Wordsworth Magazine Fall 2022

more than a memory

wor dsw orth

Staff...

Seneca Christie, Co-Editor

Mia Lewis, Co-Editor

Alex Cusack, Co-Editor

Victor Riley Johnson, Advisor

Jody Bault Adams, Advisor

Alexis Quayle

Ava Schuman

Avah Lokenberg

Berkeley Mclean

Eli Thomas

Ellie Sundby

Elliot Christensen

Elishiya Crain-Keddie

Emma Horrocks

Esperanza Vicencio-Meza

Holland Hauskins

Holland Rudolph

Isabel Giacchino

Jaila Esterline

Jude Squier

Leo Amundson

Leyla Gavin

Lillie Sawyer

Mahalia Champney

Marley Cowen

Mercedes Contreras

Morgan Edenfield

Mylee Whitney

Myst Morgan

Noa Upfield

Paden Geddings

Peyton Hammitt

Riley Gardener

Sage Bledsoe

Simon Olson

Soren Andersen

Sumi Dyment

Vivian Collmer

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the autumn edition of Wordsworth Literary Magazine, more than a memory. As the leaves begin to frost, we are reminded of how beautiful the passage of time is, and we invite you to take a journey through memory lane with us. As you delve into the pages of this book, we hope you take the time to reflect on your own yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Each writer has shared a tremendous amount of themselves with you, and who knows, you might even find a piece of yourself somewhere between the lines.

We want to extend our deepest gratitude to our hardworking staff; they are absolutely what makes Wordsworth possible. Many thanks to Mr. Riley for his unwavering support and dedication. He fit in seamlessly with our team immediately, and we are so grateful for his help. We would also like to express our appreciation for Ms. Adams and her work from afar; this truly could not happen without her guidance. And as always, thank you for reading; we hope you love more than a memory as much as we do!

Sincerely, The Editors

It is with pleasure that we present our fall 2022 issue:

more than a memory

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

yesterday

Ai Hua

butterflies at sunset 1 Alisa D. Lightning 2 anon Coke (not cherry or anything, just normal) 4 Anonymous Green 5 Anonymous What They Say 6 Anonymous blueberries 8 Anonymous Garden Geometry 9 Ava Schuman The Silence 11 Berkeley untitled 13 Caroline Carder (C.C.) The Young Ones 15 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik Hurghada- Not a Disney Princess 16

E. T Thistle 18 Finch Logan Ghosts 20 Ingrid The History 21 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik Kelanda of Hydor 22 Jack Pendleton Camp Lutherwood; A place set apart 25 Jaila Summer’s Sleep 27 L. Lovell A Few Stones and a River 28 L. Lovell Bread 30 Mae Feshazion Those Rainy Evenings 30 Myst Morgan Life Slices 31 nickel zk. Still and Stable 34 Noa Upfeld Traffic Lights 35 pip past and present 37 R S Gardner Cafe Macchiato 39 Seneca Green Light—Lorde 42 Soren Andersen Untitled 43

today

Anonymous

The cycle 45 Anonymous Morning Dove 46 anonymous untitled 47 Anonymous Jinsei o tōrisugiru genshukuna rōjin Solemn Old Man Passing Through Life) 48 CCC Maroon 50 eren Dialogue Excerpt 52 Felix Duncan One hundred and sixty eight steps 54

H Citrus Twists 59 Holland Havarah Elizabeth Stars 60 I R Plastered on These Walls 62 Ian Lafontaine 11 pear haikus 63 Ian Sandver In the Garden 65 isabel 12 66 Layn

The deception in a page 71 Luci D The illusioners ship 68 Mahalia Morning 72

maia the thoughts of someone who doesn’t want to clean out their bathroom 73

Mars L. No James 75 Mercedes Trees 76 nickel zk. mirrors under my feet 79 No The Garden 80

Noa Upfeld Mustang in the Record Shop 81 Peyton Hartinger Lavender to Life 89 Spades Fifteen 90 Venice Stemm Summer 91 Vivian Collmer Untitled 92 Wilma Childhood Collection 93 Zee Paper Roses 96

tomorrow

*Insert Clever Moniker* Freak 98

Ai Hua midnight foraging 99 Alex untitled 100 Anonymous My Beach House 101 anonymous untitled 102 Doug C. Black Cat 105

E. T Father and the Cheese Wheel (excerpt) 106 Erik Ness Sailing the sea of life 108 Holland Havarah Elizabeth What do I know? 110 ian Color Poem 111

Ian Lafontaine the upright piano 112 isabel 14 114 Jaila infection 115 Jasmine E In the Mornings of My Days 116 Leo Amundson In Shadows 117 Lillie sawyer Hideaway 120 Mahalia Your Eyes 121 Mercedes Romance Excerpt 122 Payton Woods A not so once upon a time 125 PickleTree Glowing: a short love story 127 R S Gardner The Tree 129

Seneca Blooming Still 130 Sumi Dyment My Father 131

Vivian Collmer Untitled 132 yours truly in the bathtub 133 Zee Flame 134

visual art

audrey ahrens waiting for the bus 10 E. T Delphi 26

Kassidy Minick untitled 51 Kira Spencer Untitled 104 & cover Kira Spencer Transcendence 61 Luci D The illusioner 67 Mahalia Can I be here? 113 nia matthews everlong 124

butterflies at sunset

Ai Hua

sunset bike rides against the dribble dapple of waltzing creeks. little tunes, like little butterflies soaring over fields of tall tan wheat. waiting to be mixed with smiles and love before set to rest upon a window sill. a window sill that looks out for those who ride their bike by the wheat, against the creek, and with the autumn breeze. carrying baked bread, fresh morning, and sweet lily pad scents up, up, up over the hill where she used to rest and read. under an oak so old, lovers have become embedded and rings have been found aplenty.

sunset bike rides are best when one forgets everything in their pretty little mind and instead converses with butterflies. they would tell of such fantastical and sweet stories, call them adventures, and end them sooner than one would’ve liked. each story sounded familiar, but nobody knew where they must’ve heard it from. instead, they would look over to the oak on a hill where she used to rest and read. butterflies with the minds of a storyteller by the fire, knew exactly of the stories they’ve shared.

on sunset bike rides converse with butterflies. then once one’s run out of dribble dapple to listen to, fresh bread to nibble on, and they let an autumn breeze take them up, up, up… one may let their mind recall stories that they’ve read, as they rest.

Lightning

Alisa D.

It was the June of 2015, midday. A grandmother and her two granddaughters decided to go for a walk around their new neighborhood. Having grabbed the red stroller and stuffed the little one-year-old in there, they exited the mouth of the two-story white house and set off down the slanted driveway. After crossing the street, they were met with a cute park. A small lake surrounded by a winding trail, going up and over the hills. Bordered by cute, cozy houses and green birch trees. The air was warm but gray, and the sky frowning with foaming blue storm clouds. The red stroller made soft grinding sounds as it passed over the many gray pebbles scattered on the old sidewalk. The whole area felt new to the little sevenyear-old and her grandmother, who took it in with big eyes. They hadn’t been walking long when the grandmother took up a Russian song from an old children’s cartoon. The seven year-old joined in, and they sang as they trooped up and over the large hill, and above the little lake dotted with figures of feathered ducks. The sky was starting to grow angry, the air felt humid. The grandmother kept saying that it was about time to get home, and the seven-year-old agreed, hoping it wouldn’t rain on their heads. They were almost around the lake when big, fat raindrops started falling. At first one, then another. The grass looked greener, and the sky a darker shade of cold blue. The charcoal-gray pavement underfoot was darkened by the little fallen circles of rain, bleeding into and between the cracks, crevices and bumps. The green birch trees swayed, and water attacked skin as the grandmother, granddaughter and stroller hurried down the path, steps falling on the old and graying sidewalk. The raindrops were falling faster now, in a pattern

of furious nature. Past the cute yellow house, past the tall evergreen, and now, (quick, quick!) up the driveway to the two-story white house. Barely having made it into the garage before the air reverberates from a loud crash of thunder, such a guttural earth sound. The garage door closes on the wet, warm outside air.

Coke (not cherry or anything, just

It’s hot. To a disgusting, sticky degree. Blocks away from my air conditioned home. Trapped under the sun’s overwhelming gaze. My only refuge, my island on a deep wide ocean of heat, is the bottled beverage before me. Freshly bought from a nearby minimart, I know that soon enough it too will be warm. I must drink it quickly. After a few twists of the ruby red cap, it pops off with a steady hiss and tiny bubbles of carbonation nip at my fingers. I down a few gulps, hissing liquid coating my tongue with a comforting, gross feeling layer of sugar. Tonight I’m going to brush my teeth more than once, I think in earnest. The taste is unlike any other. Cola. Did you know one of the main “cola” flavors is caramel? Mmm. This is good. Sprite used to be my favorite soda, but it's definitely coke now. Yum. Wish I had a KitKat to go with it. I glance across the way towards the minimart. The couple bucks in my pocket crinkle in agreement as I jab my hand inside to check if I can afford it. Indeed I can. Taking one more swig of sugary goodness, I rise to my feet.

anon

Anonymous

The dark eerie essence of a deep forest, the thick and gnarled overgrown mossy woods, It sounds like the rain dripping, the fern-colored leaves occasionally letting a few great drops of water fall onto your scalp. It feels calm, like you can finally take a deep breath after being forever congested. It smells crisp, clean and unpolluted, like an untainted glimpse into what life used to be. It reminds me of peace, of finally getting home after a long stressful day. Green, the cool and revitalizing taste of the fresh mint, the mint with its deep roots detecting crevices and fissures, grasping onto whatever they can.

What They Say

What they say: You’re too young to feel these things. How I take it: I’m just faking it for attention.

What they say: There are people in a worse state than you. How I take it: My problems are not valid.

What they say: How are you so [BAD EMOTION]? You have it so good. How I take it: I have a good life, I just want more attention because I am greedy.

What they say: If I can deal with [BLANK] then you can deal with [BLANK] too.

How I take it: If they can deal with that and I can’t, I am the problem.

What they say: Just stop getting so annoyed so easily. Just ignore it How I take it: Just suppress your emotions like you did and I will turn out fine.

What they say: Oh? You are interested in [BLANK]? Wow, that’s cringe. That’s stupid. Oh, you’re probably (a) [BLANK] then. How I take it: I shouldn’t show that I have an interest in this stuff because it’s cringe.

What they say: Me and your [OTHER PARENT] don’t want you to be/do [BLANK], so you are just going to have to accept that. How I take it: I shouldn’t be/do that or else my parents won’t accept me.

What they say: It doesn’t hurt. You’re being over dramatic. How I take it: I need to stop showing emotion so much.

What they say: You need to stop being so sensitive. How I take it: I need to stop showing how I feel about things.

What they say: You don’t really feel that way, where did you get that idea? The internet?

How I take it: I am just faking it.

I am just faking it. I am just faking it.

blueberries

Anonymous

Do you remember that day in bright sunny late May a pint of fresh berries by our side our picnic down by the bay?

There was a light breeze a dandelion that made you sneeze we ate blueberries and laughed when we saw hopping sand fleas

I ate some blueberries today but it just wasn’t the same now you laugh on the beach with her another girl you just view as a game

Do you remember what I said that day? That day in sunny late May? I told you that I loved you and you just said, okay

The blueberries now taste tart and dry the perfect fruit now sprinkled with flies covered with tears from when I cried nothing good from this goodbye.

Garden Geometry

Forest, my joy, wait at the sea teary trunked willow grove grows over me Coral to coral, coral to sea Harpoon carries the wind in a tightly knit screen and it travels below all the ferns on the floor Forest, my joy, forested war Puny foams fizzle Forested frost Forest, my joy Forest I lost Garden, I tremble, resemble, I ought to look back Never look back! Only confirm what your eyes set upon me I whisper to the form “Forest my joy, turned garden and grew turntables or mist that envelops the dew I can’t see how you believed ages ago that the garden, my garden was covered in snow no more honeysuckle kisses or heads to hold on but now you are blooming my forest below”

And it turns towards my step, I step on its stride Its empty old gallop runs cold like the ice We dance, north, for ages Till its star beckons so I leap to the moon Step back, undertow

waiting for the bus

audrey ahrens

The Silence

The horror, which would not end for another decade, that is if it did end, has begun the war between reality and what most see as nonexistent would be pushed and It all started on the fateful night of September 6th, 1984. With the dim headlight from an older model bike shining onto the empty streets of Anderwall Boston, it continued down Jean Street towards the traffic light which marked the intersection of Jean and Grace. All sides of the traffic lights were dark on this particular night in the fall of 1984 the houses along the road were dark and the residents not in sight.

There have been calm winds for 2 days now with light rain every once and a while. A young girl in blue shorts and a pastel green shirt biked peacefully on her way home from her Thursday night book club at her friend’s house. The girl in the blue shorts and green shirt was Margret Boyd. She was 10. Her Best friend Julie was older by 4 years known to most kids in Anderwall as Juels she was the one who helped Margre attach the headlight to her bike she said it was a safety precaution Juels would have assisted marge home that night from her house but she couldn’t because she was still recovering from a severe case of Bronchitis.

Margret peacefully peddled her way down the street although she was a tad on edge she kept her composure. That was until a loud noise that would soon forever change the life of 10 year old Margaret Boyd. She looked to her right to the old Claverley forest a moment of hesitation could be seen on her face before she slowly made her way off of her bike and towards the forest where the sound was heard. She made it about 1 mile into the forest before deciding to turn back but as she turned around she was struck with the sudden feeling that she was being watched. She quickened her pace but it was almost as if she was going nowhere. She stopped in her tracks and looked

around at her surroundings when she realized that she in fact had not gone anywhere at all. She then began to ponder what she was really up against but before she gave herself time to think she was struck with that same feeling, the one telling her to run and never stop and that is exactly what she did. Margret felt as though her lungs were going to give out. She stopped running and looked around, but before she could comprehend the world around her she was grabbed from behind. She never saw what her attacker looked like but she would never forget the feeling of complete and utter fear the last thing young Margaret Boyd would ever feel. The moments leading up to her last breath she felt complete silence and for once she was at peace no matter how she had gotten there, she knew it would be alright. In the end to this day, the disappearance of young Margaret Boyd is still a mystery to those who knew her.

“Margaret, I told you to get down here, our dinners are getting cold,” a woman yelled.

“Sorry, mom, guess I got caught up in my journal, I’m on my way,” Margret yelled from her position on her bed she carefully set down what she was doing before she made her way downstairs the mummers of her family could be heard from the dining room she took her place next to her sister.

