolves
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[Yoko Uno] Joel Yoko Ono: Feminist Poem Ocean Child, Daughter of a banker and pianist, Descendant of Samurai, Feminist and Peace Activist. World War II and bombs of fire, Beggar or barterer, becoming Aggressive and an outsider. Feminist and Peace Activist. Father in a concentration camp, Classmate to an emperor, Aspiring bohemian, Feminist and Peace Activist. Married to a beatle, Bed-ins and bagism, Sean and Imagination, Feminist and a Peace Activist.
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[Cultural View]
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Bre Jones
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[do you think?] lisa plekhanov if you shave the outer layers of me, what do you think you’ll find? a presence worth living? or a lunatic within? a glory? a conscious being? a lab mistake? a failed science project? do you think my being calms you? if you ever met me, what do you think i’ll say? some cliche, “what are you doing?” abbreviated to “WYD”, or a legitimate conversation with interest and hours to spend? what if we met again? what do you think would happen then? do you think i sing songs with your name embedded in the words? embedded deeply within creating alternate meanings, creating scenes, and creating memories of when we used to talk. your words used to replenish 36
me on some cloudy days but do you think that’s how it is now? do you think i enjoy the person you showed me? do you think i feel pain when i look into your eyes? the eyes that have seen everything and anything. the eyes that show me the being within. the eyes that remind me of summer skies when i was a child. do you think i think of you late at night in my bedroom while staring at the moonlight peeking through my open window? do you think i haven’t gotten over the things that your own being has put me through? do you think i talk about you still? open my mouth and spill out words of the things you did and how it’s affected me? why do you do this to me? ruin my growth with inconsiderate lies to help grow your dumb ego? do you think i felt okay when you left? when you told me i’m too much, blocked me everywhere possible 37
and disappeared from my life? i have learned from this mistake and i’ve grown from this pain but if you ever read this poem, what do you think?
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[papier-mâché] m.w. I can’t stand this this feeling that I’m a shell a husk of a person covered in papier-mâché painted in colors I know I’m not the paints my parents got at the craft store cheap to buy, easy to slap on (hard to peel off) but my newspaper skin rips and beneath I bleed different different colors than the ones I’ve had but god forbid anyone know— (they know they know they know) and they plaster the newspaper back on and it hurts it pulls at my wire bones and I become more undone I can’t escape this papier-mâché and I try oh, I try to break free but I can’t— I never can. it’s the way I was made (or at least that’s what they say) who am I to say this isn’t me? these aren’t the colors I bleed? who am I to defy the way that it should be? do I know better, 39
truly, do I know? what kind of hubris wraps my wire bones? that makes me go against all I’ve been told? is it bravery or cowardice? am I stronger for waving my banner, or a fool for raising it in the first place? is this allowed? am I allowed? to exist as more than a painted shell to repaint myself as I should be— “should be?” how do I know that this is right? that I’m more than a papier-mâché mask and that what I see is true? shut my mouth, tape it over cover it with newspaper and paint refuse my humanity to me “who are you to make your own way?” “to take the reins to your own life?” “to think that you know better?” restrict me to a shell an empty space for them to fill with whatever they want because wire and newspaper don’t have thoughts or desires or hopes or fears all they do is sit there a burden to whatever surface they occupy an inconvenience that has to be dusted and cleaned why should I expect others to accommodate for me? I’m tough enough to handle it to take the punches they throw but have you ever punched a piece of paper? it folds and it tears it gives in to any pressure (make it stop, make them stop) they try to fold me mold me to an ideal 40
and an idea they’ve fallen in love with and won’t let go of wore they twisted and paper they glued into a dream— but this? this is a nightmare. a nightmare I can’t wake up from. pinch my newspaper skin, shake me till my wire bones rattle but I can’t wake up no matter how hard I try spit in my face and call me an abomination and watch as newspaper crumbles away and bottled-up blood spills across the floor I can’t clean this mess up this failed art project that left paint spots and glue residue all over the table but what do I know? after all, I’m just a papier-mâché shell
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[Hidden Beneath]
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Bre Jones
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[ M y G i f t To Yo u ] Max McRee
How do I say it? How do I begin? How do I put this delicately? You will never sleep in again, for I will be running around as fast as I can go, and yowling at the top of my lungs, to make sure you stay awake. You will never be alone again, for whether you are eating, sleeping, using the restroom, having friends over, studying, or anything else you can do, I will be right by your side. I will follow you even if it kills me, or worse, damages my beautiful, luscious coat of fur. You will never be clean again, for I will knock things over, spill things, track mud in, and make as much of a mess as possible, that you have the privilege to clean up. I will make sure you almost hate me, and then make the most adorable face, to make you love me. I will do it all. Sincerely, The cat.
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[Live] Maxwell Thomasl Death It’s always there You know it. I know it. Wherever you go, whatever you do, You can’t stop death. But, Maybe that’s better. Maybe, an outside species that spends its time indoors, One that, long ago was obsessed with living. Just making it to the next day, Needs death. Needs to get out of the house and, Feel the rain. See the light. Hear the birds. Smell the air. Taste the wind. Before it’s chance is revoked. If we focus on stopping death till the day we die, Do we even live at all? Or did death consume us until, All the life you had... Dies? Don’t focus on death. Focus on the presence of life, and chase it. Leave your roof. Leave your car. Leave your fear of death. And live. You know it. I know it. Wherever you’ll go, whatever you’ll do, Stop. Breathe. Live.
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[Reflections] I look into the mirror of glass, it’s reflecting everything that should pass. I feel like another me is on the other side, a place of darkness, where reflections hide. Everything in the mirror is worse than it seems, it reflects your fears, and the worst of your dreams. But the worst part of all is you believe what you see, I thought my fears were locked away, but there’s another with a key. They can open up the chest that’s locking my fears away, they’ll open it when I’m not looking, like a lion with its prey. They’ll push the angel off my shoulder, and let the devil control my head, then they’ll take my funny bone, and make it a sad one instead. They make you think beauty is only found outside the skin, as long as you’re pretty on the outside, who cares what you’re like within. I don’t want to know, what fears lie ahead, I won’t let the mirror control me, like a puppet on a thread. I make my teary eyes look away, my reflection isn’t real, it can’t make me stay. It only takes one mistaken glance, the mirror will trap you, and put you in a trance. But I won’t let them take my soul, for that is one thing only I can control.
Mia Maggio
46
[Tug-Of-War]
Mia Maggio
My little brother and me, and my second brother became three. And my older sister was number four, yet, only my brothers and I liked to explore. Hanging out all day until late afternoon, Looking up at the stars, and the man in the moon. If I could, I would have made a bouquet out of them, The moon would be the petals, the stars the stem. My world is like a game, a game of tug-of-war, You were my favorite, my favorite of all four. We grew up, and drifted away, And I never knew if you kept that bouquet. But one day you got sick, And it all happened so quick. I couldn’t let you go, I wanted you to stay with me, If you die now, the siblings still alive, will not remain at three. My world is like a game, a game of tug-of-war, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it isn’t something you ignore. I felt like my arms were being pulled at both ends, there were two people I loved who I couldn’t both attend. My daughter with a baby on the way, And my brother who was sick, and needed me to stay. I was the only one that was there for him at the time, But I also wanted to be with my daughter, and that’s not a crime. My world is like a game, a game of tug-of-war, do I stay with the one I care for now, or the one from before? 47
When they say, “one life ends another begins” they really mean what they say, Because once my brother passed, my daughter’s baby was here to stay. The siblings alive, were now down to two, First went Richard, now goes you. My world is like a game, a game of tug-of-war, I didn’t realize what I cared for most, until I had it no more.
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[Goodbye] Mortiz It’s time to say goodbye A farewell to all the years A well wishing to chime While my fears Are choking me My tears are falling heart is beating far too fast Yet I try to dignify a response But you and I Never see eye to eye
[ Te n Ye a r s ] Mortiz
Ten years ago I kissed her sickly cheek goodnight And went to sleep without a weep Not knowing that was good bye Ten years before I played in the snow The snow that had fallen aglow For the first time in my very short life Ten years before that I was an abstract idea A baby that would be But not quite yet
Ten years from now I can’t say where I’ll be Time flies before my eyes And I don’t know what each day will bring
49
[Forest Park]
50
Giavanna Shaw
51
[pollution, pollution] ship engines sputter gasoline, clouding the twirling cerulean tides to anything but clean. plastic swirls amiss the depths, pearly waves, travel of trash is sure to infect. pollution, pollution.
nora vanrees
color is drained from its bottom, vacant, dense azure, life has gone rotten. fragments of fish whirl through the dump, lambs to the slaughterhouse, decrease leaking out like oil from a pump. pollution, pollution. feet dip in wisps of decay, sky of fumes, sugar sand ablaze. sea of smoke, smothering the clouds, bodies tight, shores overflowing with crowds. inconsiderate hands, infatuated with the dumping of bags, straws and cans. pollution, pollution.
52
[when we meet again] nora vanrees you were the endless fields dipped in dew, morning church bells that swayed in the breeze, the wind wet with the kiss of snow. the stomps of heavyset cattle, and the orchards that drooped with the weight of roseate fruit. on ridgestone and second street where the sky was bright and prussian blue air heavy with hues of jam and home baked bread. you were the eyes that watched the roll of time, the home you once called yours, the horizon sinking in a sea of carnelian and tulip pink each night. the smile that watched the world roll by until we meet again.
