Wordsworth Magazine Spring 2021 by Wordsworth Literary Magazine

Wo r d s w o r t h m a g a z i n e

[your name here]

w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Elana Roldan, Co-Editor Seneca Christie, Co-Editor Jaden Lindsey, Co-Editor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Athy Kuhner Elijah Thomas Ella Thompson Heidi Williams Holland Hauskins Jaila Esterline Jazy Lidrazzah Lilia Hamideh

Lilli Contreras Mia Lewis Nora VanRees Paden Geddings Ruby Landolt

[ e d i t o r ’s l e t t e r ]

Dear Reader, Welcome to the Spring 2021 edition of Wordsworth Literary Magazine, “[your name here].” As the school year comes to a close and loose ends wind themselves back together, we hope that you take a moment to recognize all of your accomplishments. This year has been challenging to say the least, and there were times where life seemed to offer more thorns than flowers. However, in the face of it all, you grew, finding the beauty in all things small, all things so spectacularly human. Self-reflection and growth have never been more evident than they were this year; mind, body, and soul intertwining to create something magnificent. Let this issue act as a moment to breathe, a moment to celebrate your own achievements before embarking back on your journey; after all, we are only human. We would like to extend our deepest gratitude to our hardworking staff and everyone involved in creating this excellent edition of Wordsworth. Thank you to seniors, every second you have put into this is recognized and appreciated greatly. Your tireless efforts to create something so unique and powerful are unforgettable. A profound thanks to Jody Adams for her dedication and unwavering support that allows this publication to be possible time and time again. And as always, thank you for reading; we hope for you to find a little of yourself in “[your name here].” -The Editors

It is with pleasure that we present our Spring 2021 issue:

[your name here]

o f c o n t e n t s

— R.D.M. impossible happiness 1 anonymous the water tower 3 Athy Kuhner The figure in the blizzard 4 ella thompson i hope you dance 5 Holland Havarah Elizabeth Dreams 8 Holland Havarah Elizabeth Forever 9 Isabel Giacchino Wonder 10 Jaila final act 11 Jasmine E Zoning Out 13 lilia music 15 Lilli Contreras A Helpful Hint to Anyone About to Become A Teenager 18 Lillie S Floating 20 Lucy Collmer Cora Keene’s Reappearing Trash 22 Nora VanRees 12 AM 25 Ruby i5 North to Kalama 26 Sebastian Kuckelmann WAITING...Waiting...waiting 28 stickbug Hazy Sun 34 The One Man Octopus Band The Stowaway Stomp 35 Zoë Rainbow 36

body Aspen Atla Dana Dew Elana Shae Elishiya Beck h. e. gerdts Halo Amberlyn J.L. lilia Zoe Zerzan

Snowflakes 39 Distance 40 To Watch the Snow 41 Bury Me There 42 The Incumbent- Chapter 1 44 cicatrize 50 Mirror 51 Breathe 53 neon 54 Lonely 55

t a b l e

mind

e l e i n e W il l i a

soul Ai Hua Anne Sandver Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous Aspen camille mcclafferty Dana Dew Eddie Sobczak Elana Shae ella thompson h. e. gerdts Jaden Lindsey Jaden Lindsey Jaila Lucy Collmer Nora VanRees Seneca Christie Seneca Christie

Orange Scarf 57 Flying Free 58 Heritable 59 Dear Dreamer 60 an ode to James Morrison 63 Sunlight 64 Ruins 65 Exactly What I’ve Done 66 Outside the Window 68 A Final Morning 70 coffee/tea 73 eleutheromania 74 Dripping 76 Dance 79 daybreak 81 Tulip Bud 82 Her 83 new year’s eve 85 Winter Weddings 87

visual art /////////// Abigail Collins Andreea Coroi Anne Sandver Audrey By: Rilyn Hayden camille mcclafferty Elise McClory Haelee Walsh J.L. Luci Denison Luis Trejo Madeleine Williams Madeleine Williams Nora VanRees Sophia L.

Groovy 2 Mellona 7 Flower Bloom 12 four eyes 21 Life 72 Untitled 16 & cover the soul of a skater 78 Ballet Women 49 Untitled 52 Hopes mountain 84 Hide 27 Untitled 33 Untitled 43 Untitled 62 Untitled 67

N or

dre e a Co ro

a Van R ee

Mind

impossible happiness

[ —

R . D . M . ]

a happy poem is impossible to write you can write about untrue happiness when your happiness is only of a dream but i want a happy poem about reality but right now happiness is only a dream to me cause i’m always sad i’m always lost in a deep dark thought however with that said i still like the idea of impossible i like how it leaves my mind to wonder and spiral out of control and i hope one day i can truly write a happy poem

Groovy [ A b i g a i l

C o l l i n s ]

the water tower [ a n o n y m o u s ]

as the sun rises from behind the evergreen trees, you see the water tower. it lurks in the forest across from your home, framed by the evergreen trees and smokey skies of the north. thin, spindly legs hold it high above the ground, higher than the houses and people surrounding it. a ladder snakes up and around one of the tower’s legs, yet there is no doubt its metal bars are old and tarnished beyond repair. the slightest touch leaves rusted green metal shedding into your palms and crumbling apart beneath your fingertips. you return home to your bed that night, plans forming in your mind of peaceful sleep and relaxation. instead, they are fitful and rife with images of emerald blood spilling into your hands from where they touched the tower’s bars. you wake in a fit, panting and sweat dripping down your chin. a small, red light shines through the cracks in your blinds. it was not on this morning, nor the night before. you blink, and you swear the red light of the water tower blinks back.