But before she could even speak her mom looked at her and asked, “Don’t you ever talk about yourself anymore? It’s important, you don’t want the silence to consume you because once you do It’s hard to come back from there?”

Margret stared blankly at her mom before looking back down at her plate. What her mom didn’t know is that the silence was the only thing Margaret ever heard. Ava Schuman

untitled

Two girls sat in the middle of a flower field, a disk playing on repeat in the background.

“Hey, Allia?” Ruby watched as the sun started to set, hands playing with a white carnation.

(Allia hummed, not taking her eyes away from the setting sun. In her hands was a poppy, the red contrasting the many white carnations around her.)

“Are you happy?” Ruby finally looked away, eyes watering from staring too long. She looked down towards her hands playing with the petals that turned brown the more she picked at it.

(Allia didn’t look away from the sun as she gave her answer. “Not really.” She leans back onto a rock.)

Ruby stayed quiet. The white carnation fell apart.

“I hate you.” She finally spoke, voice shaking with anger. (Hunching over herself, Allia laughed. “Ruby,” her voice filled with glee, “didn’t your mother ever tell you hate was a strong word? At least tell me why you hate me” Her eyes settled back on the burning hot star on the horizon, a grin adorning her face. The poppy in her hand seemed to glow.)

“You’re a liar,” Ruby seethes, shoulders shaking. Her hands grab a fistful of flowers around her.

(Allia gasps, dramatically putting a hand on her chest. She let go of the poppy. “I, Allia Sakugawa, would never lie.”)

Finally losing her composure, Ruby screams.

She abruptly stands up, grabbing fistfuls of those stupid bright flowers and pulls. Grabs until the roots aren’t connected to the ground, never to be attached again.

And she throws them

She repeats this until her hands are red with tiny gashes peppering her skin.

(Allia watches, smile slipping, not intervening with her friend’s tantrum.)

Ruby heaves, glaring at the semi destroyed flower field now littered with bald patches.

“Why?” she mumbles. “Why were you so selfish?” (Allia shrugs.) “Why?”

The damn breaks, and Ruby lets her tears and sobs out, “Why were you smiling?”

Her knees buckle, hands gripping the dirt. With all her might, she cries, “ALLIA, WHY DID YOU SMILE WHEN YOU DIED?”

(Allia grins, dried blood cracking. “Why wouldn’t I be happy that I got to protect my best friend?”)

The music kept playing as the sun set on a ruined flower field of white carnations, and the lonely red poppy.

The Young Ones

They sit and talk and crack a joke or two.

Think they are so cool with everything they do.

Acting like they own wherever their feet roam. Wishing those steps would take them away.

They have big dreams they hope to achieve, but they doubt they will ever succeed

They make big mistakes that cost them a great deal. Their parents all say, “How could you do such a thing!” Run Run Run they go.

Away from it all, till everything is gold

Sitting there all tall and proud

They say “We the young ones have all flown away now.”

Caroline Carder (C.C.)

Hurghada-Not a Disney Princess

Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik

Traveler in Egypt-July 9thThe morning heat dove into the sea as I boarded the white boat, carrying my snorkeling gear. I sat at the front of the ship facing the breeze peering over towards the splotches of fluorescent turquoise in a navy plain through my cat-eye sunglasses. The wind was fresh and tangy doing the salsa with my short brown hair. The wind stopped dancing with me when the boat was docked near a reef in a cerulean diamond cove.

I felt like a penguin with asthma wearing snorkeling gear. You might have thought that I’m an alien, wobbling with bright flippers and biting onto a round plastic tube under my lips. Warm water greeted my skin when I jumped off the wooden planks. But oh my goodness, the Red Sea was so revoltingly salty. I swam around awestruck despite the taste. I had never been so close to a reef, only seeing them on google images. They all looked like they’d scratch me with their assorted textures and tear my skin open, turning the Red sea red. The tide carried my limp body under the waves between schools of fish. I saw much zebra-like fish covered in black and white stripes along with many other creatures varying in color and shape. Flat fellows eased across pale gray sand a fifteen-foot fall below me whilst puffy red and black ones brushed against green coral. I would have been enchanted to be Ariel so I pretended I saw what a mermaid would.

In reality, I didn’t always feel like a Disney character. That

was my first time snorkeling and I made the huge mistake of eating salted mackerel and mickey mouse shaped pancakes for breakfast. My throat was still haunted by the taste of sickening sodium and choking on the horrid saltwater months later. Toilets were emptied onto my group and I wished I could forget seeing the toilet paper and clumps of fecal matter being picked apart by the mouths of all the fish. The boat made me extremely nauseous from the repetitive swaying. I laid down on padded benches as people swarmed to spectate dolphins over the ledges. My sister Julia spoke with a Serbian girl around my age. She seemed interesting but I was too dizzy to speak. The mango I ate once I got back to the Hilton rescued me from mental suffering. Mangos were a fruit I ate regularly in America and this one was more juicy, stringy, earthy, and larger than the ones grown in the western hemisphere. It was a refreshing 9/10. If I saw the beauty but couldn’t feel it, the experiences were unforgettable in a bad way.

Thistle

E. T

The thistle grabbed me by the cuff of my jeans, and it stayed there.

“Can I walk along with you? I won’t stay long.”

“Oh, please. Don’t worry.”

I was happy to have a friend for my journey, a little puff of fiber and will, holding on.

We walked, and gazed out on the novel wonders. We passed wild fennel and lemon, we trampled andropogon and beach grass. Each step, we took, we took together, and it was nice.

The next thistle grabbed me by the wrist. He was bigger. and spikier, too. But I didn’t mind helping him along, so I let him walk with me.

“I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“I want to stay with you.”

And so I kept walking, with two thistles. As we passed Bouteloua and wild rice, I felt the thistles poke my ankle, and pinch my wrist. But I didn’t mind. I was making them happy, and that was enough.

Next, I stepped by a patch of daisies, abound with more spiky little puffs. But I walked past, as I didn’t want them to pinch me. Step after step I took, and I realized they had grabbed onto my thigh! At least four more, held tightly to the fabric of my pants. I walked faster. Maybe they would fall off. Maybe

I could go back to just one! Maybe, if I ignored them, I’d have none. I walked faster, and more thistles pinched my legs, my arms. As we walked, salty tears and scarlet blood fell weakly down my wrist and cheek, more of the purple thistles poking my ribs, my neck, my spine. They kept coming, and as I tried to think less, they jabbed more and more into my being.

“Stop! Stop it now! Get off, all of you!” Finally, I yelled and cried, as I swatted them away they started to fall off. I just couldn’t take it.

I was a balloon, weighed down, ready to pop. The thistles, too heavy, and the pain too great.

Finally, I looked down on that first thistle, clinging still to the bloody cuff of my jeans.

“Please.”

As it rolled away, I sat back, I breathed, and as a balloon, I rose.

Do you want to come over And sit in my room And ignore all the ghosts Sitting next to us

Do you want to go back And imagine it’s the start And pretend that now we know What we are doing

And can you hug me Too tight and too long Saying sorry for things Others have done

And can I hug you back

The History

Ingrid

I am from the history, from the stories my mother tells me.

I am from a crowded house with my ancestors’ pictures, The memories.

I am from Xela, where abandoned old dogs search for something to eat.

I am from the traditional food and the warm smell that leaves memories. The memories

The artistic ability that is an unknown trait. Where I share one room with two older sisters. Half Guatemalan Half American

I am from the colorful table cloths and my mother’s prayers. From where I have sixty cousins in another country and where eight people share one small room.

I am from the place where we all pray before we eat and where we visit the Day of the Dead with flowers.

I’m from where everyone is kind and helpful, and where we make tortillas, beans and eggs.

From the time we traveled around the country, the time we went tent camping, And the time we got mosquito bites.

I am from the time where we went to cities and saw the shining office building lights.

I am from the history.

Kelanda of Hydor

Millenia before the formation of Hydor, There lay a plain as infinite as stars, The rain filled the sky, As mud caked the land.

The raven Dranium flew about his shores and plains as a lonely silhouette for thousands of years. Then, he created Fernanda from the mud. Fair Fernanda though newly formed, Became the lover of her creator.

Dranium solely wanted Fernanda on his land, For he preferred the vast expanse. For immortals, Desires stay without change.

Dranium banished Fernanda to the East Shore, Where she lay in solitude as Kelanda grew in her womb. Until Kelanda burst through Fernanda.

Fernanda- Year 0000.

In the midst of mist, mud swallowed my skin. I birthed Kelanda through tears and tears. The raven came onto the shore and my blood soaked his feathers that reflected the light as sapphires do.

“Fernanda, I warned you that it would only be the two of us,” Dranium whispered.

The raven plucked at my eyes until I was a blind collection of sinews. Blinded, I sank deeper into the sand, dragging my child down with me. The satisfied raven flew away carrying

the mist on his wings, allowing the sun to shine through. There were ancient shadows on this ashen plain, so I drew Kelanda into the canyon she opened in my abdomen. I pulled my flesh tight, like a cloak in the cold. My organs stung with the mud seeping in, but she was protected.

A running creek split the shore. Stones rubbed against the water, the currents cracked their form. The creek surrounded my limp body, the liquid ice bent around my ankles, and eventually the peak of my scalp. My daughter fought for air, rupturing my abdomen as she did before. I thought her arms turned to wings and she flew away, but the distance was me sinking towards the stones while she floated above.

The water stopped spreading when I lifted my hands.

“You’ve grown enough, you will not expand.”

The water infuriated at my command, inhaled me down to muddy sand.

Thus I began my life in a state of infancy.

“I created you from mud Fernanda, and I can wash you away just as easily,” the raven screeched.

The tides washed me away, taking fat and flesh. The pain dissolved into murky water. I was no more than a spirit clinging to an evaporating skeleton when a wave wrapped against my back. I was hurled towards the sun, a scalding embrace supported me beside the clouds. A scream for release built in my throat. It was only a thought. I knew I mustn’t disobey. The sun boiled my heart into tar until I absorbed into its burning sphere.

“Where is she?” Dranium boomed.

“She escaped through the river, but if you allow me power over the waters, I can find her and bring her to you.”

Dranium started to turn away, but I couldn’t let him go.

“Have I ever betrayed you Dranium?”

The sun pulsed from ruby to gold when Dranium lent me the power of water and light.

Fernanda mother of all, Burned Dranium using the star he gifted her,

And delivered her daughter Kelanda

To the tribe of the first people.

It has been told that Kelanda still lives among the Hydorian people, Transforming her body, Each century.

Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik

Camp Lutherwood; A place set apart

Jack Pendleton

Camp Lutherwood, a summer camp I go to every year. A place I go to every summer, full of memorable memories, a place I can depend on to help me through the year. A place where we do chores but have fun with it. We sing while we work, and play games as we labor. Where we swim and play games. Where we set the tables while everyone else waits in a line and sings camp songs with food on their minds. Where they have great food and everyone is so nice. Where we have the annual talent show, and every one comes with a big surprise.

Camp Lutherwood, Where you try to arrive at camp first so you can claim a top bunk, and make a name tag so you are known. Where we take hikes by creeks and sleep in hammocks. Where we beg our parents to leave us money to use in the trading post and buy otter pops and books. Where it’s always hot but we use the large trees to our advantage. The tall rock climbing wall is one of the highest points in camp, and it is as if it views the children as they play in the summer sun. It is as if the campground comes to life as the places are used and enjoyed, they are helping children create new memories to help them get through the year at school. Camp is where the arts and crafts are, where we try to sneak away a nice sharpie so back at the cabin we write our names on the wall to leave a message for the younger cabins after lights out.

Where we sneak past the younger cabins to get out of camp boundaries, to spend the night. Where we try to eat fast so we can earn ourselves time in the pool, where we play games in the field, right before, campfire, and finally campfire, where we roast marshmallows and watch skits that make us laugh and enjoy where we are and the people we are with, as well as life itself. Where Camp Lutherwood is, a place set apart.

Summer’s Sleep

I have woken from my slumber unbroken by the sleep stuck to my eyes and yawns lurking in the depths of my throat.

I stretch my limbs and they spasm from lack of use, my body thrumming with the energy I’ve built up during my hibernation, the surface tension of my trance collapsed by the blood rushing through my body, as if it had been absent for months.

I am alive once more, all flesh and blood and breath, slipping out of my sedated dream and into a reality where I am more alive than ever before. Eyes wide open, finally awake.

Jaila

A Few Stones and a River

I have never learned to skip stones, nor have I ever tried to learn its complexities when all I want is simple fun. No, I don’t skip stones, I bounce them. A good throw of a pebble through the air and then: once, twice, thrice, you keep count of how many times it hits against another stone and bounces right off it. The technique is simple, and resources are aplenty, soon enough you launch another, and the game continues. Watch as it jumps across and listen to its musical sound. This moment is unremarkable, for as long as there are stones and rivers flowing with water, this moment could be re-lived for an eternity. So pick up a pebble and see how far it will go.

L. Lovell

Bread

It was something that I had been waiting for years: buying bread, by myself. Since the possibility had been first introduced to me as a small child, the novelty of the possibility of being allowed to, hadn’t worn off the second time I entered the country. I fell ill with a horrible case of food poisoning, spent the last week of my trip drinking liquidos y taking medicina, but I got better as the days passed by and it came. The opportunity. I was blessed with the chance and I took it. Handed a few soles and I made the minutes walk a la panadería, through las calles of mi madre’s home. The interaction en la panadería must have only taken a few minutes, but I couldn’t help the pride in my chest as I walked home. With a bag of bread in hand.

L. Lovell

Those Rainy Evenings

Mae Feshazion

There I was. Little ol’ me stomping barefoot in ankle deep puddles as refreshing cold rain pelleted my skin. I was happy and free. Outside the apartment where my mother was in bed, watching the late TV. The door never closed right. Its rusted red color resembled our lack of wealth, but we were happy. Or at least, I was. Big, fat, slimy green and brown toads were jumping all around me. I wished I was a toad too. I jumped and jumped until my legs were tired. I was catching a cold, but I didn’t care. I picked up a toad and smiled at it with my bright eyes, appreciating its beauty from every side. My mother finally called me in, it was time to let my toad friend go. I placed it down and it watched me leave, our door kept open by the untamed breeze. I was sneezing and coughing and slowly becoming ill. I could sleep that night, my sick self wouldn’t allow it. I lay in bed and fought for breath through my mouth, my nose clogged and running. The next day was just as cold, so I stayed inside that day. Puking up what I didn’t even eat, hoping I’d be okay. I was alright it was just a fever, of course it went away. Back out with the toads, I went again, free for another day.