53
[Love] Scarlett Reeder Light. And bright. Bubbly. Like I’m exploding from inside. Like bonfires on beaches. Love stories written in the constellations. Forest paths with leaves scattered as we walk. You reach down slowly, cautiously, just to see what would happen. Your fingers brush against mine softly. Like a breeze in the grass. My thoughts have been wandering aimlessly amongst the clouds. Fingers start to slip between mine. Just enough that I stop walking. You look into my eyes. Your hazel eyes shimmering with hope. I stare back awkwardly. You pull me in close. Our bodies match up like puzzle pieces. My head is tucked into the space of your collarbone. You reach up to stroke my hair. Slowly feeling each strand of my plain, curly brown hair. Brushing it back from my face, you trace the shape of my jawline. Fingers, soft like dandelions. Never breaking your gaze you hold my face in your hands, so gently like I was made of glass. The space between our faces becomes smaller. You close your eyes and gently press your soft lips against mine. My world starts spinning and spinning. Upside down. I see stars and galaxies. Worlds upon worlds. Colors and fragrances. Sweet like sugar. You pull away, your arms locked around my waist, gazing into my breathless eyes. I stare back awkwardly. Then I smile shyly. Grinning back you begin to walk again. Fingers interlocked with mine. The whole world seems a little brighter. I think I’m in love.
54
[Cannot,
Should Not, Must]
Shalt NotSay I live through an empty glass At first, I thought I could see right through it But then, it is just distorted I’m not seeing the dark side of the emptiness Yet still, I held my breath as my mother babbles on Making sure I’m ok didn’t seem like the concern until I muttered the thoughts I cannot say I look back at the empty glass again This time it’s, foggy Just foggy nothing more, nothing less Yet I’m still told it’s all in my head I’m enraged knowing this I should be seeing through it through their eyes then But that’s not my vision so, I block it out not realizing what they’re saying is true I’m still not grasping it enough And my mind just remains and my brain shows the images These thoughts should not be running through my mind My body constantly jabbing at itself Constantly poking at my mind Questioning my sanity, Questioning my insanity It has all become the same thing Like a bad record stuck on repeat as it skips and crackles Under the pressure the lines become clearer It’s wrong, I look back at the glass And it is now all jagged and foggy It is impossible to see through you could never see through it As my determination drains at the constant strain of vision 55
In my mind I give up And decide I must I should be seeing through it through their eyes then But that’s not my vision so, I block it out not realizing what they’re saying is true I’m still not grasping it enough And my mind just remains and my brain shows the images These thoughts should not be running through my mind My body constantly jabbing at itself Constantly poking at my mind Questioning my sanity, Questioning my insanity It has all become the same thing Like a bad record stuck on repeat as it skips and crackles Under the pressure the lines become clearer It’s wrong, I look back at the glass And it is now all jagged and foggy It is impossible to see through you could never see through it As my determination drains at the constant strain of vision In my mind I give up And decide I must
56
[i.e. You] Shalt NotSay So yes I hide in a cloak of darkness under a cloak of light And yes I don’t look back because I’m scared of what’s behind me But that doesn’t mean That don’t mean... I don’t have feelings unless there to you I don’t have a soul unless you hear me through It’s killing every organ Ever drop of my essence I must admit There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you You stay with me even in my dreams I might not seem like a human guy But that doesn’t mean It don’t mean anything I don’t have feelings unless there to you I don’t have a soul unless you hear me through It’s killing every organ Ever drop of my essence I must admit So hear my last words out My tears won’t hold themselves back I miss you every time I think about you So consider this a love song... For i.e. You
57
[Bridge passage]
58
Giavanna Shaw
59
[Through the Halls and back] Sydney Hines each dream ends with crying, each laugh ends with pain, each touch filled with regret each tear starts with you each smile that isn’t returned, breaks a heart. each hug is filled with emptiness, each thought filled with monsters, you left without a smile, and your words can never be replaced so do me a favor and never let go of me.
[Ballad to Bill] I think it’s starting to work. My psychic vibes are starting to lurk. “SPIRIT, COME HITHER!!” I shriek with glee. To my dismay, my calls don’t work, only a small dog comes forth with a small ‘Bork’. “Spirit, why hast thou deceived me?” The ‘borking’ grows louder and louder still… Until red, black, and white flashes… IT’S BILL!!! Clumsily, I sink to my knees. “Bill, my SAVIOR, Bill!” I shed a tear. “THANK GOD, YOU’RE HERE! I HAVE A CONFESSION! I’ve held this back for a long time, But, But… Table Group Six I LOVE YOU!” 60
[New Year’s Day] TJ Sunlight skipping like A thousand stones on water, Swims through her window. Together, sleeping. The years designed this moment. Organic friendship.
[Stone] stones may sleep, but sleeping do not move. As a passenger into the knotted corridors of a great onyx boulder, I ravenously whip my hands and feet to find a way around, to turn around, to run my feet aground and travel through the stone no more. Through is the only exit, but there is fire on the escape so let me turn around, please let me turn around. But the onyx hallways have swallowed the world behind me into iridescent inkblots ironically displayed on black paper; the more you seek to give the visions form, to define the demons into confinement, all the more do they escape and slither through those tunnels of darkness in the great geodesic tomb. Respite: After long hours of interminable torment, there is rest. The velvety void of unconscious swaddles me into distressed comfort to the tune of red hair and the Song of Achilles. The night is cold yet the transliterated voice in my head is warm and kind. Waking, the morning light is diffused, broken by refraction through the seeming eternity of demons and onyx corridors. stones may sleep, but sleeping do not move.
TJ 61
[Counting sheep] Truly Rylander It was in the way he collected rocks, The way she numbered the stars, They all picked up little habits like that. It was preferable to counting sheep And it helped them sleep. More so than the heavy scent of lavender, That curled and clung around cold toes, Hung heavy like a drape in the air. At least that’s what they told themselves. One by one, each day would pass. And he would collect pretty gemstones by the light of day While she waited for the sun to set. They didn’t talk. Favored silence to the hustle and bustle of a new age. From time to time a sharp noise would fill their quite hall. He would flinch, She would pat his hand. They all picked up little habits like that. It was preferable to counting sheep And it helped them sleep. They ignored the sobs from down the hall. Another nightmare, Another night. They got used to the heavy scent of lavender, That hung in the air like a winter blanket in the spring. It wasn’t necessary, 62
But comforting. Reminded them of the good old days. Before he collected rocks, And she would count the stars. Before they all picked up those little habits, The ones that helped them sleep.
[The sun is a star]
Wanderlust
They told us The sun is a star That in its hugeness, Everblazing, It is the same As a small Sparkling Star Yet if the sun In It’s fiery heart Is a star Then the stars With their pale Evershining light Are also suns So all those people Who believed They were a star Among millions Know that you are not a small star You are the sun
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[Untitled] People who believe the moon landing was faked are just afraid to go the next logical step and admit the moon isn’t real.
Anonymous
[Untitled]
Anonymous
The cold flower sat As each petal fell Each thorn as sharp as a needle And it’s stem still standing tall in the vase of water Waiting to start wilting
[dream] the night sky is a portal extending far beyond our universe out into space where billions of stars gleam and where the planets orbit the stars adorn the charcoal sky mixing with the moonlight that’s reflecting off of the concrete i’m walking on it’s nights like these that make me wish i could drift up to the moon and leave earth behind even if it’s just for a little while
anonymous
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[Fault] Anonymous It’s his fault for the shaky hands for the fear in her eyes when she drags her feet across the hall It’s his fault for the anxiety When she wakes up at 2 am in tears It’s his fault for the panic attacks Not being able to take a breath without falling apart It’s his fault for scary thoughts inside her head Not being able talk without pain flowing through her veins It’s his fault It’s his green eyes It’s the scratches across his arm It’s him that caused it all It’s his fault
65
[Loler]
mia veljacic
SOMETIME 67
[Stranded] Abbi Doddridge All hope was lost. I’ve been stranded on this island for half of my life. Days and nights pass, alone and afraid, wanting nothing more than to be saved. It’s been years since I’ve seen another living, breathing, person of flesh. Surviving on an island, by myself. That was until today. As I was building a fire for the night’s dinner, I began to hear helicopter blades in the distance. I frantically wave my arms, desperate for them to notice me. The helicopter came into my line of sight, growing closer to my camp. Closer and closer, until it finally drops a ladder down to me. I use my last remaining bits of strength to climb that freedom rope, a rescuer waiting for me at the top to help me in. “What year is it my good man?” I question, desperately trying to catch my breath.
“2019...” he replies, giving me a look of confusion.
“Impossible...I’ve been out here for years,” I state, bewildered by his response. What kind of sorcery could this be? “No, sir, it’s been three days. We found your fishing boat floating near the bay and figured you probably washed up near by.”
“What?”
Moments later the helicopter lands, and as I step out of the beast I realize what had happened. For we landed in the exact same spot I had been when I left to go fishing...three days ago. “Sir, do you need any medical attention? I think you might have a bit of head trauma...” the rescuer trails off, reaching out to examine my head. I slap his hand away. “No, I’m fine. Trapped on an island for three days and you think you would be shown a little more respect.”
68
Growling in frustration, I turn away from the group and trudge across the sand. Making my way back to the parking lot where my car sat...with a three day old parking ticket.
69
[paradise cove]
mia veljacic
70
[The Burbs 6: It Begins] Abbi Doddridge
The girl sat on her front porch, preparing herself for battle. She was armed with a suit of pillows, attached by a belt, and the taser her mom had gotten her for Christmas. Her cold gaze remained fixed on that evil house, her corneas aching from the cold winter winds. As she watched, she adjusted the old boxing head protector she had purchased off of eBay the week prior. Silence was all that could be heard. For almost two weeks the girl sat on her porch, awaiting the cry for battle. She sat armed and ready for the day The Burbs, generations 1, 2, and 3, would come and seek their revenge. Yet nothing has happened. No mysterious noises, no strange encounters, nothing. It was quiet...too quiet. They were planning...that had to be it. She continued to sit and stare, waiting until nightfall to make her move. If they weren’t going to make the first move, then she would. How dare they come back to her neighborhood and try to make her back down out of fear! A car door slammed and her head snapped to the sound.
“Who goes there?” The girl yells standing to her feet.