The figure in the blizzard [ A t h y

K u h n e r ]

I see you in the distance, a blur of warm colors with a sigh on her lips I see you in the distance, as the snow and rain and cold slips beneath even the jackets and boots I brought to come here It’s relieving that I see you I know you’re shivering, and want to just fall down. I know that since you have only a scarf, the air bites at your skin, reddens your cheeks and nose It’s worrying to know you, But I will walk through snow and ice and hail and cold to see the warmth you bring I wish you could see that even when the blizzard hides you, The snow is thawing.

i hope you dance

[ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ]

i hope that when the weight of this broken world lifts itself off your weakened shoulders, you dance. i hope that your carved face might soften like butter melting in that dish with the painted forget-me-nots that swirled like leaves in the wind or like the memories of an empty mind. i hope that your thin lips might release to taste sweet vanilla and sourdough, brown sugar that dissolves like words on your tongue. i hope that your brittle bones might find strength in the golden sun that tints clouds amber and peach, or that your dusty hair might turn soft like the feeling of nostalgia or like the last petal on a daisy as you thought to yourself, he loves me, he loves me not. i hope that you someday open the window to the night air 5

that makes thin curtains flutter like the wings of a wren or like the branches of the maple tree that stood solitary in the backyard of your childhood home, branches sodden by steady rain that tapped at your window, easing you to sleep. i hope your fists learn to unfurl like the fronds of a fern or like lemon peels in the sink, or like the starry freckles on the face that is the night sky. and if the weight of this broken world ever lifts itself off your weakened shoulders, i hope you dance.

Mellona [ A n d r e e a

C o r r o i ] 7

Dreams [ H o l l a n d H a v a r a h E l i z a b e t h ]

the cosmic world that surrounds me is wistfully dreaming in agony of the dawn so quiet is the night so peaceful is there slumber but no matter no one sees the pain as they do...

Forever [ H o l l a n d H a v a r a h E l i z a b e t h ]

Slowly sitting in my mind not only is it comfortable but it’s cluttered with my thoughts and feelings most might say it’s scary but I call it home the feelings I’ve felt and the pain in the words that are drifting most people may never experience this pain like I do but that’s okay because these feelings and thoughts are mine and they’re who I am and will be forever

Wonder i don’t want to stay here. i crave to be encased in your arms like the forest encasing us, the delicious aroma of you, floating around my head and filling my mind for me to tuck away and cherish when i fall asleep, i’ll dream of this moment, the silhouette of the trees like a cloud on a sunny day, your tears the first drops of rain starting to fall.

[ I s a b e l

G i a c c h i n o ]

final act [ J a i l a ] I entered your stage, Not realizing we were performing. You spoke your year long monologue That consumed every bit of my psyche. You called it your own. As you bled out on stage, I tried to tend your wounds. Too terrified to save you, Too naive to save myself. And in the final act, I could finally see clearly. You are an amazing actress, But the only thoughts in your head consist of Fame, money, and glory. And I am a method actor Who bleeds Every time my characters do.

Flower Bloom [ A n n e 12

S a n d v e r ]

Zoning Out Floating up and away, Paying no mind to the ropes of reality as you slip easily through them, You venture out into the vast land of your very own making, You dance upon the clouds of your successes and joys, You shy away from the thick fog of your insecurities and the rainstorms of your failures, You find yourself moving through memories and goals, You move through the motions of that one dance you learned, Hum the tune of that one song you like, You go for a swim in your sea of thoughts, You swim among what-ifs and wouldn’t-it-be-greats, ⠠⠽ Suddenly you are pulled deep down by an undertow of darkness, Fighting and struggling for the surface of this sea of thoughts, Dark thoughts choking you, Guilt, fear, sorrow, and anger, You are drowning in your own sea, A final burst of effort, You break the surface and swim to shore, you go quickly to another part of this world, It can be amazing, but also dangerous, You start to wander towards the trail of remember-that-time, When you hear your name, From the real world, Your name, it’s almost always your name, A rope of reality knotted around your ankle, It yanks you back to here, now, 13

Out of your own little world, You are pulled back into reality, Its ropes tying you down, You will break free again though, Floating up and away, Paying no mind to the ropes of reality as you slip easily through them.

[ J a s m i n e

E ]

music the soft poison of honey lemon tastes like those winter afternoons you told me stories and sang obscure songs next to a boiling kettle yellow rinds bright against a grey sky your humming echoed against the silence moments forgotten to time the quiet pull of simple evenings where sleep came easily and sickness was nothing to fear

[ l i l i a ]

[ c a m i l l e

m c c l a f f e r t y ]

A Helpful Hint to Anyone About to Become A Te e n a g e r You know that you have reached the peak of your teenage girl angst when: a) You heavily deny your teenage angst b) Anyone even two years younger than you annoys you c) All your friends know every time you’ve complained about being single even though we both know that you’re definitely not ready for that level of commitment when you can’t even commit to your sleep schedule d) Complained that only the older boys at your school are hot e) Made a playlist specifically for when you cry f ) Followed the youtuber CORPSE HUSBAND on every single platform you’re allowed to have g) Made your ideal boyfriend in the Sims while your best friend sat on the floor and texted her actual boyfriend (let’s be honest with ourselves you only did this because you felt left out of the club that is having a boyfriend in early high school) h) Refuse to talk about what you were like in middle school i) Talked about how hot an actor twice your age is with your friend in the wee hours of the morning (or talked about how hot a video game character is with your friend in the wee hours of the morning because let’s be honest here you’ve done both) j) Read books about high schoolers having problems that seem just slightly too grown up for them and thought “different problem, same pain” (not gonna call out any authors but one starts with a J and ends with an N) k) Listened to Mxmtoon l) Having a collection of Burt’s Bees Lip Balm (sorted by color obviously)

m) Decided to take songwriting lessons so you could write a song about a boy you liked for over a year who you wished still texted you (but let’s be honest he was a Big Chad™) n) Watched Tik Tok compilations like it’s better than watching Tik Toks on the app o) Cried in front of your dad three times in less than two weeks p) Had that moment where you think, “I don’t like one of my closest friends do I?” (And we both know you told two of your other close friends even though we both know the answer was no, you just need to go to sleep) Well now that I’ve mostly exposed myself for the sake of being helpful, I’m going to go listen to Mxmtoon and read John Green.