Life Slices

Myst Morgan

Update: They’re still both alive.

I’m actually pretty surprised this time. He was sure his plan would work, and in all honesty, I thought he was finally about to succeed. Whether or not you agree on the morals and ethics of such a situation, you can’t deny that this particular stunt was rather ingenious. It’s common knowledge that Ms. Greenhat cannot function more than five minutes into her day without coffee. Now you may be thinking that this is another classic “make the person coffee and put poison in it” situation. But for Mr. Beigeshoe to make Ms. Greenhat coffee would be an act of extreme suspicion in of itself. Any act of kindness between them was practically unimaginable, except of course in their Times Magazine cover photo of their wedding picture. Even then their smiles seemed extremely strained, but any affection between them, even purely for show, was rare enough to make me wonder if their grins had been photoshopped when I first saw the cover. I knew it had to be real though, from the time that Ms. Greenhat had found the copy I had hidden in my closet and used it as kindling to start a fire (coincidentally, in one of Mr. Beigeshoe’s cars). She would’ve never been so disgusted by it had it been edited. I suppose that was one good thing about them. They were both very open about their emotions towards each other, although these emotions consisted entirely of hatred and jealousy. Neither enjoyed even attempting to hide their dislike for the other, which, I assumed, is why Ms. Greenhat had burned the magazine. That photo’s existence was a huge blow to her ego.

I do apologize, that was quite a tangent. What I was saying was that Ms. Greenhat quite enjoys her morning, midmorning, noon, afternoon, late afternoon, dinner, evening, late eve -

ning, and midnight coffees. And Mr. Beigeshoe was well aware of this. It would be difficult not to be. However, Ms. Greenhat had trained herself to detect the taste of most common (and some uncommon) poisons, so the classic coffee with arsenic or cyanide wouldn’t work against her, though Mr. Beigeshoe had certainly tried it. But this time his plan was different. Mr. Beigeshoe had woken up at 3AM that day, just to make sure everything was properly prepared. Normally, I would’ve been asleep at this time as well, but I had a science test at school that day, so I had stayed up to study. And when I noticed Mr. Beigeshoe sneaking down the gold-laced staircase, I decided it would be best to stay and observe, just as a precaution that I wouldn’t accidentally stumble into one of his deathtraps instead of Ms. Greenhat.

I crept after him, through the ballroom and into the equally extravagant kitchen. Looking back, he probably knew I was following him. He’s always been an observant man (he had to be, to survive this long in a house with Ms. Greenhat), and I don’t think I was as sneaky as I remember myself being. But if he did know, he paid me no mind. He trusted that I wouldn’t tell Ms. Greenhat about his plan and that I knew better than to try to interfere. Mr. Beigeshoe opened the cabinets carefully, avoiding the one that creaks, and pulled out Ms. Greenhat’s 46 pound bag of coffee grounds. He buckled under its weight, swaying back and forth across the silver-tiled floor, desperately trying to steady himself. He was not a man known for his upper-body strength.

Eventually, with a few muffled grunts, he managed to lift the bag onto the kitchen counter. I almost wanted to applaud. From there he began the painstaking task of picking the three locks that kept the bag sealed shut. A padlock, a combination lock, even a deadbolt lock, though I still am not sure how that was attached to the bag. One by one the locks slipped off, placed gently down on a painfully pink dish towel, as to avoid unnecessary noise. I assumed he would just slip some poison into the bag as usual, and while he did indeed do this, he snuck in a small pouch as well. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, he played his cards well there. Ms. Greenhat immediately noticed

the poison, of course, but after that, she seemed to stop paying much mind to the coffee grounds. Probably assumed that the arsenic was all he had done, since who would be stupid enough to mess with the same murder weapon twice in a row? I never did find out what was in that bag, but a week later I saw the now dirt covered sack of beans lying out on the front lawn, coated in the scent of pesticides and with some rather unpleasant words about Mr. Beigeshoe scrawled out in red ink across its face. I remember finding the whole situation a bit amusing if anything. Another close attempt (a casual miss wouldn’t have warranted such anger from Ms. Greenhat), but still a failed one. I could practically hear Mr. Beigeshoe cursing to himself and Ms. Greenhat already plotting her revenge strike. This was more entertaining than any TV show I had seen, though the inability to change the channel was beginning to wear down on me. But there didn’t seem to be much point to pondering it. I had a math quiz to study for anyway. It was supposed to be a pop quiz, but word gets around.

Still and Stable

nickel zk.

the pitter patter pattern of the rain on the roof speaks of a rhythm to being that beats, beats, beats into tongues of snakes, and into leather from the hides of dogs, oh, hidden in hiding and living in lying- because they’re dogs, right?

dogs bred to breed and to plant the seeds of an insolent race who can’t differentiate the difference between still and stable. still and stable. will only lead to the fall of the levy, the break, oh, breathe heavy panting in reminiscence of the memory of a moment. Bring me, bring me, bring me down. from my throne up on high, because I need a little bit of low I need the silence of the likeness of solitude in noisy busybodies the melody of the serenity of trees of wind of wind of wind of wind of wind of wind of breathe, the beating rhythm beats a pitter patter pattern of rain. it offers silence without screaming fears without feeling love without losing the beating pitter patter pattern of rain.

Traffic Lights

Traffic lights said that cars could start shifting closer Tidy yellow lanes where no one crosses the paint of double lines

But seatbelts lied to me And I rocked again in my darkened bed and cried

Golden smiles or millions of barking voices

Open seats balanced upon hope and denial I could match your bold chorus I finally resisted Your quiet steps towards the pretty child

Bike brakes slammed in the center of the highway

Never-ending lists of maroon notebooks or wooden houses Lines of faces ready to catch and care for you Old country roads or bright teachers with spouses

Deceived and then dragged to our feet by frost Gloves compact on an orb of delicious snow How could I breathe as they invaded my corner Make yourself unseen is how it goes

I can already hear their whining The blur of their fun times and their catchy reins Blinding us like the popular sun

Lines of pink smite As I realized the cage

At last, they hit this frame in the snowflakes Running jaggedly towards me and colliding on our roundabout track

The violence of old children for full viewing

Just children

The kicks and blows of blood grinning down my back

Now we’re emptily tracing timeless scars Now we’re rabbits and cowards in our family’s eyes Until wars were absolved by those qualified judges Each playing the hero Boasting of chasing away shadows They fly on effortlessly-built wings of pride

Past wishes of smiling hand in hand turn to dust

Illuminated on our faces as the curtains closed tight Shaking in the pitch black as I fall asleep haunted by normality In this world where cars don’t obey traffic lights

Hands, hands, hands

I can only remain the alchemist for so long Noa Upfeld

past and present

pip The smell of the salt in the air lingers. Grains of wet sand hide between my toes, forever reminding me of their presence.

This place where I stand holds years of memories. Beautiful, sweet memories, Some memories never go away. Even it might suit you better if they did, But the brain just doesn’t work that way. When you lose something (someone) You hold on to any piece you have left. Standing in the (our) cave, embedded in the cliffside I run my hands along the walls, not caring about the damage it might do.

The pain that these jagged walls might cause, is nothing new. The waves continue to crash on the sand, then retreating back To their happy place. Their happy place, Was our happy place.

Echoing sounds of laughter Are still ringing in my ears The sounds I knew all too well. Sounds of laughter against the crashing waves, Being drowned out To where you can barely hear them.

Two sets of imprints in the wet sand Are etched into my memory Like how the water is etched into the rocks. Permanently. I should be anywhere but here. But nothing exists for me anywhere else.

The only place where I (she) exist(s)

That was the past And this is the present.

But I would rather stay in the past. Before our last day With her, And be hurting inside. Then be living in the present. After our last day, Without her, And feel nothing inside.

Cafe Macchiato

RS Gardner

February, 2nd, 1963

Beep. “Dr. Graham, you can come in now” The door opened. A middle aged man with Salt and Pepper hair walked in, He had a large nose and a short, gray muzzle. He was short and stumpy, with bushy eyebrows. He wore a lab coat and a polo shirt. He sat down behind a glass barrier. He was a coward. Afraid of what I could do to him. I’d snap his neck if I wasn’t in this stupid straight jacket and if there wasn’t a stupid barrier.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Graham” He had a thick Boston accent. He was clearly sent here, just like every other doctor, professor, psychologist, therapist, and physician. “Are you-” he picked up a piece of paper and glanced at it “-Corbyn Cooper?”

“Yes” I said, annoyed.

“I’m here to-”

“Save it, I already know the drill. You were sent here to ‘Cure me’. You’ll fail, And give up just like the rest of them” I slowed down on rest, so I could perceive the number of “Doctor Geniuses” that tried their best to “Cure me”.

“Yeah, That’s pretty much it.” he said, But he was smiling.

I hated that. Every little thing about this “Doctor Genius” bothered me.

“I need you to answer a few questions, if that’s okay?”

“No, That is not okay”

“Oh, O-okay then” His smile wavered.

Beep. “Mr Cooper, You are obligated by law to answer the questions” The voice said. I bit my tongue.

“Okay then, Let’s get started” he said, way too joyfully.

A loud, strained sigh escaped my mouth.

“First, Have you had any thoughts of killing or injuring someone in the last week?”

“Not until you walked in here.”

“Uh, okay then” He scooted back. “S-second question”

I grunted.

“Do you ever think about what you’ve done?” he continued

“Do I!?” I began to laugh. He scooted farther back.

“Every second of my life is ravaged by what I did!” My laughs turned into tears. “Every second” I murmured. I gasped, returning to my normal state. “So, yeah. I think about it pretty often.”

“U-uh huh”

He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “That’s all I needed to know”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered.

“Well” he grabbed a briefcase. “I’ll see you tomorrow” Those last four words echoed in my brain. I’d never heard a doctor say that to me. I was shocked. I stayed up all night thinking about it.

February, 3rd, 1963

Beep. “Mr Graham, You may enter.” Doctor Graham walked in. “Good morning Corbyn” I shot up, surprised that it was still morning “Listen–” He took a sip from a coffee mug “-Today we’re not gonna be doing much all we need to do is–” “-What kind of coffee is that?”

“What?” He sounded confused “What–Kind–Of–Coffee–is–that?” I asked again, slower. “Oh, It’s cappuccino, why?”

“Cappuccino, pff, more like crappaccino,” I scoffed “Excuse me? What would you prefer?”

“Cafe Macchiato.”

“Cafe Macchiato? He chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “Are you

human?”

“Says the one who likes cappuccinos.”

“Ugh, Can we atleast agree that lattes suck.”

“Lattes suck? What is wrong with you?! I bet you also hate Irish too!”

“Maybe,” he said quietly. We both laughed “What’s your opinion on Espresso?”

“I can live without Espresso,” I thought about how long it’s been since I had a coffee.

“On that we can agree,” he picked up his coffee “Well I will see you tomorrow”

I gasped. He said it again.

February, 4th, 1963

Beep “Mr. Graham, you may enter.” Dr. Graham walked in, smiling. He slipped something into the shared drawer. “Good morning Corbyn.”

“What was that you put into the drawer?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“Why don’t you open it and find out,”

I opened the drawer and grabbed the cylinder object inside. “Gah, that’s hot!” I shouted. I pulled out of the drawer and set it on the counter. A paper coffee cup sat in front of me. Corbyn was written across it.

“Is this–” I got excited, “A Cafe Macchiato?”

I took a large sip, ignoring how hot it was. “Thank you,” I said, tearing up. I couldn’t tell if it was because the coffee was hot or because no one had done anything nice for me in a long time.

Green Light—Lorde

We drove down I5, Sydney’s blonde hair pouring out the window and into the night sky. But honey, I’ll be seeing you down every road I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it Spilled from my stereo, coating the air with an intoxicating sense of comfort. It was eleven and a school night, but no one cared enough to tell us what to do. The end of junior year was like that, enough freedom to feel alone but not enough to quench the craving for more. Her hands wrapped tightly around a red Gatorade and pack of neon sour worms as she complained about gymnastics and other things I didn’t quite understand as well as she did. But not knowing was the beauty of nights like those, nights where we took turns picking streets until we became hopelessly lost in a town we could navigate as effortlessly as we breathed. There was comfort in being both unsure and safe simultaneously, like suddenly there were no more risks to take, no more wrong turns—or at least none that mattered.

Seneca

Untitled

Soren Andersen

I am convinced that the woman who walks screaming down the sidewalk is a part of a far greater conspiracy to keep me from sleeping. Same to the man who drives down the road at exactly the same time every night with the dog that barks with an almost machine-like cadence. That must be the signal for all these strange and mysterious deep cover agents to begin their sinister work. What their purpose is, I can only guess at. Perhaps they seek to slowly turn the neighborhood Into an army of mindless zombies, controlled by the opportunity to take naps. I suppose it’s also possible that this vast and elaborate web of lies is not centered around me, but instead someone more important. A judge, or a doctor Maybe. Maybe. But I think the most likely explanation is that my neighborhood is but a testing ground to find the most reliable way to keep people up. I warn you, reader. Beware.

today

The cycle

Anonymous

I remember yesterday, Looking back, With disappointment, I could’ve done more, Or something else, I could’ve helped, Been more productive, Been better, Stronger, And perfect, I could have resisted, I could have fought back at the emotion, Swirling and pushing me down, But I crumpled, Even if I did great, Didn’t make a single mistake, I could have been better.

I look forward to tomorrow, Full of possibilities, I can write a book, Cure cancer, Or solve world hunger, I can do anything tomorrow, Not today, I’ll procrastinate, And the cycle will repeat itself, I could’ve done more, I could’ve helped, I have no one to blame, No one except myself.

Morning Dove Anonymous

Every morning, As the sun rises, I wake to the sound of doves. Chirping, Like they’re in love. Though Spring is my favorite season, I’m not savoring it as I used to, For some reason.

I remember when I used to pretend, I was twenty-five. I think it was because there were things I could not mend. Still lately I’ve realized, I used to feel so alive.

Now, I think I’ll miss the sound of rain, Drizzling on my window pane. The �� of the raindrop shower, Listening to it every hour.

I loved strolling through the garden, Filled with daffodils and morning dew. Without this, I think I’ll feel blue.

I guess these were my ways to cope, I like to think I had a lot of hope.

The summer months start soon, I’ll miss you so much, And the melody of the dove’s melancholic tune.