“Honey, it’s just me. What is this?” Her mother pauses gesturing to her obscene outfit, “I’ve been on vacation for a week and I come back to my daughter dressed as a...? I have no idea what this is. First your will and now you’re playing pretend, 71
do we need to take you to counseling sweet heart?” The girls groans taking off her head protection, “I’m fine mom, but my neighborhood isn’t. They’re back now and I need to be on the lookout. They’re being oddly silent, there must be something going on over there...” “You saw the court case, they were possessed, I’m sure everything is fine. Although I don’t know why they would want to go back to that house-“ her mother’s voice cuts off as she walks into the house. “Ahhhhhhhh!” The girl screams in frustration throwing the taser across the front yard. Deciding that nothing was going to occur anytime soon, she goes inside to wait. As night falls across the paved suburb streets, the girl’s plan begins to fall into place. She decides the best thing to do, the only thing she knows how to do, sneaking into their backyard. The sun falls, and the street lights turn on, the neighborhood has come to a dull for the day. Our delusional protagonist stands in the doorway of her home, covered from head to toe in camouflage, she prepares herself for her mission. She makes her way across the street, humming the “Mission Impossible” theme as she tiptoes down the back alley way that leads to their house. That’s when she realizes something. “They built a fence?!” She pauses staring at the wood frame. Apparently with the new houses being built they decided to give their murder house some more privacy. 72
The girl groans trudging down to the edge of the fence
where there was a break. Right next to the edge there’s a gap, perfect for a teenage girl to wriggle through. Snickering she gets to the ground and begins to army crawl across the yard towards the pile of rocks that led to the basement. That was until she noticed the lights in the dining area were on. Her curiosity gets the best of her and she makes her way over to the bushes beside the window. Peering over the window sill as much as she’s able to. There, inside, sits the families. The pies, tarts, and smoothies...all of them. Even the boy she thought had been sent off to his home country. All of them sat surrounding a table, a giant piece of blue paper in the middle. They all hover around it pointing and discussing. “Rob, we have to be more discreet if we want this to go down,” the old pie man mumbles, barely audible through the glass. Luckily they left one of the windows cracked open. “How else are we going to do this?” Rob growls slamming his hands on the table. “Rob’s right, that girl hasn’t moved from her porch since the day we got here, if we’re going to get her we have to go from the inside,” the old lady chimes in attempting to side with her angered son. “Fine, underground tunnels it is, now...what are we going to do to her?” The tart lady sneers smirking at her colleagues.
“We’re going to make her pay...”
The girl’s eyes widen, and she turns to get as far away as possible from them, to call the cops or something. They need to 73
be stopped. “Hey!” She screams tripping over the pile of rocks, her head slamming against the ground. Her body sprawls across the grass as she was instantly sent into a state of unconsciousness. “Oh no...” the boy mutters making his way from the back porch to the girl’s unmoving form. “Honey, what’s going on?” The tart mom soon follows her son out to the yard. He reaches to feel the girl’s pulse, a sudden chill coming over him as his fear arose, “I think I killed her.”
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[Scarlet Hands] They sit at the wide table, eating in silence. Utensils click, forking up food into hungry mouths, at the head of the table an old man sits. His worn hands, permanently tanned by the sun were wrinkled and withered by age. They shook slightly as they rose up to wipe his mouth. His piercing blue eyes were shrouded by confusion on why he was here, and who this woman was that called him her husband. The woman sat, mindlessly stirring her mashed potatoes on her plate, as a piece of grey hair fell in front of her face. She lifted up a soft delicate hand, almost porcelain like, and swept it away. Her eyes flicked up and caught on her husband, who was chewing quietly with furrowed brows. She smiled to herself and went back to eating, happy that he was at least sitting here, even if he had no recollection of her. The smile faltered as the thought of why he couldn’t remember her popped into her head. It was his want so bad for the horrors of the war to leave his head that ended up being the end of him. The shake of his now always weak hands from the scars on his wrists. A tear blurred her vision and she reached out her hand to grasp her husbands. Her hand hid the table and when her vision cleared he was gone, and the only thing left of him was the memory of finding him on the floor. His wonderful wrinkled hands covered in his own scarlet blood.
Alexandra Lafayette
75
[Bittersweet]
76
Nora VanRees
77
[One Time I Dreamt] Darus Poling Nothing would ever be the same. If they found it, I don’t know how I would continue living. It was two o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny L.A. day, which was abnormal because I live in Dublin. The police came by rather unexpectedly with a search warrant. I was relieved that I had cleaned up any remaining photos from my “research” day two nights prior. I’m a crime novelist. For my latest book I needed to know how crime scenes were analyzed, so I snuck onto a murder scene and took a bunch of photos and burned them so there wouldn’t be any evidence of my crime. But the photos were not what I was worried about. The thought of them finding something so incriminating that I would have to McChange my name and move to Beijing flooded my brain. This was something so unbelievably life ruining: Teenage Angst Fan fiction
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[The Ghosts of Evergreen: 1] Bre Jones Rocks: small grayish stones smashing and swirling up the sides of the dark browns and beiges that come together in a wild collage that creates my uniform. Wind gusting up and down in a lavishly unpredictable pattern that pelts each and every bit of my struggling, cold body. A dominating sun. Just nearly does it tap the western edge of this harrowing desert’s horizon, at which, one would only find more abyssal, swirling, microscopic pebbles that form the labyrinth of intense glare and wind I find myself trudging upon. Until I was assigned to come here to this remote, unknown area, dust devils, sandstorms and tumbleweeds were only found in cliche western movies during a fight scene… I kinda prefer the forest, but “Do not move- We have you surrounded.” A gravelly voice boomed and echoed out of huge speakers on the moving fortress that was in front of me… and behind me… and on both of my sides… ahhh, shoot. “Uhhhh- Can we do this another time? Preferably never… but, whatever floats your… umm fortress.” My voice quivered under the mask of what some may have called “comic-relief” and what I called “If-I-don’t-survive-thiswar-I-want-to-go-out-in-style-comic-relief”. At that moment, in a flash of doubt, a sinister thought bubbled to the surface. I might not make it back from this. I looked up. The glare of sun had disappeared. The sky still glowed magenta and blue, but no orb of pure energy burned up above me. Wait a sec… I just moved… I lowered my vision to the steely tip of the enemy fortress. Sweat beaded on my forehead. What’s the holdup? Didn’t I just move? I should ask. “Hey, uhh, are you gonna attack me, or could I just go?” I made the mistake of exaggeratedly “tip-toeing” away from the fortress, back. “But” I reminded myself “now I’m closer to the one behind me!” I tiptoed forward. “But what about the one in front?” This continued for about a minute with me scrambling around like an ant surrounded by water, and the fortresses walling me in, when eventually, “This is embarrassing!” The gravelly voice had returned. Slowly, but all too surely, a dark blue cannon rose up from each of the 4 turrets surrounding me, and started to glow at the front. The sun had disappeared. The
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only source of light was in the depths of the 4 glowing, ominous cannons that surrounded me. The light intensified. I heard a ringing noise. I didn’t see much of what happened next, but… the ringing grew louder, the light got twice as bright. The cool, night desert air started to burn. And then, in a split second, the gathered light released, all of its confined power, ripping me apart by the atom. The ringing became unbearable. I went numb, and then, I was gone. Pain spiked across my arm, spreading up and through my body. It left. It came again. Wait. I still have an arm? I have a body?!? My eyes flung open. I sprang up off of whatever I was on. Sweat was still beaded on my forehead. I breathed heavily, and I looked around. I had been lying in what seemed to be a large hovel, maybe an old farmhouse? All around above me, fading blue roof slats had fallen and looked burnt in long, thin streaks. some were starting to go crooked and splinter. Long burn marks thinly streaked all around the walls. Missing shingles were letting in bright rays of moonlight, giving all of the surrounding blazed bales of hay and old, similarly stroked floorboards a ghostly feel that made me wish I hadn’t just been blasted to oblivion. (Which, for the record, anything would have made me feel like that.) There had definitely been a fire here. Wait a minute… I was just about to flip out, when, “Hello- Please don’t flip out!” The voice was lighthearted and sounded close. There was slight tinge of fear in the voice. “The last time you woke up, you ‘flipped out’, and... well, most of the barn didn’t make it.” The person stepped forward, and I saw a tall figure with short, grey, messy hair and a short stubble beard. He wore a silvery, midnight blue cloak, and radiated a strong, cold, aura that frosted and froze everything near the hem of his flowing cloak. He walked forward, and I saw that the hem of his cloak didn’t exist at all. At the point where his dark cloak reached his feet it came together to form a thin, transparent end that was folding through and around itself. His entire body seemed to be wrapped in mist and illuminated by a ghostly light. Ghostly… “Am I dead?!” “If you want to be a pessimist!” “AAAHHH!!!” -To be continued-
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[The Mirror Never Speaks] E. S. I’ve never had much trouble telling people what I think. I’m ‘truthful’ at best, ‘harsh’ at worst. ‘Cold’, ‘cynical’ and ‘caring’ are also adjectives that have been utilized in their time. “I have extremes of emotion. I’m full of personality. You know that. I’m happy, sad, excited, angry, all, everything. If I have so many intense feelings, then why am I so apathetic?” The mirror says nothing. The person in the glass illustrates my point exactly. I really don’t expect to find answers inside myself and all that craziness, but the possibility is a little too big to ignore. I pick up my book, and then put it down. It’s alright. The main character’s love interest just started dating someone else, and the main was so sad-mad that she punched a wall. It’s relatable, I guess. It probably would have been more relatable a month ago. Maybe I should say something. What is there to say? I don’t know what to say. I don’t even really know what this lack of feeling is. It’s not nothing, more like emptiness. Nothing doesn’t have walls that could be filled, a bottom with a residue. I look at my face. It’s blank, an artist’s base expression, something to reference, not something to be. I pull my lips into a smile, and it looks so fake, like bad photoshop. It’s honestly too bad I’m such a good actress that nobody’s noticed anything. Even my lacrosse teammates haven’t said a word. Not that anyone cares in the first place. I’m distantly mad, sad, annoyed at... something. I think I have trouble speaking my mind about myself, not about others. “Explains a lot, I guess.” I tell my reflection. My reflection continues to act like a dressmaker’s dummy. I turn away from the mirror, and head towards the stairs. It’s like jumping off a rock into the water, or taking an impossible shot on goal. In the moment between doubts, I take the first step down. My mom is sitting on the couch, on her phone, just like I knew she would be. “Mom?” She looks up. I find my voice. It really was there all along. “I need help.”