[ L i l l i

C o n t r e r a s ]

Floating Pieces of tissue are floating in my head on a eternal swim Going in loops for all of life Changing as i change having to grow as i grow always floating in the headspace making small currents as they float Passing their days in a dreamlike state

[ L i l l i e

S ]

four eyes [ A u d r e y ]

C o r a K e e n e’s R e appearing Trash It was after I had brought my bag of garbage out to Greg for the day when I saw it. Or actually tripped over it, as I was distracted by a funny goat video on Youtube. A white styrofoam cup, sitting on the second stair going up to my bedroom. “I thought I got all the garbage,” I muttered, confused. I never forgot anything, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough room in tomorrow’s trash. I tossed it in a new bag quickly, and went upstairs to bed. “I must have just forgotten,” I told myself, as I began to drift off, snuggled beneath my coral comforter. “How else could it have gotten there?” My eyelids closed. Next thing I knew, chickadees chirped outside the windows in my room. My phone rang next to me. It was my B.F.F., Jessica. “Hey, Jessi,” I said, sleepily pulling on my glasses. “Hi,” she said excitedly. “A new Minions movie just came out!” I squealed. I know, I know, they’re meant for kids, but me and Jessica love them. They’re so playful and fun. “Movie night tonight at my house?” I asked. “Sure! See you at 5! It’s on Disney+,” Jessie said, hanging up. I smiled in excitement as I pulled my nut brown hair into a messy bun, but as I went downstairs for breakfast, my good mood quickly diminished. On the last two steps sat a greasy to-go container that smelled like week old broccoli, a wad of paper towels, a piece of plastic wrap for something, and a styrofoam cup that looked exactly like the one I had thrown away the night before. No, the exact same one, as the one in my garbage had disappeared. My heart was beating fast, I could practically see it vibrating through my lilac tank top.

“H-how,” I stammered, “Wh-why?” I picked the garbage up quickly, afraid to touch them, and tossed them back in the trash, but I knew they would not go away. Each time I glanced at the stairs, more items appeared, along with the styrofoam cup, until they cluttered my stairs and I had to hop between the steps to get to my bedroom. I was so distracted I even forgot to practice my yoga! By the time Jessica arrived at five, I was a nervous wreck and had been hiding in my kitchen. I ran to the door as soon as the doorbell rang, opening it desperately. “Jessica!” “Cora? What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost! And that’s saying something, as usually you’re the most relaxed person I know!” “Okay, you have to believe me when I tell you this,” I said, looking into her bewildered green eyes. “My garbage I’ve thrown away is reappearing on my stairs!” “Really?” She looked at me hesitantly. She didn’t believe me one bit. “Yes! Come see!” I led her into view of the stairs where the unsightly pile of rubbish sat. “Jeez, Cora, you’ve been collecting a lot of trash.” “I haven’t been collecting it! It just keeps appearing...” “Right,” she said, but she obviously didn’t believe me. “Listen...Cora, I’ll get Greg to come help you tomorrow with this…problem. And maybe we should wait to do this movie night…you seem to need some sleep. See you later.” She rushed out the door before I could protest. She thought I was going crazy! And if Jessica didn’t believe me, who would? I pushed all the garbage out into my backyard, locked the door and added a padlock, then climbed into bed. Unlike last night, though, my mind was too busy with the events of the day. I didn’t fall asleep for hours. And this time, it wasn’t from staying up watching goat videos.

When I woke up, right away something felt different. Not right. Then I saw it. The mountain of trash, filling my room, all the stairs, and as I would later find out the rest of my house. It was eating it up, and I knew soon it would eat me up too, surround me, and I would never see anything, but that horrible, ugly, stuff ever again. Just forgotten quickly like it never even mattered. I knew what I had to do. I grabbed a 6-pack ring and shoved my hair through the remaining unbroken hole to keep it out of my eyes, then began shoving my way to the window, pushing away bed frames, torn-up shoes, toilet paper rolls, lettuce clamshells. I knocked my shin hard against an old dryer, but continued on until I could open the nearest window. Then, before I could decide otherwise, I jumped out, screaming. I blacked out as I hit the grass, and the last thing I could remember was the mud splattering all over my face. … My eyes opened slowly. A machine beeped next to me. I laid in a bed in a small room with shiny laminate floors and the faint smell of lemon disinfectant in what I could only guess to be a hospital. I noticed my left arm was in a cast. A blue freezer pack covered the bruise on my shin. My hands were covered in dried mud, and as I touched my face gently, I realized it was too. The six-pack ring was still stuck in my hair. I was a mess. All because of my garbage. I threw it away, never caring what happened to it next. Not caring what happened. That moment, as I felt the caked mud cracking as I moved my hands, I knew. I would never throw away anything again. Never bring another full garbage bag to the curb. Because what you throw away winds up coming back to you, in one way or another. And at some point, it will eat us all up forever.

[ L u c y

C o l l m e r ]

12 AM it is now when i lie in quiet when the stars whisper hello at the blink of dusk when silence is the only word spoken.

[ N o r a

V a n R e e s ] 25

i5 North to Kalama dent in the hood all the way, to the driver’s door and streaking until the brake lights don’t see it till the troopers come and someone else takes the wheel: dent in the hood headlight gone

a dent i put it there so i wouldn’t put one in the gold sedan driving away while i sit on the shoulder guardrail wrecked in my wake sister almost crying in the backseat and mom screaming at that gold sedan in the front.