My bed is a safe place. It’s where I go when I need to cry, Whether I’m sad, mad, or even happy it’s always there waiting for me.

So many memories held there of laughter and joy, Just being with my friends as we trash my room, through the pillows off my bed, put fancy outfits on, trying to stay up all night, all leading to just sit on my bed.

As happy as this place is, there are also bad memories, That’s where I go to cry, to scream into my pillow, wrap myself up in a blanket and never come out, it’s where I go when I’m so embarrassed that I want my blanket to swallow me whole so I never have to face the world again. Because if I wrap myself in a blanket it’s like a friend, but I don’t have to worry about it lecturing or hurting me.

If I wrap myself up then I won’t have to consult anyone else about my emotions, no one can hurt me. With a closed door that once was waiting for me to open up, it ended up making me hold it closed tighter than it was before. But now no one can get in unless I let them. Whoever has sat on my bed with me as we laughed or cried I know that they will always be special because I let them through the door. I trust my bedroom door more than myself because it will stay shut, I trust that my bed will never hurt me, and I trust myself to know to depend on them.

Jinsei o tōrisugiru genshukuna rōjin

(Solemn Old Man Passing Through Life)

There’s a small, vile pain in my heart that absorbs my soul to the extent of replacing it wholly. I am boring. I am a complete character of the true self; there is someone there, yet without me. I am merely inhabiting my body. The satisfaction comes from imagination: I re-do everything every day at similar times in the same places. I’m without knowledge, without soul. I’m not there anymore. I’m just inside-out at all times. I’ve died, and my soul has stagnated to my body. I feel the ghost inside me reaching forth and stretching my skin, but it cannot escape. My eyes are heavy. The true eyes are trying to escape from out of them. I am pervaded with daydreams of satisfaction and pleasure in the menial tasks of which I participate; I cannot manage new things. I am to be rendered a slave to the old; a traditional chattel, even. It is crying. Seething. Waiting for escape. Can I do it? Can I free it? No. I shall not. The searing spine inside my back is warping. I can feel every bone; the separate vertebrate scream. They cry. Their noses scrunch and their eyes dampen. They wail, however silently—a whimper. A stupid, silent whimper. It crawls down my spine. The cries. The very fair cry. I shall not release it. I despise it. But without pain I’m no one. I am completely without one. I am the sleeping man. He is not awake. Forever shall he sleep. I stare. The cells of my head release their pressure and stupefy my brain. I am foggy and confused; I am not old, just stupid. The old may fare as insignificant—I count myself among them. Don’t perceive it as solemnity. I am truthful. I understand it. All of it. You cannot deny the truth I understand. I am not sad. I am modestly con-

fused. I cannot free him. I cannot wait to free him. I am perplexed and fragile. I break. It shines upon me, yet its death throes vaults of pain and darkness through my chest. I grieve without tears. Just nothing. Sinful. My throat is full of sounds. They won’t be released. My eyes scrunch and close towards the shape of tears; they don’t exist. I am going to regurgitate the stomach I ate at birth, and I am going to throw it into the ocean. The blackness will consume it. I will kill it. Let it beat. Let it beat. I shall no more. You are dead.

Anonymous (this story is not about me)

Maroon

CCC

Maroon looks like a knitted blanket stretched out to fit all of the children as we bunch up on the aged over sofa. Our feet tangled in the blanket, saving us from the chilled bite of the floorboards in winter. The warmth of our breath becoming one, our cheeks a rosy pink. Me under the blanket, looking through the holes in the stitches as the light streams through in tiny specks.

Maroon sounds like a gentle drizzle tapping on the foggy windows, telling us to greet the upcoming shower, quieting the roar of laughter. The fire a distant crackle, warm and dancing about, illuminating the acorn oak floorboards, creating a symphony of peace.

Maroon feels like the warmth of the night, the sheets welcoming but crisp from the day, waiting to be reheated. The covers floating down, resting perfectly in the shape of you. The pillow squishing down to hold your head, guiding you to a dream so comforting that you wish to never get up.

Maroon smells like cinnamon, coffee, and chopped wood lingering in the air, welcoming you to a new day that has been so patiently waiting for you. Something so familiar that we almost don’t recognize it, but crave once we don’t have it.

Maroon is the joy of Christmas at the family cabin, the tree decorated and glistening in collected memories, festive colored stockings hung above the fireplace, stuffed full of sugar and trinkets. A mellow mizzle outside some days, and others perhaps a crunch of the snow from deer prancing about, celebrating with us.

Maroon tastes like a spoonful of honey and sugared hazelnuts melting on your tongue. A tender sweetness. Our parents telling us to slow down and savor the taste.

The color of comfort.

untitled

Kassidy Minick

Dialogue Excerpt

eren

“Why do you care, Astor?” Ches wondered, keeping his blank expression facing the ceiling. “You tried to turn me and France into clones of yourself, so surely, you don’t care about us. You only want me alive so that you have a host to make you stronger. I know that you could take control any time you’d like, but you never told me because you don’t want me to know that you’re going to try it someday.”

“Well… I thought about it. But in the end… I just thought it would have been better for everyone. I mean, I’ve never looked at it this way… but if I made every human on the Earth me… then what would I do afterward? There would be nobody except for the people of New Troy who are underground, but I don’t want to go back because… I’m afraid. That no one forgave me.” Astor chuckled. “I guess life really is like those phony movies.”

“That doesn’t explain why you care what happens to me. There are billions of others who’s soul you could latch on to.” “It’s not that easy. You can only merge souls with someone if they have half of it. And unless you die (I would feel that pain as well), I’m unable to have a body of my own, which sure beats living on the side of the road with people tossing things at you. I like to keep pride in the things I do, like most people, so technically we’re both doing this right now, storming out on your old man. We have the same achievements. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“...I guess that makes a little sense.” “And you are never alone because I’ll always be with you. I mean, I can’t control that, so don’t take it the wrong way... anyways, that gives me time to learn your goals, personality, and your side of the story, and you know, you’re not all that bad. You have good intentions… you’re.. a good person.”

“...You know… you changed pretty quickly.” Ches remarked, hearing this.

Astor sighed. “Listen, when I came in sync with you and your thoughts… I… seemed to look at the world in a different way… it was like all of my hatred and sadness had vanished, and it was only good intentions and thoughts… yet, my memories of the past still lurk in my– our mind. You changed me, Ches.”

“Heh, guess I did.”

One hundred and sixty eight steps

Felix Duncan

*A small amount of backstory, Alec is a man who is constantly on fire and has to wear a suit to contain it. He has just returned to his home at a complex for super abled individuals. * Thank you and enjoy My shoulder slouch as I read the sign in front of me “elevator broke, use stairs please”. I didn’t have much of a choice, I thought, looking at the desolate stairwell. Not that anyone else did. Except for Agnus, but she never left her room anyways. I lurch my way on over to the stairwell and readjust the thousand piece puzzle under my arm. I hold the handrail and stare at the top of the steps. I stand there thinking about lifting my foot. The thought of it makes me tired.

Twelve stairs each set, two per floor and seven floors to make it up.

One hundred and sixty eight steps

I stand there for a bit more. I’m passed by people I know only by face. They take the first step and then the second, third, forth, fifth, until they’re at the top and turn the corner out of view. I can still hear the footsteps echoing in the stairwell. I lift my left foot above that first seven and a half inches and place it down. I drag myself up with the railing. I lift my right foot up

behind me and drag it all the same behind me. One. I take another step, I lift my left foot this time. Seven and a half inches up and then down onto the concrete step. I try to drag my foot behind me. I really did try.

My suit is just so heavy.

I stand, left foot on the second and right on the first. It took me a few minutes but I dragged my foot up the stair. I close my eyes shut and bend my knee. I make it to the third step, both feet, on the third step. I can do this. one hundred and sixty more steps. That was nothing, a small number. Heck, my puzzle had ten times as many pieces than that. One hundred and sixty wasn’t too bad when you really think about it. I only had seven more sets of stairs and I was one eighth done with the first set. Eight isn’t a big number, it’s only one more than seven. Not even in the double digits.

I stand on the third step for a few minutes. Twelve.

I take a breath in and step, another breath, step, another and step, and another breath, and another breath, and another and another and another. I sink down against the wall, hitting my helmet on the handrail. I look down and count. One, two , three, four, five, six, seven….I was more than half way up. I’ll just sit here for a second. I didn’t really have anywhere to be. All I had planned today was to build my puzzle. I set the box onto my lap. The puzzle was a picture of the redwoods. I’ve always wanted to go there. Into the forest, the trees, towering so tall. I was rather sick of here with all the concrete. All the noise of the city when I was out and the deafening silence of my room.

It’s perfect there.

Maybe

Or maybe that’s just the image I’ve built in my head about

it. Fictitious. Whatever it was, it was most certainly better than here. I’ll get there, even if I have to run on foot… . If I’m going to run I have to walk first. I’ll do that. As I go to stand my puzzle falls out of my lap. It tumbles down the stairs. Down all the stairs.

Down

All the way down

So far down

I vapor fogs up the visor of my helmet as tears made of pure exhaustion roll down my face. My breath is shaky as I draw it in. I take a step down…..another step down. My boots slamming down echoes through the stairwell. Until I reach the bottom. All the way down. I unceremoniously bend down to grab my puzzle. I ran my hand along the corner of the box that caved in. I look back at the stairs. I look at the puzzle, then back at the stairs. I don’t want to look at those stairs anymore. I don’t. So I won’t. My hand tightens around the railing and my eyelids close. I think about the trees. The trees that were bigger than any stupid staircase. The trees that I want to sit and rest under. Just rest.

“Alec?”

I look around to see one of the doctors, Dr. Halls, at the top of the stairs in front of me.

“H-hi..Hello Dr. Halls,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Are you going up the stairs Alec?” She says beckoning her hand to someone out of view.

“Yeah.” I clench my puzzle, “ Elevators broken.”

“No it’s not,” She said as footsteps slowly started, “One of

the residents, Thomas von, the young man with the fish in his lungs, put up the sign as a bit of a prank, a real rascal he is.”

“It-it,it’s not?” I questioned.

“Heavens no, we run a sophisticated operation here, no elevator is breaking down here,” she chuckled, turning her attention to someone else, “Hello dear, see? It wasn’t that bad now was it!”

I see Agnus stand by Dr.Hall. because of her beak she couldn’t really frown but her eyes said enough. She just kind of nodded, folding her wings tighter onto her back.

“Alec, ooh! I see you got your puzzle,” she says smiling, “Goodie, does this mean you’re going back up to your room?”

I nod.

“You and Agnus are on the same floor, right?” she questioned but continued before I could answer, “ would you accompany agnus back to her room before you dig into that puzzle?”

I nod again. Agnus slowly walked down the stairs and stood in front of me. We walked slowly over to the elevators. I reach out and press the button. We stand in silence as we stare at the doors.

“I like your puzzle,’’ Agnus says, still looking forward to the elevator doors.

I hold the box up to look at the picture, “ I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“It looks nice, maybe one day, get out of this concrete

castle,” she said.

The elevator doors open.

“That would be nice,” I say, pressing the button to the seventh floor.

We stand in silence again as the doors close.

“How many pieces?”

“One thousand five hundred.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to build it with me?”

“....sure.”

Citrus Twists

I’ve never liked the taste of pumpkin. It reminds me how the bitter air tasted When the fall was extra cold, when my life was completely altered When you promised to stay and you didn’t.

Now fall comes around again, this year, sweet and sour, like citrus twists I rarely am reminded of you Though pumpkins are still ruined and I still have those days Where the pumpkin-spiced air is suffocating Where the clouds look like whipped cream dollops So I’ll think of those citrus-twisted days and your memory will cease

Four years. I’ve never been happier or sadder, than I am without you.

H

Stars

Why does the world still spin From morning To night

Why do the Stars still glisten In the fresh Summer sight Why does the Grass still grow The flowers Still bloom Shouldn’t something be Different? Shouldn’t everything Change? Now that your Soul Has become a brand new Star Now that Your warmth Has been replaced By the stale autumn breeze

Transcendence

Kira Spencer

Plastered on These Walls

I R

I am plastered on these walls. When I first moved here, these walls were so blank, so, I wrote letters to myself and pinned them up. I taped up drawings and notes and memories.

These walls are the culmination of me.

On my wall is a small warped mirror. Every day I look into the mirror and I look just a bit different.

On my wall is a tiny pride flag. I made it myself, for myself as I began to accept who I am.

On my wall is a drawing I did when I was 9. The drawing is, quite frankly, terrible. But I’ve improved so much since then.

As I put things up on the wall I also take things down from it. Putting the past into a shoe box and putting up today. And of course, today eventually gets replaced by tomorrow.

I don’t think a single shoe box will be large enough to hold me.

11 pear haikus

i. linen leaves pray twice brown fruit remembers spring grass as the wind’s other seeds.

ii. a fruit bowl is tiring. I wish I were a black cat, feeling warm all of the time.

iii. pale blotted skin, like molehills in the grass digging for something real. iv. at least I’m unharmed. sticky chins, spitting apple seeds, I am never a thought.

v. maybe I am dead maybe the clouds are stray cats maybe I am a pear

vi.

a blade unravels sour skin, as a lens flare spirals up to the sun— as a glassblower finds an unseeable star.

vii. pears die in a plastic bowl floury fingers scar dough as a tire deflates a freeway.

viii. I decay into sticky palms like a pine bleeds into barkchips transplanting my wounds into doorhandles. ix. torsos contort across bickering tiles crinkling plastic is a black womb, where I’m spat out as a wrapper.

x. I was a fragile novel ants digest the dictionary, but they’ll never truly know me.

xi. rain falls and forgets meely flesh becomes the worm in love with the rotten things

In the Garden

Soft moss on the rocks and leafy trees that glow with light, Pines that almost reach the sky and wooden fences along the stone pathways

Quiet and lovely, the garden seems to shine with life And the water seems to sing. Leaves fluttering in the breeze like butterflies

As birds speak softly with one another. To walk through the garden feels like a dream that No one wants To end.

Ian Sandver

closure is something that comes like rain in a tornado of happy sometimes and sad most of the time. but this time it’s okay, because my heart has already been shattered by moments that now reside in a thoughtful collection of delicate words, cultivated by a culprit of my inspiration and imagination. emerald fields dotted in pale pink peonies and honey dipped buttercups strum a fiddle melody explaining to the wind what being at peace really feels like.