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[The Fire Hydrant]
Jaedon M
Fun, laughing, the color green, and the sky. These are the things I would encounter during a regular, generic day. On these days, we expect everything to be the same as the last one. We don’t expect anything out of the ordinary to happen. But at any moment, any millisecond, fun can turn into pain, laughter can turn into bawling. Green will be gone, and replaced with the color red. But everything could change! This is exactly what happened to me when my life was rudely interrupted by the fire hydrant. It was recess. All the kids were bored. The teachers had taken everything because kids were getting hurt. No soccer, no slides, nothing. Except for one thing. Teachers could not take a child’s ability to run. Running is human nature, which is why we decided to play tag. We ran across our gray and ugly playground, and when someone got tagged, they became “it”, creating infinite gameplay. For 15 minutes we were running. We ran and ran and ran. One my friends, Lizzy, got tired, and decided to stop playing. In fact, the majority of the group decided to give up until there were about five people still playing. I was one of them. My ribs were hurting, but I had made it my mission to keep playing. I wasn’t going to sacrifice myself to end up playing lousy wallball. Everything was okay. Or it was, at least, until the fastest runner got picked to be “it”. Let’s call him Rodger. Rodger loved to be it. But no one could ever tag him. Now was his time to shine. The thought of him being “it” scared us all the way to the other side of the playground. I hadn’t been tagged all recess, and I was not planning on letting go of my streak. I had been hiding behind the courtyard wall for about half of the game and I’m pretty sure everyone else was, too. Suddenly, I heard loud and obnoxious footsteps headed in my direction. My heart started pumping. How could he possibly know I was hiding here? I started to make an escape plan. I was right about to book it when the I heard the footsteps go past me. It was just Jeff, running past me. I took deep breaths. I was fine. But then 82
I heard the footsteps again. There was a loud thump. I knew it was Rodger. Now was my time to book it. I ran out of the courtyard and into the field, which was huge. I didn’t know if he had seen me or not, but I didn’t want to find out. I ran past the swings, trying to dodge all the kids on them, and onto the blacktop. They said to never run on the blacktop, for you could fall and get hurt. And they meant that it would really hurt. So we speed-walked for about half the amount. He started to catch up, so I “forgot” about the rules and ran. This, right now, was the moment. The millisecond that changed my life forever. I quickly scanned my surroundings in front of me. There was nothing, except for a red fire hydrant, but I swear it wasn’t anywhere near me. Then I looked behind me. It was him. I kept my eyes on Rodger. Not once would I take my eyes off of him. He looked determined, like he was absolutely sure he would catch me. Suddenly his eyes widened. He began to slow down. I had no idea what was happening, but now was my chance! My chance to be free! I turned my face and, and I swear the fire hydrant was in a totally different place it was to begin with. Now it was right in front of me, up close and personal. I tried to stop, but it was to late. Only black followed. I had run into a fire hydrant. Of all the obstacles in my way, it was a fire hydrant. I had seen it almost everyday before, and never did I ever remember it in that spot. When I opened my eyes, all the staff and kids were around me. The countless “Are you okay!?”s or “Are you hurt?” is going in and out of my ear. exist!” Jonathan exclaimed. A couple of days had followed after the “incident”, and my body still ached. A year later, they tore apart the ugly gray playground, which was fine. We wouldn’t really miss it, but the only thing that stayed, the only thing that remained...was the fire hydrant.
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[Christmas fox]
Paige Liesenfelder
[The Beauty of an Anticlimax] The climb is difficult, and you’re unsure if it’s worth it. Your legs ache for a moment when you weren’t ascending, when you weren’t pushing your body to the max. This was not that moment. Your breath comes in heaving gasps, each step hurts, and you wish that there was somehow another way to reach your destination. But there was no other way, there was only the climb. You have many regrets as your lungs burn, you wished that you’d eaten and drank more, that you’d done more exercise to prepare your body for this endeavor. You wished, for a brief moment, that you could go back, and try again another time. But you’d already gone so far, going back wasn’t an option. At last you see your end point, yet each step feels heavi er, and it takes all of your willpower to keep your legs moving. Your screaming muscles beg for you to rest, but you push on; if you stopped here, you’re not sure that you could ever bring yourself to move again. You cry out in relief as you take your last step, finally you can stop, finally you can rest, finally, you have arrived. You’ve always hated staircases.
Lu
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[Meeting Cotton] Lucy Collomer “Bye, girls! Remember to do your chores while I’m at the store! Hallie, you weed the back garden, and Amelia, you rake up the leaves up front.” says my mom. “Then… well, just do all the chores on these lists.” She hands me and Amelia, my sister, each a long list of chores to do. “Seriously?!” I sigh. “Mom, I really wanted to go to see ‘Romeo and Juliet’ with my friend, Amy!” “Sorry,” she says. “You’ll have to see it another day. Now, goodbye!” As I head outside to weed, I can tell it is going to be a long day. I had been jumping up and down ever since I heard about the performance, since I love theatre, both acting and watching it. I know it is playing tomorrow too, but the tickets were cheaper today, and I don’t have enough money for the full price of tickets. “Hurry up, Turdface! We have work to do!” says Amelia. I forgot I was still standing on the back porch with the door open! I quickly head to the garden, but not before muttering, “It takes one to know one.” Ugh. I mean, I love my sister, but sometimes she can be a real jerk. I grab some tools from the shed and start weeding. It’s a warm autumn day, and the sun beats down on me, our fence of shrubs giving no protection. I pull my favorite blue hoodie off, which is already slightly sweaty.I wish I could do magic. Then I wouldn’t have to do all 87
these chores, and I could go to the performance. “Squish!” I look down. My sneaker is on something… furry. I lift my foot up. There is a large, dead, rotten mouse. Flies are swarming around it. “ARRGH!”, I scream at the top of my lungs. “THIS ON TOP OF EVERYTHING?! NOTHING IS WORKING OUT TODAY!” I stomp my foot. Then I remember it is the foot on the dead mouse! I get ready to yell again, but then my ear picks up a rustling in the bushes. Did someone hear me? Then, I correct myself: did anyone not hear me? Still, I’m wondering who or what it could be. I wait for it to appear, but it never emerges. After a few minutes, I sneak back behind the bushes to see what it could be, holding a shovel in front of me as a shield, the handle slick in my hand. Nothing. I look all around for clues to see what had caused the sound. Finally, I spot marks in the mud. Hoofprints! Quickly I set down my shovel and start running, following the prints as fast as I can. I chase them through the yard and into the park behind my house, the giant evergreens of the northwest towering over me. What could it be? I run, and run, and run, until the hoofprints lead up to a small goat snacking on some grass. Finally having reached my destination, I fall onto the crisp grass, panting. The goat gives me a dirty look. “Can you please stop lying on my lunch? You’re getting it all filthy.” It’s true. I have dirt on my hands, and I’m sweating from running. Then I realize, wait. That goat just talked to me. That goat just talked to me! I try to jump up and run away, but my tiredness gets the best of me, and I have to sit back down. The goat rolls his eyes at me. “Well, if you won’t leave my grass clean, I’ll have to clean you.” All of the sudden, he shoots lasers out of his eyes at me! I’m clean! Okay, this has gone far enough! I need to get out of here! I try to back away, but I trip over a tree root protruding from the ground. I’m trapped! 88
I stammer, “Whho are yyou?!”
“I’m Cotton the laser goat. I specialize in cleaning needs,” says the goat. “One square foot of sod for every three cleaning needs.” He smiles at me kindly. “Who are you?” I take a deep breath. “I’m Hallie. But… but… but how did you get here?” I ask, holding a stick in front of me as protection. He rolls his eyes again. “Humans. I forgot how little they know.” he says to himself. “Listen. You know about unicorns and dragons?” I ask accusingly, “Why do you want to know?!” “Calm down,” he says. “You have to trust me: I won’t hurt you.”
“You promise?” I ask hesitantly.
“I promise. Now, do you know about dragons and unicorns?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “but they don’t exist.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.”, says Cotton. “Sure, they’re not real in this dimension, but in another dimension, Metagon, there is. There is also laser goats, that’s my type, obviously, and furmaids, which are cat mermaids, and…” Then I have an amazing idea! I think, if I can trust Cotton, I could get him to do all my chores!
“Great!”, I say, cutting him off, as he starts to talk about 89
something called rocket squids. (trust me, I have no idea either.) “Cotton,” I say, “ I’d like to make a business offer.” I tell him about my chores, and ask him if he will do them.
“ I don’t think so,” he says. “It could be dangerous.”
“Please?” I beg. “I’ll give you an extra foot of sod!”
Cotton gives me a disapproving look.
“Please?” I ask, one more time.
“I guess.” he says with a sigh. “That will be nine square feet of sod, please.” “Okay,” I say. I can’t help smiling. Now I can see the performance! I grab some sod, and Cotton quickly devours it. We’re about to head to my house, when, suddenly, I hear a familiar voice. “Hey Turdface!”, my sister shouts. “You might want to get back to the yard if you don’t want me to tell mom that you didn’t do your chores.” Then she sees Cotton. “What are you doing with that filthy animal?!” she asks. “Excuse me!” says Cotton. I try to sush him, but there’s no stopping him now. “I’m perfectly clean! You’re the one that’s dirty!” He shoots his lasers at Amelia, who is soon clean. Her face turns white, but slowly the fear fades from her face, replaced with a cocky grin. Oh no! “So, you’ve found yourself a magical goat to help with your chores. Well, he’s mine now!” she says, snatching him up. I hop to my feet and chase after her into our house. “Can’t catch me!” my sister shouts, overturning the coffee pot as she runs past me. The coffee sloshes on me, cold and wet, as if my mom 90
forgot to heat it up this morning. Seething, I grab a cup full of water and pour it on Amelia’s head, trying to distract her. “ARRGH!” she yells, tripping me with a chair. I grab a fluffy pillow off the couch and throw it at her. She sticks the bathroom trash can on my head, the garbage tumbling down around me. Suddenly, I hear a car pull up outside.