[scream loud before you stop] drunk driver drives away till you can’t see him no more four door sedan, gold paint gone mom says could’a been worse than a dent in the hood all the way to the driver’s door and streaking until the brake lights 26

[ R u b y ]

Hide [ L u i s

T r e j o ]

WA I T I N G . . . Waiting... waiting... January 1, Year 1: I wait. That is my purpose. I’m here. I wait. That is my purpose. I waited. The queen had ordered me to wake her up when the war begins. Or in five years. Whichever comes first. So, I waited. And she slept. April 4, Year 1: Months go by and I grow bored. Luckily, I have brought books to read. Long books. Books that I have been wanting to read for some time now. And today, I start. April 11, Year 1: Unexpectedly, I finished my first book. Which isn’t a good sign since it was my longest book. I decided to stop reading. And yet again, I grow bored. May 7, Year 1: Have I forgotten to mention that I live underground?It is very dark, except for the one candle I have burning slightly to my right. And the faint glow that glows from the crack at the bottom of the door. I have no idea where the queen is. She ordered me not to leave my room until the time came. And it’s not like I could leave. She set magic to my door. So, I am unable to leave. June 9, Year 1: The more I think about it, how am I supposed to

warn the queen if there is war? The magic only wears off after 5 years. No, there must be something to bypass this. October 27, Year 1: I have done the unthinkable. I have read all of my books. And I am not one to read books more than once. And now, I’m bored. November 6, Year 1: I read because I yearned for it. Never feeling bored as I went on, page after page, laugh after laugh, cry after cry. And now, it’s all gone. I have lost the ability to feel it. There is nothing as wonderful as being able to feel something or react to something for the first time. Because, you never feel those emotions again. And, I grow bored. I wait. Wait. wait. February 19, Year 2: Today, is a sad day. Today is the day I lost everything. And I hope that whoever is seeing this, never has the same thing happen to them. July 1, Year 2: Today, I felt something! Something Big! And it was beautiful! I felt everything shake! I thought today was the day the war started! Is it wrong to wish for something like that? July 3, Year 2: I have tried to exit the room without actually going to the door. There is no bypass. I have searched this room 100 times and have still found nothing. The glow has gone a faint bit brighter. August 6, Year 2: I have reached peak boredom. I can not take it anymore. I don’t care anymore. I do not care for the war. I do not care for the queen. I will leave my room. I do not care about what happens if I try to open the door. Even if it kills me. And I don’t care how long I have out there. Even if it was a year. Or a month. Or a week. Or even a day. All I know is that it would be wonderful.

May 30, Year 3: I must sincerely apologize. I have left my room and have not returned since. I have so much to tell you! Firstly, when I opened the door, nothing happened. Except that the glow turned to a bright light and puffed out as quickly as blowing out a candle. I looked out and there was just a hall. I followed it out. At the end of the tunnel it extended out to a huge room. The ceiling being as high as a church. Torch light was everywhere. And there was the queen. She sat in a chair, her head almost touching the ceiling. She was made out of what looked to be of some kind of wood. I explored further. There was a hallway of gold where all of the queen’s treasure was. And beyond that, darkness. Wandering through this darkness I was startled and scared. A spider to about my height came out of the darkness. I fell backwards onto my back and braced for my death. Instead, the spider stood there and started to talk. A female voice rang in my ears. She was sorry and helped me up. Her name is Amelia. She led me somewhere where we talked. And all we did was talk. It was wonderful and I was so happy. And I think she was happy too. October 4, Year 3: Me, the queen, and Amelia, are the only ones here. We are alone. She is growing old. But, she tells lots of great stories. And I love to listen. She talks of foreign lands and ancient artifacts. She was born down here. And now she’s the last of her kind. She said her great grandmother was an explorer and she explored the world. And, like me, she listened to her great grandmother tell the stories. August 1, Year 3: Today, I spent the day with Amelia. It was a special holiday for her today, called Lammas Day. It was pretty much Christ-

mas, but with bread. Don’t tell her I said that. We then gathered all the bread we could find. Amelia bunched it all together and got down on her stomach. She prayed. And blessed the bread. She asked me to join her, which I did. We then ate the bread and she told me more stories. She ended up crying and I comforted her. December 31, Year 3: Honestly, just happy that another year is over. February 2, Year 4: Today, Amelia was very sick. And I tried to be there for her. She had a bad cough and didn’t get up at all. March 23, Year 4: Amelia started to get a little better. She started walking around again. I was so happy. We hugged and we cried in each others arms May 1, Year 4: Today was the worst day yet. She was the sickest I have ever seen. And she was barely talking. And she just barely told another story before she went to sleep from exhaustion. The Final Day: Sorry for not saying anything in awhile. After Amelia was extremely sick, I just stopped doing everything. Now, today is the day I go to wake the queen. A New Day: I tried to wake the queen. Using the technique she told me to use. And it didn’t work. I tried stomping on her. Breaking pieces of wood off of her and nothing. The final way was to collapse the ceiling on top of her. So, I did. And she snapped in half. But I didn’t care about that anymore. I saw a bright light coming through the hole in the ceiling. I stared at it and my eyes started to hurt. I ran back to my room, gathered this journal and something to write with. There was a convenient way out from there. I reached the top. All I saw was barren land and dead grass. But the light in the sky was what had me. I walked forward. It was a long walk. Seeing nothing but dead grass and the beautiful light in the sky. But then I saw something in the distance. I continued towards it. As I came up to it, I finally knew what

it was. It was a tree. I had never seen one before. It was tall and it casted darkness. I sat in that darkness. And it reminded me of sitting in my room and there being nothing. I watched the light. And it came well down low and it was at the horizon. It made the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And as I leaned back on the tree, writing all of this, I felt the tree light grab me. It wanted to take me. And I was going to let it.