The illusioner

Luci D

The illusioners ship

As I steer my ship I look forward and do all I can to keep the gaze most becoming of a captain. Which is pointless because my crew was now a series of whispers in the wind, whispers of songs. A trick of the light tells me their locations, which are closer than I would care to be to such unhappy memories. They now belong to the wind; disloyal to me, they shouldn’t matter as much as they do, still, they try to set my ship off course and define me with their so-called songs. I quickly tame the phantoms and regain the illusion of control over my ship, and as I go into town people give compliments as if my illusion was reality.

I walk with my hood up to conceal my identity, but they see right through the disguise, no matter how carefully planned it was.

“Captain LuciAnne. you do such a good job steering that ship by yourself!” I hear them say their lies with such confidence that the best of the actors would be jealous, because even they can’t fool themselves this easily.

My stomach boils with hatred towards that name. That darn name LuciAnne, or light chosen by God, but that could not be further from the truth. Unless it was referring to being chosen for damning. I feel meaningless, almost as meaningless as that lying name. Granted, it is fitting for the liar it names. I make my way towards the castle, each step leading towards an unattainable goal. “After I hand my maps to the king, I will go back to the ship and sail again.” I think to myself.

The ship I left behind was old and in bad shape. I did my best to keep it clean, but ships are hard to clean when you are alone. dirt… the concept is no stranger to me but fascinating nevertheless. Dirt… am I dirty? I do care about the answer to

that question. With or without dirt on my face I am unpresentable to the king… no matter what I know going into this of his response to seeing me, a lesser being, hatred. I know my place in the world. Lost and alone in the waters of life. Loneliness. Yet another idea I find myself captive to… I have nobody. Nothing. If I sank nobody would care. It’s better like that. It’s better I don’t have anyone to miss me. Seawork is dangerous after all. Almost as dangerous as my… oh I probably should not be telling a stranger that.

I arrive at the king’s castle, it’s only slightly late… a new record. I hand him the maps wordlessly and he stares back at me with an eye of fire and bitterness as he dusts off the dirt from my latest masterpiece. His face is so red it looks like he is about to turn me a brighter shade of the same color. I know instantly that I should not have come here.

“These maps are not accurate, captain,” he says as I hand him my work, holding my latest well-planned masterpiece into the air and ripping it into pieces. “It says that there’s an uninhabited island here called Happiness you plan to take for the kingdom. Have you forgotten that said island is uninhabited because it is a cursed place?”

I argue back meaningless things into the wind, but the wind keeps my mouth shut and I am left silent. Silence. Another curiosity of mine. I rarely stay silent. Yet all the same it stays too silent. Silence could mean far too many things, apparently this time, it means unwanted help, and socalled care to be given to me.

“Go help our friend out,” the king responds to my closed lips ominously. “She looks lost at sea.”

I try escaping back to my ship only to realize it has managed to sink. I failed to keep the illusion afloat. I have lost everything. The wind turned against me, and now I hear the shipyard’s workers advance towards me, and I take my sword out of its holder.

“It’s pointless, Illusioner.” One worker yells “drop your weapon, we have you surrounded.”

“You’re right. I am a pointless illusioner…” I respond, as I

drop my weapon. “I am not a captain of a sailing ship anymore.”

“Great, then come here. We want to help,” another worker says, but then stops talking when I take a step backwards and sink to the bottom of the ocean with the ship I once captained.

“I am a captive of a sinking ship.” I continue, uttering my last words to the world around me as I become one with a socalled song in the wind. A captain must sink as the wreck they call themselves.

As I sink, I watch the workmen prepare for their own voyages and I pray to the lord I don’t trust. A short prayer that their crews don’t suffer the way mine did. Their banners now at the bottom of the endless sea, along with me, who joined the drops of endless water.

The deception in

I paint with words and write with images, hopes and happiness forgotten.

I sit and sing melodies in the wind, playing with the cards I’ve gotten.

16 years 1600 fears and only 6 good friends, I tell you now, saying it loud, I know how it ends. People often ask, “who are you” and I am never certain, Days turn to weeks, so too do my symptoms worsen. It’s all I can do to hide my heart that’s bruised behind this silly curtain.

If someone insists that I state my name I tell them what is fake, Because honestly my mind is appalling as my sanity is reduced to a flake.

When you ask me what I see, when I look in the mirror, Oftentimes how I respond makes them quiver in fear. The truth is someone as ill as me is little more than what little truth is within them. With me, what’s not on paper is a lie, as everything is laced with venom.

So, I continue to paint with words and write with images all over myself.

Truly at this point I am beyond most help. Is it a lie? A devil in disguise?

So, tell me who am I, I sure need the reminder, I hope and pray that maybe one day I’ll break down this mental divider.

So read the page, see my cage and maybe I won’t break, And remember dear reader… despite my demeanor, what’s not on paper may just be fake.

Morning Mahalia

The caress of the sun’s Golden hue Seeps through my window And dances in fragments Of early morning delight

The day is new The cares are few

The grass outside Covered with a blanket of lightly painted frost Looks like an ocean of sparkling greens And baby blues

The sky above Glows radiantly Like golden flames With licks of peach and light pink

The day is new The cares are few

I marvel in the beauty Of God’s creation Of His true artistry And sense of humor The day is new What does it hold Behind its massive Red velvet curtains?

the thoughts of someone who doesn’t want to clean out their bathroom

i wonder how many of the items in my house are expired most of it probably isn’t dangerous to use (consume?) but how many of the bags of foodstuffs are deemed inedible? too old, possibly moldy. the idea of eating mold makes me nauseous. fuzzy grey fungus (is mold a fungus?) coating my tongue. i think that’s why the idea of dried fruit is so appealing to me. but now that i think about it, can’t dried fruit mold just the same?

seems like all food someday becomes moldy. moldy mold mold. i hate that stuff.

i wonder the same about the bottles and capsules of things in my bathroom

my skincare stuff seems to have been here for many many years. not like i use it,

but if i did, would it worsen my skin? damage it with its elderly, unhelpful being? i should probably clear out the old stuff but what if once im done i have nothing left? a clean, be it slightly lonesome counter. can skincare mold? that is a thought that i do not want to entertain. maia

No James

Content warning: blood/violence

James wandered idly through the tall dry grass of his farmland as the crickets began their song in the dying sunlight. He reached the front yard, stopping short at the rotting oak tree that cast a weary shadow across his hunched form. He placed a hand on the wood, soft decaying bark yielding beneath calloused fingertips. No use James, only take up space James, get rid of it all James. He dug his fingernails into the bark. He cringed as the wood splintered under his cracked fingernails. Scraping now with both hands, frantically, small plumes of dirt and dust clouded his face, sucking in ragged breaths of sharp earthy air. He screamed as his fingers began to bleed but he did not stop. He did not slow. The erratic rhythm coursed through his body. He dropped to his knees, and wailed once more. Move through the pain James, you deserve this James, you know what you did James, you must reap what you sow James.

He went rigid. He brought his hands in front of his face, his left index finger gurgled blood from the exposed nail bed. Debris embedded itself in blood, dripping down his palms and forearms. He slammed his hands back on the tree, grinding the muddy fluid into the rot. Scream James, tell the earth what you have done.

A scream that could cleave skin from bone escaped his throat. Sobbing gasps ripped from his esophagus, threatening to tear holes in his tender flesh. Quiet the mind James.

He brought his head forcefully down on the wood, white spots bluming within his teary vision. Again James.

Again he cracked his skull, he felt his nasal bone shatter, piercing flesh as deep red gushed from his mangled face. One of his teeth burst free of its socket, shrieking nerves and bitter iron filled his mouth. He howled in agony and fell backward into the dirt. You are a coward James.

He stared wide eyed at the dimming violet sky. He spat blood into the air and smiled as the mist showered down on him. I’m drowning.

It seems only right James. An eye for an eye.

Trees

Once there were two gardeners, and they planted three trees together.

While waiting for them to grow the second gardener became sick, and the first stopped gardening. Then there was only one gardener, and their garden withered to a dry dead brown.

Soon the trees began to sprout, deciding not to wallow in her own sadness she committed all her time to growing those trees.

Each with strong trunks and smooth leaves.

The gardener worked day and night to keep her trees healthy, making sure their leaves always stayed green. But one morning the gardener woke up to find the first tree had turned a burnt yellow. Then the second, and the third. “Take this medicine to make you green again,” she said. “Okay,” they all replied.

By the next day all the trees were normal again and the gardener hummed a happy tune. But by the next day the first tree was yellow again.

“Why don’t you take your medicine?” she asked the tree. “Because I want to be yellow,” he said. “You’re supposed to be green.” “No I’m not.”

The gardener and the first tree argued all day and all night, yet the tree still would not turn green.

After weeks of fighting the gardener came out one morning to see the first tree had uprooted himself in the night and left. Leaving broken earth and dry yellow leaves where he once stood.

The gardener built a fence, and the other trees decided to stay green. The third and littlest tree thought this would be easy, since

they enjoyed being green.

The gardener’s hammer pounded away.

The gardener continued to care for the trees, and each year they grew a little taller.

“Don’t grow too tall,” she always said. “If you do, how will we see each other?”

Years passed, and one morning the gardener woke to find the second tree had grown so tall she could barely see all of her. “Why do you grow so tall?” the gardener asked the tree.

“I want to be tall,” she said. “But why?”

“So I can see new things and continue to learn. I want to keep growing.”

“But how will we see each other,” the gardener despaired. “I will bend my trunk down to speak with you,” the tree answered.

“How often?”

The tree didn’t have an answer. The next morning the tree had grown above the clouds, and the gardener could no longer see her.

“Please don’t grow any taller,” the gardener cried at the base of the third tree. Her tears hit the dirt and sank all the way down to their roots.

“Okay,” they said.

So the little tree stayed small inside that fence, and they watched the lives of other trees around them. They watched other trees grow big and tall, change their colors with the season or whenever they felt. They watched other trees make friends and fall in love.

“Can I change my colors?” they asked. “Will you leave?” the gardener asked. “No.”

“Will you grow tall?” “No.”

“Okay,” she smiled, continuing her work. And the tree shook their leaves with joy.

One morning the tree woke up much taller, towering over the gardener.

“You said you wouldn’t grow!” she cried. The gardener’s tears soaked down to their roots, and the tree turned green. But they couldn’t shrink.

The tree continued to watch, and as time passed they grew envious. They wanted to fall in love like other trees. Change their colors and express themselves how they wanted. They even once thought of uprooting themself and climbing over the fence.

But every time the tree went to speak, the gardener’s eyes filled with tears. So they never did.

The tree grew more and more, and they became bitter with the gardener, and the gardener with them. So the tree decided to start changing their leaves, discovering new people, and even growing as they wished. “Why can’t you be my little tree any more?” the gardener asked one night, her voice thick with grief.

The tree didn’t know what to say. The gardener started to cry and cry. Afraid to be alone again, she just wanted to love her little tree

And as she cried, the tree withered.

mirrors under my feet

I know I’ve already said, but I feel sick And I’m sick of the word sick Snakes eat sticks sometimes to keep themselves warm And I’m sick of watching them trusting branches to be quiet, before the trees scrape them clean inside And they become only skin. I just miss watching the space in their eyes collide With planets millions of times their size And still be fine And I miss looking for whispers of secret melodies Hiding under waves and under rocks, They barely speak, but the quiet isn’t awkward It’s nice

To just be with them, And wait for the sun to collapse, let the water rise so hot That the mirrors all fog So we could never see ourselves And we could just be.

Or maybe just leave me In a muddy glass puddle where I really don’t think I belong, And I’ll stay sick.

nickel zk.

The Garden No

I felt the cool breeze brush my face as I stepped outside onto the porch, the wind whipping my hair around. I closed my eyes and inhaled the freshness of the garden below. I waddled down the giant steps until I found myself at the entrance to the garden. There were vines growing in an arc in front of me forming a sort of doorway twice as tall as me. There were flowers blooming everywhere. I looked up and pulled at one of the leaves inspecting its veins. There was a brightly colored ladybug perched on the leaf. I counted the dots on its wings out of habit. I then plucked the beetle up off the leaf and watched it crawl over my little fingers. It crawled up my arm, weaving over and under my bracelets, then took flight leaving me to search through the garden on my own.

The sun shown brightly through the trees warming my skin. I set off in search of an afternoon snack to silence my gurgling tummy. As I walked I looked at the pansies and sweet pea flowers in their beds lining the walkway soaking up the sun. I crouched down to inspect them. The sweet peas smelled like my grandma’s pretty purple soap in the bathroom upstairs. I suddenly heard rustling in the blackberry bushes behind me and spun around. I stood up quickly and grabbed the gardening shovel that was sticking out of the dirt beside me; holding it point end facing the direction of the noise. I gripped the foam handle tightly as the rustling grew louder. My heart raced beating against my ribcage as I imagined all the horrid monsters that could be coming for me. Then,out hopped a robin munching on black berries. I exhaled and flopped back down into the dirt watching the little bird. It looked at me for a moment then went back to eating. The orange of its chest was slightly stained and splotchy from eating berries. I crept toward the bird slowly, so as not to disturb it. I reached over and grabbed a handful of berries off the prickly branch and set off again down the path stuffing my face.

Mustang in the Record Shop

Movies get it wrong. Books get it wrong. That’s the problem with strangers. They glance at the cover and then keep on walking, walking away with only conclusions. They move on from the movie, yes. From the book, sure. But also, from stories like this one.

I’m new to town. Bringing too much luggage to the airport, weird looks. So I got a job at the local record shop for income. It’s a small space, but they packed a lot in, and they’ve got more than just records; it’s records, books, graphic novels, movies, games, and more. That’s what the old sign above the door says, anyway. In glitching blue and orange neon.

Usually, I wake up early and walk over. It’s cold, so I wear a coat and a scarf. Quite unassuming, hands in my pockets just as a safeguard.

When I joined the record shop, people saw me quickly. Faster than the pastries disappeared from the tiny coffee stand near the store’s back. Faster than the cars that zoomed by, uninterested in our art. Things were especially bad then.