“It’s mom!” I shout. I pull the trash can off my head.
“Eeep! I gotta get outta here!” exclaims Cotton, as he disappears into thin air. My mom comes in. “Girls! What happened?!” You didn’t do any of your chores! Just look at this mess! I’m so disappointed. Clean this up.” I look down at my feet. “We will.” I mumble. “Sorry.” By the time we finish cleaning, it’s time for bed. I pull back the covers to climb into bed. I notice a couple of pieces of paper by the edge of my sheet. I pick them up to look at them. They are tickets to “Romeo and Juliet”! For tomorrow! Then I spot something on the back of one of them. It’s a small hoofprint. I smile.
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[Deinonychus antirrhopus]
Paige Liesenfelder
[Bells and Eyes]
Paige Liesenfelder
Bells A ringing bell, sonorous like a dream, as if stuck between the real and imaginary, tolled down in the girl’s ears, drawing her to it. She walked on and on, away from the moment she used to reside in, the place too. Called on, she strolled into the darkness of the mysterious night, casting her gaze out into the sea. She looked down to see a bell, green as moss, cracked open like a nut. The ringing song, sonorous, seemed to float around the bell like a fog. It was like the bell was shaking side to side, even though it lay in utter stillness. Its shadow shading even the night. Undeterred, the girl continued walking, stuck along the path she had chosen before. Out of the sky erupted stars to illuminate her trail, clear as daylight. Her demeanor felt like castles in the hills, and caverns in the rock, there and then, like they were always there, and yet. Yet they were not. That minute spent in silent trance, as if in eternity, lasted forever, and yet lasted but a minute. The girl’s eyes opened to the glare of the world, but, even it, she kept looking out into the everlasting night sky, on and on, fearing, by chance or something sinister, that it may all become some bunch of nothing. A keen memory of the bell song lit her eyes for awhile then, before fading and forgotten. Her fears, it seemed, were correct. And yet here she was, pondering the fact that she had forgotten something. Perhaps it was a dream? Or a journey? Did it take place in a day, an hour, a second? It was all imagination from then on, imagining the wonder that may have befell the child. Perhaps the time spent was a journey to the moon, to venture into space, among the widest of open lands, or to ride a rainbow like a rollercoaster, riveting with colored bumps of thrill. Then the girl truly began to dream, dreaming of a big open sky, consuming the world in stars. The stars, though bright, were docile, nothing compared to bellsong’s brightness. Bellsong? Like a ringing bell, sonorous like a dream, as if stuck between the real and imaginary, tolled down into the girl’s ears, drawing her to it………. Was that a dream? the girl thought. She could not tell between real and imaginary anymore. All she knew was that she wanted nothing
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to do with dreams anymore. She wanted to live in something real and tangible, something to affect her and the world. She shook her strange head. She knew she had heard bellsong. Perhaps there was something unusual to her about bells. Yes, they could sound odd, but enough to confuse her this way? Was the world toying with her and enjoying it like a cat with yarn? Suddenly, she looked down. Below her was a bell. Two eyes painted on the bell stared back at her. “Ahah. I have found you!” laughed the bell, though no holes were on it to make such sounds. Its voice was scratchy and old sounding, like a rock being scraped across a rusted tin can. It was some crazed emotion that caused the girl to bring her foot crashing down on the bell. The bell, giggling delightedly, broke into a million pieces. “And now I am dead!” the wind whistled. “Oh how mad the dreams of all bells will be tomorrow night!” “The dreams of bells?” the girl sighed to the air around her. “What a strange dream I must be having.” The wind, like a rain, suddenly ceased. The night became blinding white and blank, and the girl had to cover her eyes. A voice suddenly spoke from the emptiness. “I thought you wanted a big open sky, dear? Isn’t this big and open? Isn’t this your great sky?” “I’m afraid it’s not!” shouted the girl, angered beyond her limits, squinting dreadfully. “It has been fun little girl, has it not?” the sky thundered. “All the worlds you have seen? Don’t you enjoy such change and the spice of life?” The girl, suddenly struck with fear, fear that this dream would never end, began to shake like a saltshaker, vibrating like some rattlesnake’s tail. Would the bells be back? Would the dream last forever? Oh, she would not be able to stand such a life! So unfair it would be! “But my dear,” the sky seemed to grin, “wouldn’t it be boring without dreams?” The girl, wrought with shivers, did not answer. “So that’s a yes? Perhaps, if only for our entertainment, we can begin with another realm.” The girl opened her eyes to morning light from the window. Eyes
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The strangely normal birdsong filled the dawn broke room. An
odd sense of relief passed through her, but she could not discern why. She stretched open her arms and yawned haphazardly, knocking her elbow into the wall. The prickling of her skin made her wince and reconsider her actions. Odd thoughts of doors and bridges entered her mind, no doubt remnants of some far gone dream she must have had. Flashes of stop signs and bicycles rendered her psych numb, bringing emotions of anger and fright. Why, again, she did not know. She stared fixedly at the stucco ceiling, trying to figure out the cause of her sudden confusion. It was a game of fading memories and brief calculations she played at the moment, wondering and questioning like a ticking clock clanging back and forth. What was so wrong? Or maybe the question was what was right? She was baffled. She continued for the rest of the day like this, staring at objects, trying to recall what had been different. People tried to get her attention, but it was useless. Her teachers all whined and grimaced over her lost mind during the school day, wondering what was so wrong with the child today, and why. Why. Why was why such a question the girl asked herself as she stared at a lamp while she ate her dinner? Why is why a question people fret over? Why she thought these things she did not know. And why she didn’t find it strange when she began to vividly imagine things while she stuffed cold soup down her gullet and stared at the dull lamp she did not understand. The lamp grew a long pointed nose with flared red nostrils. The lamp shook and rippled like her soup as it opened its mouth with thin purple lips and out of the dusky orange light spoke “Is it night yet, child of day?” The girl felt a familiar anger and answered disgustedly “No, it is not, lamp of broken blinking light!” “Hmm.” said the lamp, twitching its nose. “Good. Lamps are not to be of the living when most people are asleep…” The girl was oddly taken aback by the lamp’s sudden change to a british accent, and, for some reason, she thought it would be more fitting for a talking lamp to have eyes. “Have you learned anything little girl?” the voice of the lamp suddenly reminded her of a well, and she felt like she was drowning in one, her breath slowly being taken away from her. “I’ve learned...Have I learned anything-” she gasped, choking on a piece of spinach. “-since when?” The spinach, out of seemingly nowhere, began to crawl up her throat and out her mouth. She began frantically screaming, knowing not what to do, staring at the vile vege-
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table squirming down her neck. “Dreams do not end!” the lamp screeched, screaming like a calling owl or a dying hawk, frothing at the mouth with anger, its light suddenly turning a dark heart red. “Dreams?” the girl cried. “What dream?” Her heart scraped at her ribs like a caged beast while the soup suddenly turned into a hissing green cat and lunged at her. The spinach suddenly turned into a weasel with piercing white eyes and hissed horribly at the cat, launching at it in midair. The slimy bodies collided and wailed as they fought with tooth and nail, their sound almost outdoing the yelling of the ghastly lamp. “Dreams never die! Dreams never die! Long live the night! The night of my end! The night of your nightmares! The spirits from the dark corners of the room descend on you forever! Dreams never die! Dreams never die!” The terrifying lamp suddenly turned into a bell with a wide open mouth and a long red tongue, reaching out from the end-dark of the visitors maw, reaching for her. The cat and weasel fought so much they wore off their faces and limbs, writhing blobs on the ground, turning into red, red soup. “You!” the girl screamed. “You sickening ringing bell! I hope you burn!” The fear turned her face white as the tongue reached closer and closer. “You horrible nightmare! Bring me back to being awake!” The tongue touched her face and disintegrated into a billion grains of ash, flooding and consuming her. “You horrible, horrible nightmare!” she choked. “You beast of a bell! Stupid musical metal!” she gurgled dreadfully. “Wake up! Wake up!” Laughing atoms looked at her “You will never wake up, fool of a child! Neither will the bell! Neither will the lamp! Neither will the cat and weasel! Neither will the eyes painted on your very conception of fear and reality!”
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[Wolf] River Almsted Light glinted off water left by the night’s rain, turning golden as it was slowly evaporated by the sun’s rays. All across town old rusted fire escapes creaked and flower boxes bloomed. The brick buildings looked a warm healthy red in the morning light, and all in all it felt like a good day. Detective Jonathan Myers was not having a good day. He, like most citizens this fine day, had woken to birds chirping and safe in the knowledge that today was a bright new day. In fact, he was meeting with the woman who worked in the florist’s shop downstairs for coffee that very morning. It had all been going great until he got a call from his partner, who had been hard at work on their most recent case. “One moment, I’ve gotta take this call, work stuff and all that” Jonathan told Katherine, the woman from the florist’s shop. Holding the phone up to his ear he asked “what is it?” The voice of his partner filtered through the phone “We’ve had a breakthrough on the case! We know who did all those murders, and how.” “Well, who is it!?” He asked impatiently. The case had been full of dead ends so far, and quite frankly he was getting tired of it. All the clues pointed different directions, and the few witnesses had wild claims about monsters and teeth. The bodies all looked as though they had been torn apart by some massive beast. Just thinking about. It made Jonathan shudder. “As ridiculous as this may sound, we have reason to believe that our suspect is a werewolf-“ “A werewolf? You’ve gotta be kidding me, werewolves don’t exist!” Jonathan exclaimed. 97
His partner’s voice sounded annoyed, even through the phone “That’s what I thought too, but this next bit is important. We found out who the killer is, she’s a woman by the name of Katherine Kim.” Thomas paled. He was sitting right across from a mass murderer. “I’m... gonna need to call you back” he said, terror creeping into is voice as he hung up the phone. Across the table, Katherine Kim smiled at him. It was a very toothy grin.