[ S e b a s t i a n K u c k l e m a n n ]

[ M a d e l e i n e

W i l l i a m s ]

[ s t i c k b u g ]

What is the importance of a sky that is red encompassing a scintillating sun? Why do I sit on a couch and ponder the endless rays that reign upon me? Soft smoke is filling my lungs after days of travel throughout the plains, only for me to rip away the chance that it will ever experience the sea. It emanates from a fire that is far away, yet so close in my heart. The sun is now circular and pink, it seems as though it is a dot in the hazy sky. Those below the balcony I sit on talk of the sun as if it were a rare occurrence the sun takes upon itself a peculiar shade. Yet, it somehow is not a rare occurrence to me. Maybe the years turned to days just recently. It seemed that the grass only died just one week ago, and now we are in the preamble to autumn. The sun is now trapped in a haze, chained up in the smoke across the river. Ash lands upon me as I slowly inhale the thick, smoky air; killing my lungs as though I am an avid smoker. There is little blue in the sky, for it is being overthrown by grey smoke. There is little meaning for why I write, or live, or escape death. Maybe the entrancing sun has caused me to think about my purpose here on this damned planet; maybe it is the smoke, slowly making me go insane.

Hazy Sun 34

The Stowaway Stomp To be sung to any tune as deemed fit by the reader; words are not picky. Ho hey stowaway, from whence do you come? Why do you sail with us, and from what do you run? We’re miles away from shore today in th’ middle o’ the sea, so now I guess you’re one’a us since there’s no place else to be. Ho hey stowaway, why do you roam? What was it like, back at your home? We’re miles away from shore today in th’ middle o’ the sea, and with time, I think you’ll find there’s no place you’d rather be. Long have we been underway, and who knows where we’ll go? We sail for the horizon; what’s beyond? One day we’ll know. We’re miles away from shore today in th’ middle o’ the sea, so stowaway, oh stowaway won’t you sail on with me? Stowaway oh, stowaway on these waves we all are free.

[ T h e

O n e

M a n

O c t o p u s

B a n d ] 35

Rainbow [ Z o ë ] Over the course of my twelve years, I’ve wished for many different things. I’ve wished for barbie dolls, simple and stereotypical. Then I wished for princess dresses, again a staple stereotype for little girls. And there’s nothing wrong with a good old stereotype. There is a big difference between participating in a stereotype and being able to turn back to normal, and then living and breathing one. Then as I got older I wished for my parents to get back together. I realized that wouldn’t happen, or someone heard my wish, because they don’t get along very well to this day. I started to wish that they could get along peacefully, but somehow, fighting for us, became fighting about us. So there was a long period of time where I just gave up completely, fell into submission and didn’t retaliate in any way. But then I realized, if we’re granted life and access on this earth by whatever controls the world and its livelihood, why waste it? What if there’s a wait list somewhere, to get onto earth? What if they’ve got the person with the cure to cancer up there? Why waste that I came first? I realized that life is for the living, and I needed to prove that. So instead of falling in step with everyone else, I jumped and skipped alongside them. I ran down the hallways of confusion, the corridors of grief for something I never truly lost, I danced through the overgrown grasses of sadness in my head. I decided- as Dolly Parton said, “The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.” So I lived and breathed the rain, sometimes a light mist floating down from soft white clouds, and sometimes a freezing, torrential downpour that soaks every bit of your body in sadness, in fear, in anxiety, that you let the weight of the water pull you to the ground until you’re drowning in your own thoughts. But after a while, I saw the smallest bit of color I had ever seen, arching through the sky. It was fleeting and faint, but I had seen the rainbow, if even just a bit. I had seen it. I knew things would be better. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it- or at least I thought I did. I put up with the light rain for a couple more days before slowly but steadily, I watched my rainbow rise in a delicate curve over the sky. I watched it get brighter and stronger day after day, until it became a

glorious awe-inspiring thing. The intricacies of each color each told a different story, each told a different day, with a different emotion, with different words, and a different result. As my rainbow became my path through life I knew it was too good to be true. And I was right. The next day there was a huge snowstorm in my head, clouding my thoughts as the wind of anxieties whistled through my head. The end of the day came, and my rainbow had been completely washed out by the blank slate of snow laid before me. I tainted the perfect snowy white perfection before me with hurried footsteps. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me, that my rainbow was lost because of a frostbitten, face-numbing cold that decided my rainbow was just another thing in the sky. It was. To others. To me, it was my path through life, my guide, my reason to be strong on the mornings that pushed me into the grey oblivion of pain and fear. I couldn’t lose my rainbow. But it was gone. There was no denying it. The fire of rage at the unfairness of the world, kindled by my grief melted the snow until I was up to my ears in water from the flood of emotions that crashed down on me. I was drowning in my sorrows until I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocated by pains, fears, memories, impulse and anxiety. I just wanted to let the water wash away all my pain. But I was only adding more salt in the wound from the ocean of tears I had cried. And it hurt to feel all those emotions at once all bottled up inside me, thinking I had nobody to talk to, when really everyone was there for me. There were so many people to help me with what I needed, but I didn’t let them. I didn’t let them because I convinced myself that I have to do this alone. I have to be the strong one, and I have to protect everyone, and that I would ruin everything if I didn’t. I told myself pain is power, and I need to learn from all the anger and sadness I had felt. So I did. Slowly but surely, I started learning how to control the bad thoughts. I trampled through the weeds of depression and made it to the top of the hill. I know it’s always gonna be an uphill battle. I know that more than anything. But for now, I’m happy up here, being able to look at all I’ve accomplished.

Body

Snowflakes

I step outside, breathing in the cool air as it stings my throat. The pavement is freezing against the soles of my feet, the cold seeping into my muscles and bones. I watch the rain falling onto the ground and begin to notice a subtle shift. The raindrops start falling slightly slower, being caught up in the wind. Little gusts blow the rain up in flurries, and all of a sudden it is not rain but snow. I smile. “Guys!” I yell back into my house, “It’s snowing!” I hear a sharp bang and then all of a sudden my brother is barreling past me, running around the yard and trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue. A gust of wind blows in my direction, and I shiver. “I’m going inside. Come get me if it starts to stick,” I tell my brother. He gives me a thumbs up, and I step inside. Air from the heater slowly warms me back up, and I walk into the kitchen. A hot drink sounds good about now.