One day I stood by the door, my back to the faded wall. It had been yellow, once. Someone told me that on my first day. I had no duties to attend to at that moment, and my eyes caught sight of a man ordering coffee from our stand. A thin red novel was tucked under his arm. My thoughts wandered elsewhere. I thought of the work day so far. My chest muscles twitched a few times, but we were on good terms that morning. We could work together, for now, I hoped. The man – suddenly I saw him look at me through the reflection on the bakery case. My odd

movements must have caught his eye. He frowned as I tilted my head and closed my eyes, an unconscious gesture, followed by my emotions twisting my neck sharply to the right as if there was something more interesting out the window. There wasn’t. Never was, and sometimes that could be funny. When I looked back, the man was picking up his coffee and waving to the woman at the register. He headed toward the exit, which meant he was headed toward me. I stood up a bit straighter, uncrossed my arms from their relaxed position. I pushed up my blue sleeves. I thought he would walk by. But he paused in front of me.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said. “You must be newly hired.” He held still, as if it was a challenge or perhaps a question, looking into my eyes as my chest muscles spasmed twice again. Maybe he was just confused. I held his gaze. I was too interesting to him.

“Sure is rainy out today, huh?” He had said, as if setting up a joke. I could guess what was coming as his tone shifted to quiet trenchancy. “I wonder if it could be stopped.”

The bell on the door jingled softly behind him. I let out a breath and circled until I faced the streets, reaching out to rub away frost from the icy door which remained foggy under my palm. This type of weather always made me think of the Pan Am Clipper and the KLM aircraft when they collided in Tenerife. But this wasn’t March 27th. That man was just a stranger. Whatever it meant, I watched him disappear into the cold drops.

The man got something wrong. I saw it on the lanyard he was wearing. He works for a software company, meaning steady paradigms and the predictable. That man doesn’t know the force of a river. A force like mine, which swiftly changes course before even I know its direction. Even if I could stop the rain somehow, he wouldn’t know. That isn’t a man who works with the rain.

Warren sits at the front desk, working the cash register. He used to be wary of me but quickly realized that I don’t bite or

anything. Now we’re friends. Warren looks around alertly when new customers walk in, hoping he’ll make an exchange. The record shop has had fewer customers recently, he said. He’s worried. He clicks his pen cap in and out sometimes. But not for long. When he’s nervous, he takes out this weird tiny old violin, places an equally small mute on it, and plays softly for the customers. Or, for the sad absence of them. It’s beautiful. It’s graceful.

“You should try the violin, Foster,” he said to me once. I just smiled.

Usually, the record shop plays quiet music. Quiet but with a steady beat, coming from the speakers in the ceiling. It hums a soft rhythm, some piano. Sabre, who helps with the customers, is often seen bobbing her head to it, just the slightest bit as she reads from behind the desk. She’s been reading more as less customers come to the shop.

“What’s the plan for today?” I’ll ask her. Or maybe I’ll say, “Did you see that new house for sale up the street that’s painted bright purple like a grape?” She’s helpful. She’s kind.

Once, I saw a woman looking through the graphic novel section. “Can I help you find anything?” I asked. She looked over at me.

“Are you okay?” she asked in concern after a moment. I tried not to be disappointed. I tried to keep control. But of course my muscles rebelled and I hunched as a spasm wracked my chest for an instant, my head held high so as to avoid the worst of the pain.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m alright, no need to worry.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’m looking -” she paused. “You know what, that’s alright.”

And then she left down the aisle.

“Why are you winking at me?” an elementary school boy once asked, crouching in front of a shelf of movie disks.

“I don’t mean to,” I told him. “Sometimes my body just

does things without me. I have to work as part of a team.”

I saw a confused expression cross his face, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he pulled a movie off of the shelf, the artwork showing a cowboy on a black horse in the middle of the scorching desert sun.

I tried again. “It’s like most people got an easy mannered dressage horse as their carrier in life and I got the wild mustang.”

“Oh.” He continued to gaze down. “What’s dressage?”

He never ended up buying the cowboy film.

Warren created some flyers and posted them around town, but no new customers showed up. Sabre sent out letters to the locals in the hopes to spark some interest. No luck. My eyes rolled shut at the wrong times. My chest grew tired. My stomach hurt after I ate. Day after day fewer people came in through the front door. Or the back door. Or the windows. Not like they usually came in through the back door or windows, but at this point we were desperate. I do check the windows sometimes when no one is looking, just to make sure they are locked and nobody suspicious could potentially sneak inside. But now no one, either friend or foe, seemed to be coming from anywhere, really.

“Cereal?” Sabre offered me one morning. “We better take advantage of employee benefits while money lasts.”

“I can’t today,” I said. “The thoughts are bad right now. They make it hard to eat.”

She poured a bowl for herself, sweet grains pinging in the bottom without a rhythm. I tried to count them, but quickly failed. Sabre kept a silent wall up to protect me from any assumptions or judgments she had, but I could see the questions running through her head. I handed her a spoon.

Holly, who labels all the books and works the coffee stand, owns a dog. She brings him in every once and a while.

Chet, I believe is his name. He’s a golden retriever, the super cute fluffy kind. I’ll bend down and stroke him between the ears and he looks back into my eyes, panting in joy. I love giving him dog biscuits, and it sure brightens his day too. Sometimes my mind begins to twist the possibilities and I wonder. If I tap his head three times, no five times, will he look at me again? Will he care if I stroke his gums? Will the teeth yawn wide and destroy the threat? He gets agitated by my behaviors - the odd movements and mannerisms that should belong to something other than myself. He stays on edge.

Some days my wild mustang doesn’t follow me. Sometimes customers don’t laugh, don’t try to aggravate me, aren’t afraid or skeptical, or don’t ask for someone else. Sometimes others are curious or have open conversations with me. They try to understand instead of seeing me as just a show or a cheap laugh like some closed loop circus jester. Those are the very best.

On other days, I feel like rusty gears. I feel like I’m being twisted by invisible forces within. I feel as if numbers are alive, pulling me left and right and having me keep track of too many things at once. I tap, I twist, I knead the strings of the world. I flood with heat and scorching pain. My anger revolts as I struggle and nothing comes of it, like a car engine running dry. I am cut off from speech and I can’t breathe anymore. Trapped and imprisoned within a painful disgusting throbbing slab of meat, only a marionette, and dressed up in shame.

I was getting breakfast on my walk to the record shop one inky morning. My uncle had just called, and those conversations never went well.

“I want the - wink - the bagel with the - spasm, wink - I want the - the, the, the, - I meant - the the the the the - I want the bagel sandwich - eye roll - please. Simmons cimmaron turkey, got it?”

“I think you’ve got a touch of an issue there, my friend,” the waiter observed after a moment, reaching down for a

fresh bagel.

“Yes,” I gasped. “I apologize.”

They had to say it.

“Foster, we’ve been losing too many customers. We might go out of business. Funds are getting tight. No one comes to the record shop anymore.”

I looked between Warren, Sabre, and Holly.

“You’re going to say it’s probably because of me,” I said. They nodded, shrugged. None of us were quite sure what to do.

I worked in the back for a time after that. All the while I was thinking hard, trying to puzzle out how we could save the record shop from going out of business. I was flipping through some sheet music books the day it finally hit me.

I ran over to Warren. “Get your violin!”

He looked at me, puzzled. “What?”

“How about if you play outside to attract customers?” I suggested, the words rolling off my tongue. “You know, live music. And while they listen they can browse the record shop.” His eyes lit up. He reached down and grabbed his instrument before calling out - “Sabre, Holly, get over here as soon as you can! Foster struck a gold mine!” He lowered his voice. “I better go practice.”

“A gold mine!” I echoed back in excitement as Warren leapt up towards the door in enthusiasm. “Twenty gold mines! Twenty!”

“You bet on it!” Warren shouted over his shoulder. The plan might just work. But I had another idea.

“Foster Fisher. Tell us about the place where you work.”

I looked around at the interview team. They looked at me. I ignored the dark walls. I didn’t care about the pressure, not really. I looked down at the microphone. “It’s called the record shop. We sell every format of story-telling that exists: books,

movies, graphic novels, the like. Records too, obviously. We also sell music and baked goods. But now we’re about to shut down from a lack of funds.”

“You’re here today trying to spread the word about the shop, correct?” the reporter asked. “Trying to save it from bankruptcy?”

“Yes.” I looked up. “Art is losing its value, and we want people to know how important stories are. How music can change your day. How shows can inspire, if you only give them the chance. Our prices aren’t bad and we’re local. Please, stop by when you can.”

“Mr. Fisher, why do you think people just aren’t interested in art anymore?” The reporter asked, leaning forward in the way that a heron would, right before stabbing its beak into a frog.

My chest pushed inside of me, and I warned it to be quiet. But the mustang reared. It never listens to me anyway. “People like art, I believe,” I said, pushing my voice louder. “But many times, they can’t recognize it for themselves.” I rubbed my hands. “People say they want to read the unique, the daring, and risky pieces. They want to write them and publish them for the world to see. Something new, something exciting and bold. They can say it all they want. But I find hardly anyone is brave enough to step forward and attempt to speak the truth.”

We stood outside. Warren played tiny violin, no mute. Holly sang as best as she could, which is fairly well. Sabre was our drums on the materials we had. And I played the small xylophone from the kid’s corner, making up melodies that worked well most of the time. I was in the school band an age ago, until I realized that I liked making up my own songs better than playing the classical stuff. People soon heard about the interview I did on the radio, and stopped in to buy our media. We improved our playing. People walking past noticed, in a good way. The two contributing factors came together into a solution. And most things returned.

A busy shop. The record shop, full of customers. Sabre waves at me as she leads a young girl to the science fiction shelf. Warren chats with the locals, and Holly is busy keeping the little ones in line. I walk through the non-fiction section and see a girl, maybe in middle school, holding a book open. The pages are covered with pictures of orcas. Of seaweed. Of hail on the ocean. Of chickens and horses and iguanas. It must be National Geographic.

I walked up to her. “Are you finding everything alright?” She nodded and turned around to face me. “You, do I know you?” She looked up as if searching her memory, shaking her head after a moment. “Anyway. This book has the most wonderful pictures.”

“You like biology?” I asked. I looked down for a moment to disguise my face as I winked.

“I love nature,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis. “Zebras. Thunderstorms. Rain in the mornings. All the crazy rain in this town washes up the coolest treasures.”

I smiled to myself as she turned back to her book. “I can see it all from atop my horse,” she said. “I like to ride at the nearby stable. Everything’s prettier up there. I can see the hills.”

“What does he look like?” I asked. “Your horse. What is he like?”

“He’s all black,” she said, closing the Geographic for a moment. “He’s a fast horse, really fast. He dodges barrels and obstacles and jumps like there’s nothing else in the world. He’s a mustang.” She grinned helplessly, using her hands to gesture. “Insane awesome mustang. We even won some ribbons once! He’s the best horse of all.”

“I think so too.” I smiled back at her. “I’ve always liked wild mustangs.”

Noa Upfeld

Lavender to Life

I can see the lavender flowers out in the dog park, watching my dog trying to eat the bees around the flowers.

The sound of bees buzzing around the lavender is irritating, yelling at each other.

I can smell pollen from my grandmother’s lavender flowers and her freshly baked cookie, that I get to frost. Turning white fluffy frosting into this rich lavender frosting that looks too good to eat.

Sugar cookies with lavender frosting and sprinkles that taste absolutely scrumptious.

Grabbing the essential oil for my dad and making lavender tea for my mother. Unwrapping the lavender bath bomb for myself.

This is what lavender feels like, smells like, tastes like, sounds like, and looks like.

Lavender’s senses

Peyton Hartinger

Fifteen Spades

Today it’s my birthday I will get gifts and cake and songs and tomorrow I won’t matter. There’s a point when birthdays aren’t happy When they don’t feel like an accomplishment a celebration. I look back at all the things I’ve done all I’ve seen known been through and years don’t feel like landmarks milestones achievements. And they feel like something else to carry on my aching shoulders. shadows on my eyes. I got myself through nine. Stumbled through ten. Made it through 11 and I was ready to sit down. To let the weight fall off my back. To drop the boulder and let it roll down the hill. But I pushed through 12. Broke in 13. Picked up pieces and shattered in 14. Now I’m 15 Four years past my due date and I am not celebrating. I am tired.

Summer

I like that smell of summer skin

Warm sun rays and salt water

Damp hair and sunburnt hugs

Warm skin on mine, love that communicates without words I like the smell of your sweater

Strawberry shortcake and slumber parties

Pillows piled on the floor and our limbs tangled But even with sore necks in the morning, we still laughed and smiled and you were still wearing that sweater as we curled up on the couch

As the summer rain poured outside and as I look into your eyes, the same color as the cloudy sky I remember those moments when it smelled like summer skin Salt water and sunburnt hugs

Strawberry shortcake and slumber parties and I wonder, when will I be able to live like that again?

Venice Stemm

Untitled

I stand next to you, smiling so widely that my dimples show. Beside me, you jut your hip out with a goofy grin, confident energy flowing from you in waves, looking like a diva. The city lights shine brightly behind us, blurring the lines between reality and our own version of it, what the world becomes when we are together. You ruffle my hair playfully, ensuing in a chase, running as fast as we can across the soft grass. We stop and catch our breath, teasing each other as we do so. Then we run again. And stop. And run again. We tire quickly, laughing as we try to catch our breath. Then, both of us with tired legs and stitches in our sides, slow to a halt, our yellow flecked irises meeting, sharing each other’s joy and happiness, each other’s pain and grieving, each other’s confusion and excitement. Then we run again.

Vivian Collmer

Childhood Collection

Plip Plop

Ice cream drip drops

Falling without any stop

Cotton candy in the rain

The sugary goodness in drain

Desperately trying to hold on, in vain

Swing rope over and over

Finding a four-leaf clover

Getting candy in October

Ruining remote controllers

Checking out library books

Getting caught up in the hooks

Reading many chapters

Simping over all the hot actors

Checking out books

Getting caught up in the hooks

Reading many chapters

Simping over hot actors

Jumping and launching off trampolines

Being forced to eat all the gross greens

Making up ambitious dreams

Trying to understand machines

Disliking the ending shown on the screens

Using toys to create new scenes

Staying up late watching YouTube

Connecting your headphones to Bluetooth

Listening to tunes

Watching movies and cartoons

Getting big birthday balloons

Cuddling on cozy afternoons

Trying to survive till June

Popcorn with melted butter

The movies seem so much better Spilling more on the floor and walking out the door

Discovering different sexualities

Hoping they become normalities

Understanding the 16 personalities Trying to shift realities

Learning certain things are formalities

Seeing on the news there’s more fatalities Hearing so many more fallacies

Notification for Canvas to do Another assignment is due

A test open for review Classroom chaos ensue

Making mistakes, thanking undo

Feeling something in your shoe

Rubbing your hands together with glue

Waiting in the lunchroom’s queue

Being the last during musical chair

Using blankets to make an evil lair

Finding many socks without a pair Impulsively cutting locks of your hair

Finally going to the Nether

Through one way or another

Riding on a lava-walking strider

Respawning because of a spider

Eating grass and getting sick Pesticides nice and slick Yummy!