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[Goodbye] Bright blue painted walls, covered with pictures, posters, and awards. Half of a bunk bed : deep brown wood, a creaky mattress, and colorful polka-dot bedding. A messy, black wood desk. With useless knick knacks, a homemade piggy-bank, a few favorite stuffed animals, and a dusty computer desktop. A slightly uncomfortable, black rolly chair sits by it, although it couldn’t really roll because of the thick carpet. A black bookshelf with what seemed like hundreds of books crammed in every corner, some dusty and untouched, and some with the titles worn off, and the pages teared and folded. Glow-in-thedark plastic stars nailed to the ceiling, left over from when she still shared a room with an obnoxious five-year old. The walls are now beige, the bed is gone, the bookshelf is gone, all of it’s gone, gone, gone. It’s my room now. Her room is 166.1 miles away. Which doesn’t seem far, but to me it feels like she’s living on mars. I wish the walls were blue, I wish the constant mess of dirty clothes and lost IB papers still occupied the space, because that would mean that she’d still be there. In her room, in our house, but she’s not. When she visits we have fun, I visit her too. But I can’t stand when she leaves, because I don’t realize how much I’ll miss her until she comes to visit again. Which won’t be for a while…. She’s all grown up now, I guess I grew up a little too. Which everyone has to do eventually. But I didn’t know growing up meant saying... goodbye. Sami Duncan
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[Speak The Speech] Samuel Edmundson (Eddy) Speak the speech I pray you as I pronounced it to you trippingly on the tongue. Say it this way not that Show me how to speak but first let me show you back. You, you grubbly bubbly fancy and posh word word refiner. Taking it to the line by line and to the coma by coma, we salute you in your endeavors to ensure we are prim and proper fresh Structure pill poppers carrying out the cut and dry so that we may someday live to die but if you will allow me, let’s get ugly. No structure. We’re just going to let it stop… and see… well, see what ruptures. But then we’ll go word for word or rather i’d sooner say bird after bird. You see it truly is nonsense when you get this unruly but oh what a world it is be against. To let them say “stop” then not, and then wish them the happy landing. I… I am… not an anarchist. Believe me my third uncles cousins twice removed fathers left hand shoe was prim and proper. I’m no anarchist but believe me when I say: i’m a heck of a show stopper. Because the words will start to rhyme typically terrifically show up on time, so tell me how long is it that you worked at that structure. Building the piece against itself as it grows and yearns to be beyond those feeble sentences, those rigid periods dripped leisurely onto the page, as it gets its head cut off seven different ways by the simple grammatical necessity of a dash or a slash. You see it is not fit for a lion to be put in a cage and it is not right to leave an idea to the mercy of some shiny nose word readers rage, let it go and please just let it flow. Let it fly and let those grounded fit and proper toe peeling mouth poppers be 100
the ones left to cry. Let an idea be whatever it will, read it after and then feel the chill. To many, to many, too many people read as if they need to fix, more write in accordance to fill a bill as if they are solely being read just to be criticized as if everything had a grade as if everything is not meant to be just what it is meant to be, as if it must go beyond and above an ideal idea. It is the prime suspect put out in front of court and jury of your peers guilty before sentencing, convicted before trial, left to die without withstanding...before being heard and seen and lived and breathed. It was alive, it was fine, it was an idea. Without a word, without a notion of respect, without the love, and without the care, left sickened, singed, splayed, and spliced there. You jailed them to the structure, let them rot away, and now‌ now, so do you.
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[The Jazzy Jig Girl]
RILEY SCHOONMAKER
[The Battlefeild] Samuel Edmunson (Eddy) The rebel cry called out above the cannon fire and powder shots. Every union soldier felt the chill run down their spine starting from the base of the skull, careening its way down to the tailbone. The confederate division was now running down the hill from which they stood. It was a final charge to stave off the would be union advance past them. As the confederates came on the run down every so often one would take to his knee, fire, then reload. With this, union soldiers in their lines started falling with the occasional thud of lead. The confederate artillery supported the rush. Firing from the far left of the battle, the forty pounders bore upon the union soldier like a rock to glass. The earth on impact would rise 10-20 ft in the air while taking a spread before landing back on the ground in small dirt pellets. Grass blinded the soldiers, some went up with it, and others scrambled together to find their lines and firing positions. The union side was not swayed by the unexpected confrontation. General Thomas on horse back ordered his men to face off towards the hill. He positioned them in firing lines and above the noise ordered “Dont fire till their eyes meet yours!� and with that the union soldiers were poised for their desperate defence. From behind the tree lining to what was now the union flank were readied about 6 pieces of artillery ready to wreak havoc on the confederate’s advance. At the lower of the generals saber the cannons fired taking with them the first brunt of the assault. The union lines still waiting to fire rejoiced as the Rebel cries were cut quiet. Now the push was about 2/3 of the way down the hill and on the command of Thomas the union men opened fire. The guns of the men lowered and from the ends of them rose smoke. As one line reloaded the other line fired. Their desperate defense for now seemed to be working as swaths of grey uniforms met the ground. This lasted for about a minute, both sides receiving substantial casualties but the confederate assault receiving most of it. Then, when the last grey uniform fell, the battlefield lay quiet. As fast as they had come, they had gone. The artillery on both sides went silent
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and the men of the union rejoiced in what seemed a proper victory. Thomas urged the men to stay at arms but it was too late. From the crest of the hill showed a line of Virginian men, their cry cutting above the preemptive celebration. To the union left flank emerged a force of about 100 men in grey caps from the tree line. To their right another formidable Brigade appeared and before there was any chance to recollect, the union side was met with a barrage of bullets and artillery fire. Thomas fell not even a second into the fighting. His horse was shot out from beneath him and he fell to meet his head to a rock. With no command, with no organization, with friends and comrades crying in agony besides them, the union turned tail for a full retreat.
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[A Bridge Over River Obama] Spoons
In my far future, I’ll be nothing but a mediocre children’s pottery teacher. You may be wondering, how did I get there? Well, I was drafted into the military about 40 years ago in 2042 (women could be drafted only for this war, as the world councils unanimously agreed that an all women war would just be a neat sight to see). In 2042, I was drafted and stationed in Russia. The war was between Russia, the United States, and Texna - the holy statehood of China and Texas combined. In Russia, I spent a lot of time eating various sands and dirts. I had stumbled upon a very large clay bank in the Obama River. I took this clay, and I had a vision. Once I had been mailed back to the United States in 2089, I felt like no passion had ever been as strong as the one I felt towards my moment holding that transcendental rocky clay in Russia during my time as a proud soldier. I decided to start taking night pottery classes at the local community college, while during the day I worked a MEAN key machine in the local Fruitt Time Grocers. I mean, I was on that shizola like NO OTHER. Anyways, once I had graduated in an 8 year degree in Pottery and Women’s Studies (a combined major), I decided to turn my knowledge onto the most malleable, young groups possible: middle schoolers. I thought to myself, a twinkle in my eye, “I’m gonna teach these children if it KILLS ME” and it did. The end.
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[The Adventures of Margo and Octavia] Truly Rylander Margo was just shy of 5’3 with pumpkin orange hair and freckles pressed onto her face by scattering ants with feet covered in cheeto dust. Though her hair might have been stick straight at some point, it now hit her knees and reflected the waves of someone who regularly ran through underbrush. Her eyes were quite like the color of of a gecko in the tropics, partly innocent and partly bewildered, and, though the former might be due to her young age of thirteen and a half, the latter was most certainly because of Octavia. Octavia was a fourteen year-old rebel and a dutiful disturber of peace. It showed in the amber hints of her hazel eyes, fierce, tenacious, and determined. With lashes every bit as full and dark as the hair on her head, she was Margo’s opposite in every way. They always used to go on adventures together. Octavia in the lead whilst a reserved and content Margo towed behind. They would mostly explore Whipple Wood behind Belmont Manor. The forest had a creek cold as ice, even in the mild summer sun, and a big oak where faeries were said to gather on full moons. The girls would spend hours in Whipple Wood till their stockings were worn and their faces as muddy as their skirts. Occasionally, Henry would follow them into the woods, much to Octavia’s displeasure and Margo’s delight. Henry was a good natured and attractive, but rather talkative, boy of fourteen. While Octavia disliked vying to be heard over the boy, she tolerated him because of Margo. Margo simply adored listening to his wild outlandish stories of adventures he went on before coming to the Manor. She fancied his cobalt eyes and chocolate curls, always exclaiming on how envious she was of his brown hair. There were other children too. Belmont Manor was famous throughout the countryside. It protected the children, 106
kept them safe. Among the throng of adventurers that would follow Octavia and Margo into the woods were Charles, Emma, and James. The six of them would help small communities of gnomes, trolls, and fairies alike. They kept Whipple Wood just as safe as Belmont Manor kept them. Until one fateful day, when all of that changed.
The day that Margo and Octavia discovered Exloas was the day they became best friends. Margo sat so sullenly next to The Big Oak Tree on the hill near Belmont Manor. It was always so peaceful on that hill. Where Margo could sit and watch the other children play in the field. That was, until a girl with unruly black curls and eyes full of fire came marching up that hill and stuck out her hand. “Hi, My names Octavia Richards and I'm looking for an adventure, got any ideas?” she grinned a tenacious and beautiful smile at the sullen, quiet Margo. “Margo Evans, you don't want me on an adventure, I'm no fun.” She sighed, visibly put out. With this response, Octavia’s eyes steeled and she set her mind to one task. She yanked Margo to her feet and took off down the hill. “Where are you going?” Margo called out. “To Whipple Wood! Come on Margo, We’re going on an adventure!” Skirts flew down the hill, trailed by long red pigtails in the spring breeze. Down through Everbrooke Meadow and away from Belmont Manor. Margo felt a delightful shiver pass through her spine. A combination of both anticipation and uncertainty, as pale sunny skies were quickly engulfed by soaring oaks and pines. They had entered Whipple Wood.