[ A s p e n ]

Distance [ A t l a ] There is this time. There is this time and we are apart. Apart from each other. Apart from life. This gaping wound bleeding out in agony. So starved of touch from people we’ve never felt before. Ripping and tearing the very breath from our lungs. Gasping for air we can’t quite catch. And we stand there... alone... cold... Typed words within tiny boxes in the tiny pockets of tiny people. Wishing for warm arms to grapple us back in again. But we are already too far gone.

To Wa t c h t h e Snow

[ D a n a

D e w ]

You were colder than I imagined. I knew it was time... time to let you go. Your body was frigid... it was clear you weren’t in it anymore. But I couldn’t let go. Some part of me looked into your empty gaze, the only person I really loved, and thought you could be there still, if I tried. If I keep holding you, then I can keep you warm. Warm... like you still had some life left in you. A fighting chance. I never knew how important warmth was in us-- that inner fire that differentiates the living from the dead. And that little part of me was convinced that if I held you for long enough, I could give that fire back to you. I could bring you back. After all I’d been through, I never thought I’d just lie down and die. I was never like that. You weren’t either-- in fact, you were far better a fighter than I ever was. And yet, there you lay. I’m not sure if I was empty or hopeless, if I already felt my fate was sealed now that you were gone, but I no longer fought to stay warm. I wasn’t scared to die. And although I certainly didn’t want it, I don’t think I ever really was. I was ready. Yet there I was, extending one moment into a thousand, just so that I would have the chance to lie with you and watch the snow. It was stupid, because I knew what you would say. You’d want me to let you go... you always did say that people who couldn’t abandon things would die on a thousand sinking ships. But I can’t. Not yet. “Five more minutes?” I asked to the empty air, still cradling your body. “Five more minutes,” you agreed. But in the end, I knew I was holding onto nothing at all.

Bury Me There The falling raindrops are warm and bright like memories of spring, and the air tastes of rumbling thunder though sunlight paints the clouds and sky. Hills surge above the horizon and sink into long valleys like an emerald sea standing still, in the center of which juts out a mountain bearded with frost and pine. There is a waterfall on the mountainside. It crashes down onto slick, mossy rocks tucked away amongst the trees, drowning out the sound of rustling leaves and hidden elk in the brush. The water is cool, soothing, smells of frozen wildflowers and fresh snow. The rain picks up. It looks like falling stars. [ E l a n a

S h a e ]

[ M a d e l e i n e

W i l l i a m s ]

The Incumbent Chapter 1 Skeletons do not make a quality paving material. Or at least, that’s what Misty Waters was swiftly beginning to realize. For one thing, bones are not the sturdiest of materials. There’s a reason that a mere shoulder-high plunge from the monkey bars can cause shattering so severe it necessitates a journey to the ER- the same phenomenon would not occur with a sheet of iron, or a slab of concrete, or even a first-rate plank of wood. Although she was not counting, Misty had a subconscious notion that the bones broken underneath her faded fuchsia Merrells far exceeded her age, or that of her mother, or her mother’s mother, or even her mother’s mother’s mother (she had undergone a juvenile pregnancy, so the age-gap between the duo was not of great altitude). In addition, the rubber clamps resting upon the boots’ soles quickly became dull and inept to serve their purpose, courtesy of copious sharp altitude changes granted by the transition from ribcage to skull- she was already intending to purchase proper footwear with the profits obtained from this mission, but these unprecedentedly rough conditions had greatly exacerbated her need. In addition, Misty quite simply found the skeletons’ presence to be quite unnerving indeed. After pausing midway through her slog to examine one of these pale, fragmented remains, which appeared exactly akin to a human’s spare for a third eye-hole (which Misty noticed was the same size as the skull’s other two eye-holes, in contrast with the stereotypical depiction of third-eyes in both religion and fantasy) located in the centre of the forehead, a mysterious observation of which Misty took less time then she probably should have to ponder, before pocketing a skull to perhaps inspect back at her St. Louis Grove apartment before handing in to paleontologists for a hefty profit, she discovered that the bones were still intact and shockingly clean, lain along this path no more than a century agosomething that made Misty’s feeble constitution visibly tremble with unsettlement. Above her was a cavernous, forty-foot-high subterranean

ceiling, adorned with stalactites with compositions so varied they reminded Misty of her biennial visit to the St. Louis Punk Explosion. And below her, why Misty had no clue what lay below her. For all she knew, she could be standing atop a bridge of quartzite, a playa of sandstone, a plate of plastic or, for all she could tell, nothing at all. Misty’s attempts to investigate this mystery (of which there were many) all concluded fruitlessly, for the layer of assorted, strewn-about vertebrae and humeri were far too thick to briskly surmount a dig beneath, a layer far too vast for Misty’s young-adult mind to truly comprehend. On all sides of her were more and more skeletons, forming a veritable sea of bones that appeared to stretch for miles on every end. Quite curiously, for a moment Misty caught out of the corner of her eye a vision, that of a humanoid form half a mile to her right pulling a chain to which three five-foot-high wheelbarrows were attached. A few seconds later, the humanoid paused to empty the three massive wheelbarrows, which were too filled to the brim with skeletons the exact shape, size, and nature as the ones that surrounded her, before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. However, Misty truly cared not for what was above, aside, or below her. Her mind was solely focused upon what her eyes perceived to be located before her shuddering form- a colossal, sheer, glass-smooth wall made of a shining, jet-black substance that Misty presumed to be obsidian. But the notion that confounded her logically-oriented mind the greatest was not the wall’s size, or its nature, or even how it came to be located within a rugged, unremarkable cave in the middle of rural Missouri- it was the light, tinted cerulean and gleaming with such a strong glare that Misty had to hide her eyes when they wandered within long range of this unrelenting shine, that truly bewildered our wannabe archeologist. Obsidian was not a clear material, not even mildly opaque in the best of times. If Misty tried to build an obsidian wall to block out the sun from her family’s 1950s vacation cottage in South Florida, not a single ray of sunlight would penetrate its inky-black depths. But somehow, this peculiar light shown pure and clear through the obstacles that tried to impede or even dim it, making Misty wonder about what truly lay within the depths of this cave. How could a naïve, posh girl in her early 20s with no archeological experience whatsoever locate a light that defied the laws of physics in the unlikeliest place on Earth? Regardless of her ponderings upon this turquoise light’s inexplicable nature, with each laborious step through the sea of bones Misty grew closer to discovering the source of this light. In a matter of min-