Grasshoppers, the side dish

For dinner, a dead fish

SpongeBob SquarePants

His audience, he enchants

I miss the SpongeBob days When all my worries went away Now I never get to play

When I think about Today

All my challenges come to play They seem to want to stay They follow me day by day

I miss the good old days Now nothing seems okay

Wilma

Paper Roses

Paper roses

Paper thorns

Paper tearing through your scorn Dripping blood a brilliant red Falling with the tears I shed

All the prying words you try Reveal your ever-twisting lie The roots grow deeper and I fear You’ll never learn to break your sneer We’re locked together, you hold the key But all I want is to be free Your words still hurt, I need to heal From words whose impacts I still feel

Paper roses

Paper thorns Paper healing, for it, is torn

tomorrow

Eye, of which we have many Mind, of which we use any Greed, of which we need less For anything dies under greed’s cruel finesse

midnight foraging

a sweet pop of wild nectar between the thumb and finger of curiosity. here in the grove where fairytales are grown, she picks stories on the thorny grey-blue bush. some perfectly ripened to be baked into happily ever afters. others quite tart on the tongue, to be scripted into tears. yet too many have been picked by beaks of indigo ravens, then crushed into the settling earth. Leaving the bush with a pop. each bush carrying so many rough drafts during the spring. waiting on a warm ray and pitter patter of petrichor. to grow into turning pages made forever by ink and a thank you. then as a few fall to new in the summer, giggles of joy and hope from nostalgic summer smiles bring along bouts of shivers. for fall and winter are the most tiring and dangerous of these story bushes. yet they are the most plentiful. during fall and winter, she wraps a cloak around her shoulders and brings along her daisy basket and fresh wheat bread. ready for a day of storytelling to butterflies. a breeze carrying the scent of dewy moss and fall branches.

~she tells of such fantastical and sweet stories, calls them adventures, and ends them sooner than one would’ve liked ~

untitled

It was nights like these, my father would tell me to remember. The perfect chilly summer nights, The cloudless skies filled with shimmering lights, And the full moon we fantasized about, as we imagined our departed loved ones, once again.

It was those nights when he told me to remember. He said I would look back on those days in thirty years or so. “These are the days to remember.” he would sing to me through his favorite song.

Whenever we went on trips he told me to “take a mental picture”.

Though I didn’t have a camera, that picture is forever placed in my head.

It’s nights like these where I think to myself “But will I forget?’

It’s nights like these I grasp so tightly onto in hopes of not forgetting a single second of it.

Will I remember tonight as the moon hit so perfectly against the leaves as if it were a dream?

Will I remember the thoughts that flooded my mind?

Will I look back in thirty years and remember the day my favorite childhood show ended and how I cried in my car?

Will I look back and feel the same pain and loss I feel realizing everything from my childhood is coming to a close?

Will I remember the sorrow I feel today?

Are these even the days I should remember?

Alex

My Beach House

Beach House

My every year beach house.

My house, but with a beach 20 steps away. Although we have to pay, Our family enjoyed the morning air.

Where you woke up and heard the waves crashing on the rocks.

Where we heard the seagulls on top of our roof.

Our beach house was like a place where you keep all of your beach memories in a box.

This was a place where our family connected and shared stories.

It’s like a warm fuzzy teddy bear hug you get at Christmas. Where we built a messy gingerbread house. Where we ate yummy seafood and stuffed ourselves with clam chowder.

Where the beach is like a nonstop runner. Every two seconds a new waveforms and ends at the shore. Where the fire is as hot as lava. The sweet hot chocolate with fluffy marshmallows floating like clouds.

Where you took cozy naps and woke up with the morning sun coming out from the clear glass windows.

My Beach House.

untitled anonymous

Soft mornings spent stretching under a scintillating, yellow sun like a cat in front of a window or a dandelion at the first beaming rays of light.

Fuzzy afternoons spent watching the fluffy, downy clouds that cover up the airplanes and the moon who can’t seem to understand that it needs to come down and sleep after watching over the night.

Cozy evenings spent dancing my fingers across the worn and chipped ebony and ivory keys feeling the music swirl in my chest and settle in my heart.

Restful nights spent curled up under the stars above my roof and the roof above my head.

I listen for something small, like an ambitious tanuki that tries to sneak through the holes in our ceiling. We let him in. I wait for large creatures, like giant dragons and a graceful phoenix to come in through the window and tell me all of it’s stories as I am doing to You.

Untitled

Black Cat

Colorful land, fresh air, you know it’s fake. You’ve been on adventures and wonderful quests, you know it’s far from the truth. You’ve been for a very long time, you’ve forgotten what the real world in like, being trapped in your own head in a cruel thing.

The Grass sparkles like glitter, you miss the real world, just wake up, seek the truth. You know this place is fake yet you ignore me, you don’t believe me? No, you do believe me. You know I’m right, do you hate me? Do you hate your friends? No, I think you hate yourself more than anybody.

You think I am what caused their deaths, you see me as the negativity in your brain, your heart. You see me as the black cat in your shadows haunting you for what we did. I am just trying to help, so let me in, let me in.

Doug

C.

Father and the Cheese Wheel (excerpt)

***The following is an excerpt from ‘Father and the Cheese Wheel’, an autobiographical novel touching on the ardent life of the Common City Rat. The page has been translated from its origin tongue to English for ease of reading.***

Our hero’s eyes opened heavily from the long night of slumber as he rose to greet the day. It was always warm at this early hour, so as he rolled over to his little bottle-shard mirror, he gazed into his fuzzy morning face. He breathed a big sigh and opened his eyes wide.

“You got this, Albert! Come on! Seize the day!” He was, in fact, a veritable king of morning affirmations. From the very beginning, Albert was a simple boy. His father, a cheesemonger, had immigrated to the mainland on the S.S Rodentia in 1472, and four years later, Al and his forty-six siblings were born. He didn’t remember much of his mother, as she had left for Egypt just days after his birth. He always pondered this when scratching his rounded velvet ears and waking from slumber, which, supposedly, he’d inherited from her. This is how his day started, on the brisk autumn morning of October twelfth,1473. As he tested his legs, getting up from arid sleep beneath the baker’s oven, his wide mouth- almost that of a possum- stretched long and open, as he began to breathe in the fresh morning air. Alfred found his mind wandering. ‘Mmm… lemon bread.’ his nose twitched as he appreciated the scent of the baker’s loaf this morning. His friend Remi always said he was good at smelling, ‘But honestly,’ he thought, ‘who wouldn’t be if they lived here?’

Al got ready to leave for the great hill, packing a spotted bindle with some of his father’s aged parm, a kernel and a half of corn, and some honeyed apple. Setting off for this trek, he put on his navy green rating hood, and a flowing, long couchgrass tunic. Emerging from the baker’s home, He looked out on the beautiful new day.

The sky was tinted aquamarine- with drops of rosy golden clouds. Sunrise seemed too soon to be waning away as he wandered down the street. Passing by Vole, and Hare, and all his friends from school, he tried to stay focused on his goal. He had a mission, and would not fail. His teeny feet splashed in the damp morning road, and the hem of his cloak would need a wash, but moment by moment, he could tell he was getting close! Trying to remember the path, winding up the swirling dark ally, down the smithies hill, through the Clandestina tunnel, and up the cloth panes of the oat mill. There he perched, standing atop the brick mill, blades slowly turning in the brisk morning wind, unwrapping his food from his bindle, and looking out from his mossy spot. The clouds were dyed magenta, and the trodden paths to and from the town lined the neighboring hills. He took a bite of the sweet apple and reveled in it all. Right now, baking in the sun. Right now, breathing the bright, fresh air.

‘Right now’ Albert thought- ‘I feel nice. And that’s something I can cherish forever.’ And sitting there, making a memory, and eating a delicious morning picnic, he knew he would.

E. T

Sailing the sea of life

Ships sunk battles waged blood spilled and for what Honor Glory Wars are not waged in the name of a few Blood should not be spilled because someone deems it right, But because many deem it wrong Death is a part of life, but how you die matters too Ships sail to unknown places, For reasons we may never be able to comprehend Ships sink without reaching their destination Found later by men and women, Too late But that doesn’t stop us from sending them Nor does it mean the end No matter how many times they fall Others rise up to take their place

Sailing all across the sea

To places we may never see Lands we may never know Because whether or not they reach their destination Matters less Then the journey they took to get there In a way, each and every one of us has sailed that ship Across the sea of our own lives To destinations unknown Trusting the waves to take us to where we are meant to be Waging the voyage, we were meant to take

Because we know

Wherever we go Wherever the sea takes us

We will be right where we are meant to be We know

It’s leading us strait Towards home.

Erik Ness

What do I know?

I think I’m getting over it That feeling of pain From the infatuation That wrapped around us Like a thick sweater in the wintertime

I think I’m healing From the slow burn That charred my insides to the point of no return I think I know Who I am now Without your voice Gnawing in the back Of my mind like A mouse hiding in the Walls

I think my fall Has been caught By a cloud of Contentment

That feels comforting When your so uncertain I think I’m happy knowing that I don’t need you To be my Happiness

Holland Havarah Elizabeth

Color Poem

Purple

The smell of flowers

The color of a bruise

The color of tired eyes

The sound like a dark storm thundering at night

The color of emo people’s hair

The color of some clothing

The seventh color of the rainbow

Purple.

ian

the upright piano

Ian Lafontaine

brown as a degraded leaf painted on mud-stained soles, orange and white tabby perched atop, like a pensive crow upon a rain-eroded fencepost not understanding music, but only for the warmth of b minor and a broken pedal that unlit candles reneged, lingering on the clam-mouth lid, warped wicks pointed towards the popcorn ceiling, the owlish spires of a brick cathedral keeping watch of sticky keys, barely misaligned like chess pieces set up rudimentarily for decoration.

an estranged bench hums imitatively of the greenish rug, silenced by the clawed table legs, sinking its footprints into the carpet. una corda’s vibration below the floor like the ghost of a vanished submarine seemingly existing as but noise in the walls, but unknowingly heard by quiet ears on the staircase’s summit eavesdropping on muffled musical meandering colored by the lingering light of autumn that spills through eggshell blinds. bands of dusk glow like pumpkin eyes on the piano-lid illuminating the soft movement of dust above the couch where the black cat lies in innocent idleness, deepening its well into the beige cushion floating upon the ripples of soft mistakes drifting into the echo of some other song.

Can I be here?

Mahalia

we traced contrails in the sky pretending they were from your airplane but in the future. fields with purple flowers are my favorite and you know that so i lay as you trace circles on my stomach and tell me i’m pretty like the purple flowers i hold close in my palm. butterflies whisper to me and tell me “that’s how you know you’re fallin in love” contrails like the wispy caramel strands falling on my cheeks when you kiss me, but this is still in the future and i’m still Daydreaming. isabel

infection

Jaila

Weeds grow pink across my torso, Spreading and rooting in deep into my rib cage, Soaking into my skin like an old welcomed enemy.

The fact that they are pink does little to lessen my sorrow. I itch at them Attempting to root out the problem, When in actuality I am only inviting them deeper into the chasm of my chest.

I am pink outside and in, Blood at the surface and blood deep beneath, Infected by the roses. The weeds. and all my allergies.

In the Mornings of My Days

Jasmine E

In the mornings of my days, I stand poised on the tip of a cloud, Arms stretched out wide towards the sky, Fingers spread reaching for all the possibilities, In the mornings of my days my bare feet pad along the white sandy shore, The foamy waves of the future lap at my toes, I yearn to swim among the bubbles of dreams, Morning fades to afternoon, The sun of life sits proudly in the sapphire sky, The tides of the future rise and fall shift and change, I wade deeper, testing the waters, I learn to swim amongst the silver sprays and crashing waves, I adjust to the changing currents and temperatures, Afternoon turns to evening and evening to night, The waters become colder and crueler, I’m tossed around on the unforgiving sea Trials and hardships mar my journey, I grow weak and tired, But I push on, Knowing that it’s growing closer to dawn, And I’m there, On the tip of that cloud, Safe at last, In the mornings of my days, I stand poised on the tip of a cloud, Arms stretched out wide towards the sky, Fingers spread reaching for all the possibilities.

In Shadows

“Numerous reports of a ‘man in shadows’ have been reported throughout these few weeks, claiming that this man has been stalking families, and even some going missing–”

I shut off the TV as soon as I heard about “the man”. I hate the news because of those stories, people are just so cruel… and disturbing. But as the famous celebrity I am, it’s sort of expected that I’m caught up in the recent-anything. I set the remote on the coffee table covered in stains from every mug that has rested on its wood, and check my phone. My friend is calling.

I pick up and raise the phone up to my ear. “Hey! Where are you?” She asks, “you’re gonna be late to your interview.”

“I’m just about to leave, don’t worry about it,” I assure her. I grab my keys and head to my car. “Good, just checking in.”

“Well thank you, see you soon.”

“See you soon!” Click.

To be frank, I’m really not that well-known, so it’s not every day that I’m invited to a TV show, but I don’t hate it. Right now, I’m sitting in my car and watching as I pass whatever’s in the road, on the road, and maybe even away from that. There’s not really much to see. My city often is covered in a blanket of gray sky and dead grass. Nothing really seems that alive, but that’s what happens, I guess.

After around ten minutes into my drive, I see something vague in the background that makes me think of the news earlier. I expect a shiver to shake me by the spine, but nothing hap -

pens.

“Am I late?” I ask with a natural smile I’ve practiced for months. I seat myself in the chair across from my interviewer. My eyes quickly go to the camera, the red light is flashing. I look back as he laughs slightly and responds, “not at all, ma’am. My name’s Louis.” He extends his hand, offering a handshake. I’m almost intimidated by his formality, but I brush it off. I shake his hand, which is surprisingly firm. “I’m Juliana, pleasure to meet you.”

“Lovely name, Julie– do you mind if I call you that?” Louis asks, and I nod.

“Totally, yeah.”

And so we talked for probably twenty, thirty minutes. Long enough for a full episode, at least. I enjoyed it, really. Louis was really nice. I almost felt disappointed when time was up. At the end, he stood up and thanked me for coming, as well as everyone else working behind the scenes. It left a nice feeling in me like not everyone is totally evil. “Well, I’m glad I’ve been invited, it was really nice,” I started, and he continued, “oh, of course! You’re welcome back anytime.” He continued about something like the business number to call him later, but I felt sort of distracted out of nowhere. Like, something was wrong. And there it was.