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[ A Te r r i l b l y S t r a n g e L a n d o f uwu Violets and Love] The house was filled with intensity and hate that Sunday. Slamming doors and hateful statements could be heard from a mile or two away. The church had given a sermon about homosexuality and transgender issues, and how LGBTQ people were God’s mistake. When Alex heard this, they, trying not to out themselves, defended their rights and stood for good morality. The argument ended at night, when the fall sky had gone dark and calm. Alex was in their room, thinking about what had happened. Why would they say that? Where would they go? What would they do? These questions filled their mind, but what for? They couldn’t do anything. Whilst they were thinking those thoughts, they noticed something odd. A door to a closet that had not been there before had appeared. It was cracked open a bit, with an eerie green glow from it, almost seeming like it was calling to them. This was quite scary for Alex, so they called their friend, Patricia. “Hey Alex, what’s up?”, she asked. “I almost outed myself. My parents are really mad right now,” answered Alex. “Anyways, can you come over? Something weird is happening, and I don’t like it one bit.” “Sure, what’s going on?” “See for yourself.” Alex didn’t know what was happening. They were still recovering from the argument. At least their little red haired best friend would be there. “Oh, and by the way, can you get my roller skates from the front porch?” Patricia was a nice person, and always helped Alex out in times of need. This time, with the major arguments, she helped out more than ever. Once she got there, after trudging through the rain and mud, she grabbed the pair of roller skates on the porch, which seemed discolored. Then, she ran upstairs to ask what the matter was. When she saw the glow, she gasped a quick, loud gasp. She threw the roller skates at the door, breaking through it. They stirred up their courage, and lightly gripped 108
the doorknobs. When they pushed it open, they felt lightheaded and nauseous, blinded by the bright green light. Patricia was confident, but Alex wasn’t. Their dark hair was blowing in the gust of cold air as sweat ran down their tan, smooth face. Patricia stepped in, and Alex followed. They didn’t see the roller skates on the other side. Strange plants were everywhere, emitting the bright green light they saw earlier. Creatures that seemed to stare at them roamed this land, one seemed judgmental, the others not. In the middle of this landscape was a garden filled with violets. From the garden, there was a path, that they decided to go on to, as it may lead to something. And it did. The air was getting warmer, streams of water tricked down the mystic landscape, which was slightly lighter than the sky before. A house that stood above them, welcoming them with a sweet smell of chocolate and roses. They walked in, Patricia behind them, taking in this warm place. They found the roller skates, which were now emitting the same mystic green glow, and picked them up to take them home. They both knew that they would have to return soon, but they shrugged the anxiety of that off, and took a walk around the house. Fairy-like creatures flew around, singing their sweet, sad songs. It seemed like paradise, however, something seemed a little off. The creature that was looking at them earlier had followed them there, staring at them in a disrespectful and aggressive manner. They got out of the house, and ran past the creatures, who chased them. They were terrified by the evil in the creatures’ eyes. It came closer, as it was about to pounce, but Patricia, remembering the roller skates, took them out and threw them at the monster. This, however, didn’t work. The monster seemed to grow more powerful, and became more aggressive. Alex, still scared, let it all go, and simply just walked away. Patricia was confused. The creature was not fighting them. She followed Alex and asked, “What are you doing?”. “Moving on,” she whispered, holding back tears of fear. “Moving on.” After that, things were not the same. Alex had a place to go when things at home were rough, and Patricia had a better understanding of this world and how it 109
worked. They both frequently went there, and became friends with that creature, and tamed it. The world was there to explore. They finally had freedom to be themselves.
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[The Closet]
Vitality S-D
Prologue He was lying down in the dark room, with his bedlight on. The rest of the house smelled like fish, so he decided to go to bed early. So did his sister. His parents thought he was asleep, but really he was reading “The Sharpener”, which was a horror book by the new and extremely famous author, Robert Olmic. He made sure to place his big stuffed animal elephant named Amber, by the door crack, to make sure no light got through, so his parents couldn’t find out he wasn’t asleep. He was just barely starting, on the third page, when he heard the scream from his sister’s room. He shut the book closed, opened the door, shoving Amber out of his way. He ran down the hallway, meeting his parents there. His mom opened the door. “Stephanie, are you in there?” his mother yelled. The room was mostly dark, except for the dim light coming in from the window. “Turn the lights on,” his dad whispered to him. When he turned the lights on they realized that nobody was in the room. But all of a sudden, the closet door slammed shut. “Honey, are you in there?” his mom whispered into the closet. “This isn’t a joke.” He opened the closet, and saw nothing. However, he did feel a tiny bit of heat, as if it something was breathing on his right arm. He thought nothing of it. He reached for the light, but once it turned on, there was an ear piercing screech. It was only on for a split second before it was turned off again. And then, an invisible force pushed the boy out of the closet, and once again, the closet door shut. The family heard that scream again. In fact, they heard it three times. One after the other. 111
[Untitled]
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Vitaliy S-D
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[I break the tradition of lit mag = illuminati to raise you: scout finch from to kill a mockingbird is a lizard person] Anonymous When she says that she tried to take a walk in jem’s skin, this could mean one of two things. The first, and more likely, is that she is a lizard person. She took jem’s skin, put it on like a coat, and attempted to walk around with it. Or, as the book says, she tried to. Meaning that Jem is also a lizard person, in the skin of her brother. Unless, she was born into a family of lizardfolk in the middle of Maycomb. Either way, she is a lizardfolk and must be stopped. Or she meant Scout was trying to see things from Jem’s point of the view.
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Either one.
[Story About A Knight] Anonymous He wandered, road by road, alone. There was once a time when he fought for something more than gold, more than love, more than honor. Now, he barely fought for himself. A vagrant or a thief would demand money. Without hesitation, without so much as doubt, without blinking an eye, he raised his sword and killed. It was easy for him, killing. It was like muscle memory. He fought, always without cowardice, anger, emotion, bravery, even a single thought. He always won. Whether against swordsman or not, he always won. Not by playing by the rules, or against them, just the flimsy dice of life and death. He crawled under a wet log away from the road. He ate stale bread. He barely slept, and when he did, it wasn’t for long. The rain pounded on the forest overhead. He curled up in the mud, shivering, the hilt of his sword gripped tightly. From the rain memories flooded in. Drops of water turned into the horror of clashing swords, a hurricane of blood and steel. He remembered the scorching desert sun, his brothers in arms dying around him by the hundreds, the screams of terror and pain. The Holy City. The slaughter of hundreds, people he’d killed, children dead in the streets. Laughter, no remorse. Tears. He traveled on. Around midday, he saw a cat sprawled on the roadside, he gave it water and hushed it as it cried. Its tail had been cut at the base, recently, and the cut had been rough and barbaric. Its fur was matted in blood. He removed his heavy, metal helm and let it clatter on the cobbled path. He held the creature close 115
to his tangled beard. The creature was warm. It resisted and clawed at first, and then welcomed the touch. It nuzzled his face. The wandering knight sat all day on the side of the road. Eventually, the small cat died. He cried. He held the corpse to his chest with one arm. He left his helmet on the road and walked away. He found a small, dirt path down to a stream in the woods. Among the stream was cool grass, and flowers. He buried the cat, digging a shallow grave in the grass with his gauntlets. He covered the creature in dirt as it lay peacefully. He spread grass and pretty flowers over the grave and knelt. He spent the last hours of day fashioning a small cross from twigs and a small bit of twine from his tunic. He knelt over the grave and wept. He slept nearby, and was lulled to rest by the sound of the rushing stream. He wandered on. He traveled with one hand on the hilt of his sword. Eventually, he came to a small town. The two guards standing at the makeshift gate nodded when they saw the worn red cross on his bloody and stained tunic. The marketplace was crowded, bustling with people. Stands sold fresh fruit and vegetables, meats, cheese, bread, pelts, and weapons and armor of every kind. He spent what little coin he had on hard bread for the road, and treated himself to an apple and fresh cheese for the day’s meal. A small crowd gathered around the doorway of a shop. The wandering knight sensed distress, and approached. “Don’t be rash, I can do it.” An old man croaked. “You mustn’t Baba! You’re too old!” A young boy chimed. “I shall!” “Johnny! You may not speak this way!” A plump woman interrupted. “The wood is dangerous, and an axe is no toy!” “Marie, I can!” interrupted a greasy man in the shop doorway. The woman, red, turned to him in rage. 116
“If your back breaks, or wolves get the best of you, who shall run the shop! Who collects our mushrooms and pelts!? Our son is of no such age!” The young boy, John, looked downward. The old man spoke. “Alas, I am far too old, or else I would do this service for my family.” The greasy man sighed. “We need wood, and a builder for our second floor.” “I’ll do it.” The wandering knight stepped forward. The greasy shopkeeper turned, eyeing the stranger, but after seeing his massive height and build, he nearly fell to his knees. “Kind sir! We have little coin, how could we pay for such a service?” “I need food. A bit of silver. A roof over my head for the next month or so until the deed is done.” He gestured to the woods on the horizon. “I’ll need an axe.” For the next month, the wandering knight worked vigorously. He cut trees in the forest, dawn till dusk. He carried the logs, on one shoulder, the trek back to town. There, he and the shopkeepers old father cut and designed the wood, and the knight began to place together a house on the second floor of the shop. The mother, a kind woman, showed the knight ways to cook and conserve food. She fed him hearty meals twice a day. She made sure his new clothes (courtesy of the shopkeeper,) were clean, and she kept his canteen filled with water and wine. John, liked to play games with the knight, and keep him in good company as he worked. He laughed and joked, and eventually the knight learned to smile again. In the evenings, the family would have a nice meal in the back room of the shop, where they lived. The wandering knight stayed with them, chatting and making good conversation. They gave him food, shelter, and a home. He had even been offered a job by the town guard. A big man like him, with years of fighting would surely scare off the bandits and raiders. He decided to take the job, when he was 117