utes, her hand was resting upon the sleek, shockingly cold wall (not before repeatedly checking it for safety with numerous substances enclosed in her bag, from a wooden stick to an arrowhead to a severed, rather bloody human finger she had mysteriously obtained while scavenging through a dumpster before setting off on her journey), scanning for a way through- while her knowledge of archeological techniques was limited to binge-watching the Indiana Jones films and snagging the St. Louis Municipal Library’s final copy of Archeology for Dummies before having to pay a $25 fine after spilling a chai latte over its paperback cover the day before she was due to return it, she logically reasoned that whoever or whatever placed this light behind the obsidian wall must have needed a way, however secret, to get in and out. Misty quickly exhausted her repertoire of knee-jerk solutions, with dragging her hand along the wall eliciting only a subtle gust of wind from an unknown source, and attempting to use a large boulder Misty located atop one of the skeletons’ bisected skulls as a battering ram gave way to even less of a response. By now, it had been over three hours since Misty had, after igniting a few spare party-poppers as a diversion, made her way off Marvel Cave’s tourist paths and through a tunnel into a gaping side-cave where the Trail of Bones began. No sustenance had made its way throughout her trepid esophagus since she had snuck a namesake bite at Chester’s Kettle Chips back on firm earth, and her stomach was rattling with an earthquake so strong Misty irrationally feared it could trigger a catastrophic cave-in. So, electing to interrupt her enterprise for a brief bite to eat, she drew a plastic-wrapped Slim Jim from her pocket and, using the silver dagger sheathed along her belt, its slate-grey hilt engraved in a constricting storm-drake with amethyst eyes and sweeping, outstretched wings that additionally functioned as explicitly useful finger-holds, sliced the plastic handle off in one fell swoop and released the luscious, meaty aroma encased inside its transparent folds. Bite by bite, the sausage made its way through Misty’s digestive tract, her taste buds registering each juicy morsel even more succulent then the last. As soon as each and every crumb of cow had been mercilessly devastated, Misty gleefully neglected her no-littering mantra by casting the seductively-scented packaging among the heaps of bone before pulling a bottle of Fiji water (the inclusion of which was in no way an elitist choice on her behalf- the Branson Marriot

at which she stayed had left two bottles (only consumable for an additional fee) on her bedside nightstand, and the pull on her mind their practicality unleashed was too strong to bear) and, surreptitiously laying her aching back upon the great black barrier, threw the bottle back and began to chug it like a wild animal parched for thirst. As she did so, a few early drops missed her lipstick-adorned mouth and splashed onto the great masses of obsidian. And had Misty not noticed how this miracle liquid caused the impenetrable metal to wither away like wet paper, she would have turned around within the hour and slunk away, defeated. Almost immediately after discovering the monolith’s singular weakness, Misty grabbed the second bottle from her messenger’s bag and, absentmindedly tossing the first, licked-clean bottle into the litter heap with the Slim Jim and a number of tissues she had minutes ago used to extract slimy, chartreuse bogeys from her nostrils, threw the contents into the air so they fell down the wall with unimpeded progress thus melting away a hole scarcely large enough for her nimble, lanky form to gracefully step through. However, as she moved to infiltrate the gap, she realized that the orifice was already beginning to shrink- clearly the water’s effects were quite short-lived indeed, and Misty seemed to have depleted her aquatic supply, her hyperactive mind quickly resolving that a leap was the most logical solution. And although she was in no way a savant for acrobatics, nor for crucial situations, Misty managed to, in one elegant bound, soar through the crevasse with relative easeteetering gently upon landing before righting balance and, without pausing to think about the probable residence of booby-traps, took one single step forward. Upon her landing, Misty did not examine the tunnel at which she touched down upon, her mind thoroughly clouded by adrenaline acquired from her imminent success. If she had, a decision which would have likely saved Misty a boatload of unnecessary strife, she would have immediately perceived the bronze bust of a fire-drake’s head, the unquenchable blue light forming a third eye atop its head akin to that of the skeletons, mounted at the end of the tunnel, positioned directly above the five twenty-by-three-foot log-like cylinders covered from head to toe in six-inch-long spikes, held back only by a towering iron portcullis intricately tied to aged, rusty chains, suggesting its release upon a trigger hidden amongst the stone path. The ever-so-mildly claustrophobic walls that barred

this tunnel, Misty would have realized as well, were not walls at all, rather hundred-meter-long expanses of mounted and steel-rimmed blowguns, triggered to fire with the very same chains that bound the logs’ release. Even the very floor that Misty was seconds away from bolting across appeared to be a deadfall of its own, held together so very loosely that it seemed a mere feather’s fall could trigger the beige-stone pathway’s collapse. Unfortunately, Misty noticed none of this... (To Be Continued)

[ E l i s h i y a

B e c k ]