“... Julie? Hello? What are you looking at?” I could see Louis trying to navigate where my eyes felt glued onto. All the color in my skin faded and I was frozen. “Julie?”

I know I’m probably just on edge, I think I’m seeing things. “Sorry, I thought I saw something.” I snapped out of my trance, trying to ignore whatever I saw in the fake bushes by the wall. I grabbed my bag and left with a goodbye.

It felt real. I knew I saw that… thing. Was it always there? It was blinking, it had a smile stretched across its face. It looked like a man.

But what felt even more real was when something

grabbed me with disgustingly greasy hands and pulled me into the shadows. I couldn’t fight back. I felt something covering my face. It smelled intoxicating and I felt myself getting wearier. I felt my body giving up. I felt the world leaving me.

Leo Amundson

Hideaway

Hideaway Hideaway Hideaway all

Return to the forest with trees and fog Go back to the pasture and fill it with song Hide in the shadows of the old bog Lurk in the alleys filled with smog

Climb a mountain and hide at the peak Go running for the ocean and don’t trip on your feet Crawl back into bushes and swim to the crooked creek

Find a cleft in a cliff and scoot on in Dig into the dunes and drown in the dirt For the humans are here and as humans, they hurt

As they burn, blame, maim and kill

So it’s best to be safe and go hide in a hill

Lillie sawyer

Your Eyes

Mahalia

I looked into your eyes And saw myself in them I was myself Except, I had a light I was a light

I looked into your eyes And saw my heart Not all the blood or valves or whatever No, I saw who I was I saw light Joy Kindness Empathy

But above all, I saw you I saw you in my heart Your hand grazed my face And I saw you say “You are good enough”

I laughed “I am not, I will never be”

You looked into my eyes I saw myself, The reflection of the person I had hated the most He said again “You are good enough”

Romance Excerpt

January

I was laying on my bed, relaxing from celebrating my birthday with Nano when I heard a loud knock on my window. I shrieked, glancing at my door to see if anyone heard before going towards my window. I opened it to find Philip there, having climbed onto the small ledge of roof under my window, the edge of a ladder propped against the rest of the roof.

“Philip!” I scolded.

He laughed. “What? You’re not excited to see me?”

“Philip,” I said, laughing because I didn’t know what else to say.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what day it is would you?” he asked, putting his elbow on my window seal, resting his chin in his palm.

“The 17th, why?”

“Happy birthday,” he sang, producing a large pink box with an even larger ribbon on top.

“You know you could have just used the door right?” I laughed, taking the box from him.

“Oh you’re so welcome Elizabeth, I really put a lot of thought into your gift, I mean I got a ladder and everything,” he joked.

“Thank you Philip, this is a very thoughtful gift, I mean you got a ladder and everything,” I said, playfully rolling my eyes.

“You’re wearing the necklace I got you,” he said, reaching up and rubbing his thumb over the stone.

“And you’re wearing the earrings I got you,” I said, brushing his hair out of the way, tugging on his earring. “Anyway you should go, before my dad sees you here.”

He gave me a fake pout. “You won’t let me in? It is freez-

ing outside.”

“Go,” I laughed, pushing him away gently, closing the window behind him. I picked up the box and carried it to my bed, slowly untying the ribbon, smiling wider than I’d like to admit. Just as I opened the box I heard another knock on my window.

“What is it this time?” I asked playfully, opening up the window again.

“I forgot something.”

“What?” He gently pulled my head towards him and kissed me, I was so surprised it took several seconds before I kissed him back.

“Oh,” I said, when we finally pulled away. “Oh my god you cut your bangs!”

He just laughed.

everlong

nia matthews

A not so once upon a time

Payton Woods

I lay in my room with my notebook and pen, slowly ripping out and tearing pages of worthless work. The frustration pouring out, “Why do all my friends have great parties except me?”

Hours and hours of destined long hard work to get nowhere. Not a single page filled with good ideas, but bad ones. My sweet sixteen was coming up and I didnt have any ideas. I would think after being alive more than fifteen years, I would have figured out how to come up with ideas. But no. Suddenly I hear a loud crash downstairs, My mom rattling pans from the cupboard. Trying to make a home cooked dinner. Which we all know that she’s not so good at cooking. Here we go again. With the “Honey help me, a skillet fell on the ground,” or “Sweety what’s a tablespoon,” At least she had dedication. I definitely didn’t get that gene. I decided to take a break for a while to let my mind settle a bit. Mom was downstairs. I could smell and taste the scent of burnt toast.

“Darling, dinner’s done,” she said. It didn’t look too appetizing but she tried so that’s all that matters. I gave the toast to my dog, Gemma. And started walking to the stairs when my mom said “Honey, why don’t you theme your party on what I did in high school?” And that’s when it hit me. The theme will be a british tea party. “Thank you mom,” I said, before running upstairs. After I had jolted down some ideas for revision by my mom I had a sense of accomplishment. I really was gonna have a good party. I started getting optimistic about the party, excited for what was gonna happen. The next day at school I couldn’t focus on any quizzes. My mom always told me to focus

so I can get into a good college, even though I’m only in 10th grade. Anyway, in class all I could do was doodle party ideas. My party was right after school ended for the summer. So in approximately eight days. Most of the tests, and quizzes where to study for pre calc next year. And let’s say it sure isn’t fun. Most of my friends have colleges already in mind. I walk through the Target I live by all the time. Even in the kids section I see shirts that say “Stanford, Yale, Harvard”. Knowing that my gpa could never get me there. Was I a nobody, someone longing to go to a college that no ones ever heard of? Will I be walking alone on rainy days with no one to share my coat with? Will I end up ALONE with no one? As I started planning for my party, I realized I had forgotten the whole point. “ The guest list”. I thought, Knowing I didn’t have many friends.

“A FEW MONTHS LATER”. My birthday was around the corner. I had everything ordered, I knew who was coming and I was overly proud. A few days passed like wind gushing through the air. It was the day of my party. To be precise July 23, 2022. Everyone ( that I knew) began to show up. My party went fine, ( ha, I said fine, not great you think I enjoyed it). Well a little I guess. Everyone had to leave before 6, my enemy through a summer party ( knowing well my party was that day). Anyway what can I do but be optimistic there’s always next year.

Glowing: a short love story

“You look stunning,” he said. His brown eyes gazed at her, his stare was otherworldly, for she was not of his world, she was a star from a land far away, shining, glowing. Brooke approached him, placing her hands on his chest, staring up at him. He put his hand on her cheek and kissed her softly on the lips.

“I love you” He whispered. They exchanged love as if they would never wake up tomorrow to see each other’s smile once more. Tristan guided Brooke out to his truck, they drove away into the starry night. Their car began to fly. They drifted past the moon and out of the milky way, then they floated with the stars drifting away.

Brooke climbed out of her seat and sat on Tristan’s lap. He smiled up at her.

“Should we ever return?” He asked.

Brooke put a finger over his lips giggling, “Not tonight,” She said “Tonight we drift with the stars,” She drifted her hand across the sky framing the night. Brooke then leaned down and pressed her lips against Tristan’s. She ran her fingers through his thick curly brown hair, his skin was dark, tan, eyes looking of the midnight sky. Brooke had brown hair and dark eyes as well. Their smiles together, so bright.

A bright light shocked the both of them before their car stumbled to the side. Glass shattered, Blood everywhere.

“Tristan!” Brooke cried. The night sky seemed more dark and menacing now. He laid there looking dead, eyes closed. Brooke shook him hoping for him to wake up. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched her boyfriend drift away taking his place with the stars.

Brooke looked around frantically searching for the car who caused the impact.

“I loved you Tristan!” Brooke cried, “You don’t get to leave me, Please Tristan, just last a little longer” “please”

Brook squeezed his hand and kissed him, praying true loves kiss just might maybe be real. But it wasn’t true. Here she saw the love of her life fading away.

“Phone, phone, oh my God, ok where’s the phone,” Brooke yelped. Inside of Tristan’s pockets was a cellphone

“911 what’s your emergency?”

15 minutes later there was an ambulance, Paramedics poured out of the ambulance, but Tristan was not coming with, Tristan was Gone.

“Wait, you have to bring him with,” Brooke cried, “He’s not dead yet.”

“Ma’am he’s gone,” These words poured into her heart, “Please, this wasn’t supposed to go wrong, he can’t be dead, You don’t understand I love that boy.”

The Paramedic stared down and stared back in Brooke’s eyes, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

9 months later. Brooke held a white rose in her hand. “I got you something, I miss you Tristan, a boy asked me out I hope you don’t mind, I love you my star.”

The Tree

R S Gardner

Bang! A sharp pain stabbed through my chest. I fell to the ground, which was already sticky with blood. “Is anybody here a doctor!?” Someone yelled. Another bang sounded, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. I coughed out blood, and my sight became hazy. I rolled over, trying to find my phone. It all went dark.

I woke up in a field of rye. I stood up. My suit had no blood on it anymore, as if someone had changed my clothes. I noticed a tree in the distance. I made my way towards it, but the closer I walked, the farther it seemed to get. I looked behind me, another tree lay in the distance. I began to walk towards it but it only got farther.

As I was walking, I looked behind me. The tree behind me was getting closer. I continued to walk away from it, until it was right behind me, and I could sit against it. I noticed a human-shaped figure in the distance, sitting against a tree. “Hey!” I shouted, “You!” I began running towards them, but they only got farther away. I turned around and ran backward so I’d make my way toward them, I ran for hours. I ripped my coat off and threw it against a tree. I continued to run for hours. Finally, I gave up and slid down the trunk of a tree.

Something was underneath me, I pulled it out, and there it was, a dark gray pea coat, my dark gray pea coat. This made no sense. I left it at a tree that had to be miles away. I stood up quickly, and to my surprise, the figure did too. I waved my hand, and so did they. I took one step towards them. They took one step away. Oh no, I thought. I did a random series of hand gestures, and at the same time, they did the same thing. I looked behind me. Another figure stood next to a tree. I continued doing the hand gestures, and so did they, on both sides of me. Oh No! It hit me like a train. That figure was me.

Blooming Still

Seneca

You were born a daylily in a desert but still you grew against watercolor skies, waiting until the moment was right to find your way home and settle between raindrops and thorns.

Lay with the cedar trees until it feels like early morning before the comfortable silence is drowned out by quiet that buzzes like flies on a foal.

Leave your heart against the cross until you see yourself completely between everchanging leaves and starlings that sit on barren branches until spring.

bloom until the sky cannot let you grow anymore, until optimism rests against your roots and your petals are reborn with the glorious and final breath of dawn.

My Father

Sumi Dyment

The cold air bites at my rosy cheeks as snowflakes fall down from the sky, the sky looks like the pure white snow on the ground, I cautiously walk across the cold slick ground as the snow sticks to my warm chocolate brown hair. The crisp freezing cold air doesn’t affect my father’s contagious smile when he looks at me, my fathers jet black beard had slowly gotten more gray over the years, but his warm smile never changed, his terrible humor never changed, his kind gentle eyes never changed, his compassionate loving heart never changed, his playful gleeful laugh never changed, his love and loyalty for his family never changed, he’s my father and that will never change.

Untitled

The world seems fuzzy and uneven under the blinding lights. Past those lights is only vast, seemingly empty darkness, and it fills the space, fighting against the light, a tug a war between the senses, pulling me forward and back at the same time. I hear your voice, telling me to smile. And so I do, I smile, as widely as I can, masking the panic that I feel rising up in my stomach. It gives me enough ease to remember where I am. To remember all of the hours I have spent practicing, perfecting. All the hours spent listening to your voice as you walked me through the steps, taking your words and creating them into movement. I remember why I am here. As the beginning notes of music vibrate through the floor, the tenseness in my body loosens, my breath slows to a steady, even pace, and I feel alive, the blood rushing from my fingertips to my toes, tingling, heart racing. I look out into the darkness, knowing that there is an audience there, full of energetic kids, barely able to keep in their excitement, tired parents, holding the children’s hands and shushing them with smiles on their faces, expectant teenagers waiting until they can take their phones off silent, and even grandmas and grandpas, their wrinkled faces creasing as they smile patiently. I want so badly to share this feeling with them, this life with them, and so I dance.

Collmer

Vivian

in the bathtub

yours truly sitting in the bathtub can be dangerous, especially in deep thought especially when there is such strong emotion as tonight the water falling onto my knees as i’m hunched over on the floor of the tub just to slip off and join the cycle in the drain my face is reddened from how much crying i’ve done then, funny enough i couldn’t tell if i was still this seems like a tradition of once a month, i’ll just sit in the tub around 11PM and just let everything loose from that day. the hissing from the now turning cold water seemed to catch my attention, though looking around inside the tub, from the curtains to the soap bottles sitting in order turning off the water, and stepping out of the bathtub to dry off myself checking the clock on the wall reading. 1:27. i’ve been in the bathtub for a bit longer than expected.

Flame

Zee

He sits, one hand holding a pen and the other gripping the paper upon which he writes. His motions are frantic, paper torn from the harsh movements of the pen. He has to write, has to spill these boiling ideas onto something outside of his mind. The words he’s grown to keep neatly tucked inside had grown to be too much of a burden, too much to keep locked within their weary mental prison. The pen called to him, and soon paper loomed in towers around him, dangerously close to toppling onto the single candle, the single source of light he writes by.

When he first grabbed the pen, the candle had been untouched. A pristine wax cylinder with a wick straight as an arrow. Now, what remained of the candle sagged in its holder, offering only a few more minutes worth of pulsing orange glow. He kept writing, unaware of his limited time. He had no more candles. He had many more words. Words that spoke of hope and dreams and blossoms bursting through frost. Words of a tightly coiled wire, forever moments away from unraveling. He wrote and wrote and wrote, relieving himself of years, decades, centuries of words. Prose and verse mixing and spiraling and filling the paper like a tidal wave. The pen had not yet run dry. The tower of empty pages, still taller than the tower of filled ones. The candle dropped, barely more than a puddle. One page from atop the tower of words fell, almost in slow motion, down to the floor. It fell, and it fell upon the flame just before it would have died. The room did not fall into darkness, instead, it burst into light, gold, and orange and screaming scarlet. He was unaware of the words he had worked so hard to preserve burning around him, for there he sat in the middle of the inferno. Writing.

Cover Art by Kira Spencer Wordsworth Literary Magazine Fall 2022