done building, of course. At night, him and the old grandfather would sit and swap stories. The grandfather would speak of wisdom, and the knight of war. They would sit around the fire, in the fields behind the shop, until the moon rose in the sky. They would both head in to the little room behind the shop. The shopkeeper, a greasy little man with a good family, was very kind to the wandering knight. Perhaps a little too inquisitive about the Great War that had just recently ended, but he supplied the knight with nice clothing and treated him with respect. The knight no longer wandered, instead of armor he donned working clothes, and he swung a hatchet and hammer instead of sword and shield. Weeks later, he stood in the fresh room. A stove pit in the stone floor for a fire, a bedroom for the shopkeeper and his wife, and sleeping nooks for John and the grandfather. He smiled. “Where are the others?” He asked, walking into the front room of the shop. He stopped. His armor lay on a wooden table. There was a new, fresh sheet of chainmail, and the pieces left had been beaten, smoothed, and polished. A new tunic lay next to the armor, white and untorn. He stared in silence. “It’s the best we could do,” the shopkeeper explained. “For your adventures, if you do decide to leave, that is. And if you stay, you can wear it as a guard.” The Knight gestured to the tunic laying on the table. Beside it was his old tunic, with the holes, bloodstains, and smeared red cross. The shopkeeper stood from the counter, smiling still. He brought the new tunic to the knight. “We figured you’d want one without the cross, and without the stains. My wife made it herself. We kept your old one, well, just in case you wanted it, still.” “I-I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” The Knight hesitated. “Where is the rest of your family? I’d like to thank you- all of you, for your kindness.” 118
“They’re down at the tavern, for some food and drink.” The Knight stared down at his boots. “I must be leaving here, tomorrow, at dawn. I’m afraid I must be moving on.” The greasy shopkeeper beamed, a sadness behind his eyes. “Join us for a drink tonight. It’s the least we can do, after all. I shall join you all when my work here is done.” The Knight nodded and turned to head away. He paused. “Do you need any help?” The man chuckled. “Nay, it’s just cleaning the last few of the tails. A task I could do in my sleep!” The Knight froze. “Tails?” “Yes! Cats, foxes, dogs, any little creature I find while collecting mushrooms. Cut the tails, leave the animal. I sell them as charms, little trinkets for children and the like. I only do this when the wife isn’t around, she finds it too gruesome.” The Knight’s eyes sunk. His expression fell to blank agony, the kind only shown of a man with so much pain, that he had none left to hide. The shopkeeper smiled, and continued combing the little tail on his desk. The knight felt numb. Tears welled in his eyes. His throat felt swollen, and he could not breathe. Slowly, and hesitantly, he donned his steel armor, save the new helm. The large, metal gauntlets felt heavy, and all too familiar. Lastly, he draped the worn, bloodstained tunic over himself. He tied the leather belt around his waist, sharply and full of building anger. The heavy armor did not weigh him down. The red cross on his chest did. The man, at his counter, looked up, confused. The Wandering Knight stood again, before the burning building. The helmet covered his face. The cold, metal expression was blank. He stared into the fire. The shop burned hot, in the cold night. Blood ran down his old tunic, adding to the dull array of nameless stains. The house, which he had spent months building, collapsed into the 119
inferno. It was gone. He wandered, again. A tail hung from his belt now. He walked from the road, into the woods, silently. He never returned to the little town. He wandered, road by road, alone.
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[Untitled]
Anonymous
The soldier rode steadily and calmly into the quiet town. The late afternoon was silent, save for the trotting of hooves along the gravel path, which soon found its way out of the woods. Pale blue mist clung lazily to the evergreen trees, and reached out at the soldier like a hand, grasping at his cloak for just a moment before receding back into the forest’s embrace. He shivered, pulling the cloak tighter. The shield, which was strapped delicately on his back, was tinged blue with unearthly sunlight, and glinted with dew. The gravel under the careful hooves of his stead was topped with a thin layer of ice, which cracked so softly as they walked over it. As the creature took another step, the ice seemed to reform, an oddity nobody was around to notice. The pale blue sun reluctantly sank low beyond the treeline. The town shortly ahead was, however, not shrouded in darkness. The torches on the few streets glowed yellow, and the windows of crowded stone houses radiated warmth. The first street led to the market. Many stood around stalls and stands lined with food and trinkets, seemingly unaffected by the impending cold. With first sight of the soldier and his steed, and the sound of hooves on stone, a collective shiver took the small crowd. The soldier glanced toward a field, illuminated by some unseen source, which was empty, a dozen or so farmers dragging themselves back to town, following the setting sun. Mist engulfed the field. Nobody spoke. The soldier continued down the road, hooves along stone still the only sound. A man with one eye and wispy hair exited his small home, only to be met with the sight of a mounted soldier. The soldier gave his warmest smile, despite the biting air. The man scurried back into his home. 121
A woman leaned from her window, expression worn from years of scowling. At the sight of the soldier and his horse, she slammed her shutters, the sound echoing through the mist, reluctant to disappear. A well dressed boy and his father stopped dead in their tracks. A maid filling a bucket with well water spilled the cold liquid all over her dress. He smiled at each and every one of them, his golden hair still at his shoulders, his horse moving steadily through the thickening mist. He dismounted at the inn. He thought it resembled a shack more than anything. Keeping his thick gloves on, his stroked the black mane of his horse, patting the creature’s side. He kissed her nose, and she snorted.. Her breath was like that of a dragon’s in the frigid air. The soldier was hit with an overwhelming number of sensations as he crossed into the doorway of the inn. The building was fairly large, and was filled with chatter and merry talk. Fat men laughed and everyone drank and ate and sang, and the fireplace was roaring with warmth. The soldier kept his half smirk and raised brow, as he shut the door behind him. The closing door was a mere whisper in the booming conversation. Nonetheless, the chatter stopped immediately. A man froze just as he bit into a turkey leg. Another choked on his beer. The only noise, save the dull crackle of flames, was of the soldiers boots on the wooden floor, and of his long cape dragging behind him. He walked without hesitation past droves of full tables and terrified men. All eyes were on the soldier. He pushed his flowing golden hair away from his face. The sound of heavy metal on wood stopped as he stood before the counter. He narrowed his eyes, smirk still present, as he took in the man before him. He was a greasy man, fat, and with 122
a poor excuse for a beard. He was sweating like a pig, his lip nearly trembling. The soldier smiled, his expression welcoming, his teeth straight and white, his eyes flickering blue in the candlelight. He ran his tongue over his lips, and he spoke. “I’d like a room.” The innkeeper scratched his head and glanced away. “Uhhhh…” He looked from the tavern crowd to his shoes, then to the soldier. “Rooms are all booked, sir.” The soldier nearly laughed. He reached behind his back, underneath his cape, his hand still for just a moment. He cocked his head. The innkeeper was turning purple, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. The tavern held its breath. He drew from behind him, three gold coins, which he dropped on the counter right away. He sauntered away, cape swaying behind him. “I’ll take the barn then!” He shouted at no one in particular, laughing sharply as he left the inn. The building breathed again, people began talking nervously, and the innkeeper nearly fainted. The soldier led his horse to the building, which was nearly collapsed with rot. He patted the beast on the side, feeding her the last of his moldy apples. He unbuckled a large crossbow from her side, and laid back on a pile of hay. He loaded the bow and held it at his hip, eyes on the door of the barn, blue mist sneaking in from underneath. He closed his eyes, but did not sleep. They will come for me tonight, he thought. The innkeeper stumbled drunkenly through a vinegar plane of half sleep, half vomit as he struggled to his feet. He wandered blindly through a familiar place, shrouded with fog and obscured with nightmarish visions of dragons and one rotting corpse. The corpse grabbed at his throat and pulled him into a festering grave of unending cold. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was filled with worms. The corpse hugged him tighly. 123
It had blonde hair. The moment he awoke, he ran to the barn. He burst in through the door, panting, struggling to breathe. His eyes grew wide, as he was met with the sight of a cheerful face, smiling brightly. A crossbow rested at the soldier’s feet, loaded. The soldier sharpened a flaying knife in his hand, rubbing it methodically against a whetstone. The innkeeper struggled to speak. His eyes were filled with bewilderment. “Hello!” The soldier chimed. “Get a good night’s sleep?” “Uhh… yeah, yeah.” he turned to shut the barn door behind him. “You?” “Like a baby bird.” The soldier said softly. The innkeeper paced back and forth, wiping sweat from his brow. “Well?” The soldier cocked his head. “Sir… I’d just like to apologize for our… well… behavior.” He ended the sentence as if asking a question. The soldier smiled still. “I’m quite sure that I don’t know what you mean!” “It’s just… you know…” The innkeepers throat was dry. “We don’t have many visitors… The last soldier that came rode into town, last winter, was carrying a valuable treasure…” The soldiers right eye twitched, yet his smile did not waver. “What sort of treasure might that be?” “I best not say-” “Oh come on,” He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “You can tell me.” “It was an egg… a dragon’s egg. Extremely valuable ya see… and we have so little money… so we had to…” The soldier glanced down. His smile dropped. “I see.” “But-but it wasn’t only me! It was the whole town sir, we all agreed to it. Split the coin evenly, too. There aren’t too many of us, and we’re all livin’ on plenty because of it!” The soldier said nothing. “I can give you back your coin! And some more for 124
the road! Just please, please leave…” He clasped his hands together, pleading. The soldier did not move. The innkeep chuckled. “C’mon, sir. You don’t seem like the type of man whose opposed to takin’ some dead man’s coin, eh?” The soldier stood, stretching. He twirled the flaying knife in his right hand. “Now usually,” he said, walking slowly towards the innkeeper. “You’d be right.” The innkeeper reached for the barn door handle, but the soldier snatched his wrist. “But the fact of the matter is, that soldier you all killed, was my brother.” The innkeepers expression fell. “Hope you understand,” the soldier whispered, putting the knife to the man’s throat. The innkeeper closed his eyes, and said a silent prayer.
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Cover Art “Bittersweet” by Nora VanRees Wordsworth Literary Magazine Winter 2019