Ballet Women [ H a e l e e

W a l s h ] 49

cicatrize It was like fire was dancing a tango along her bones and smoldering in her head. It was agony, it hurt like nothing else. It was necessary, all of it, every torturous breath and minuscule movement. So she endured. She burned and burned, breathing smoke and ash, but never once did she give Up

[ h .

e .

g e r d t s ]

Mirror [ H a l o

A m b e r l y n ]

Piercing blue peering back at me There is smiling and laughter in the blue Tears, and raised eyebrows A body holds these memories Hugs, handholding This blue gives the illusion of endless ocean My, eyes, my body, my memories Stored in what stands in front of the mirror

[ J . L . ]

Breathe in I close my eyes too much emotion running through my mind I don’t want to feel anything So I breathe in Breathe out Eyes wide open I let it all flow out With my breath I exhale until it’s all gone I feel nothing I breathe out Gulp air in I tried to build a wall I tried to protect myself But the dam is breaking Now the cracks are showing 10x worse than before I gulp air in

Breathe [ J . L . ]

I try to hold it back down It chokes me instead I gasp in Gasp out I can’t hold it down I said I wouldn’t cry anymore I tried, I really did But now it’s all I can do I sink to the floor I cry and wish for something better I gasp out

Push air out My eyes are burning I can’t have this But I’m already so gone And now the air is starting to smell like smoke Push air out Gasp in It’s coming up my throat The smoke It hurts but it keeps coming I try to swallow it

neon like midnight in high school: bright and blurry colors smeared over the darkness as you run on wet pavement; the lights dance, keep you awake like too much caffeine or the promise of no tomorrow wild eyes, hushed laughter, 24/7 OPEN GO run and keep running; let the neon lights guide you towards morning [ l i l i a ]

Lonely [ Z o e

Z e r z a n ]

She sat alone. In the dimly lit white room. Shutting out a world With no colors. A world with an endless list Of things to do. Distracting you From the harsh truth, That you were cut out For more than this. That you dissapoint. Born to climb mountains And touch the stars, You sit lonely. In the blank white room. You sit, Thinking of failure And another life. You paint the walls in vibrant greens, And blues to brighten your day, Psychotic yellows that numb the pain Pale purples to make them go away. You paint the walls a sickening pink, You streak the ceiling with bright orange, You smear blood red stars Onto the now colorful wall. Alone she sat, In the now colorful room, Observing her pains And accomplishments That littered the wall 55

Soul 56

Orange Scarf I am an orange scarf Bright and unbothered The fabrics cozy and traveling, seeing the world, but only the parts they want me to see Held so close, yet so far away from a real heart I am an orange scarf, one that the castle walls are losing to the world Harsh winds throw me back to the start Cotton smothering me in comfort Gusts punching me in the gut Until gusts become winds and winds become breezes I am an orange scarf, confused and stuck At the edge of the woods, at the edge of the fog A branch reaching out to me, keeping me there Safe, but piercing a hole in the fabric, safe but stuck I am an orange scarf, hopeful and patient Patient for a new gust, winds, breeze where it will pluck me away from stuck Where I am returned to lost I am an orange scarf, hidden with mismatched socks and too small boots While I lie brightly, and think with others like me

[ A i

H u a ] 57

Flying Free [ A n n e

S a n d v e r ]

I reach for a pencil, A notebook. My mind writes the first word. My hand follows after. And with that first word, My soul Flies FREE

Heritable [ A n o n y m o u s ]

I gazed upon the view of a youngling tucked into his sleeping chamber. His black hair flows almost animated throughout the creases of the pillow created by the weight of his head. His features are soft and subtle. Freckles cover the majority of his cheeks and nose, cascading similar to how water flows down a rocky cliff. The soft melody of him drawing breath and releasing fill the stillness of the adjacent quarter. I felt the twinge of similarities between him and me. A familiar journey awaits him to which I had once faced. A voyage to the stars, simply beginning with the steps towards the moon. The essence of what our souls are fabricated by is stringed together as a woven portrait. A representation of likeness, and yet difference. Born from fibers and asteroids flowing through the sky, the depth of which is immeasurable. For as long as you follow your heart, and the people you remember. Forlorn and melancholy, the brain put towards oneself into a dull place of solitary. A jail of thoughts and where the gladdened are left to wither. Stresses, dejection, and woe on the separation of what you hold dear. Your evocation you may not grasp, but the future you must stick to. Follow the blaze to what is to come and not the dusk to what is behind you. I may be passing but you hold the torch. Oneself holds divine will, never forget that.

Dear Dreamer [ A n o n y m o u s ] Dear Dreamer, Please tell me that I’m still alive Please tell me that I didn’t do it Please tell me that I can make it Please tell me that I’m ok I know I might not get the things I want, But did I get the things I need Did I find that Glimmer of hope, That ray of sunshine, And that part of me that said I could Dear Dreamer, I don’t want to drown in my words any more And regurgitate the same thing every day Do I still cry myself to sleep at night, And pray that someone will take me away, Do I still throw up when I’m in disarray Do I still get up out of bed each day Do I leave My dad just yet? Or do I pretend to stay? Dear Dreamer Am I talking to a dead end? A phone number that doesn’t exist? Am I wasting my tears on a future me that actually did it? Dear Dreamer, What If I’m not ok? What If It’s cloudy out? What If the ray of sunshine never comes What If I’m washed away. Dear Dreamer, I don’t know If I can take this anymore I don’t know if I can stay 60

I want to huddle up and cry, And let the clouds take me away Dear Dreamer, Will they Blame themselves Or will they go astray Will everyone pretend they know me And that this isn’t their fault? Like they didn’t push me to the edge And teased me to jump? Dear Dreamer, I’m hanging on to you here Why won’t you answer me? Are you even there at all? I get it, I can’t even be there for me

[ N o r a

V a n R e e s ]

an ode to James Morrison

[ A n o n y m o u s ]

A winding road twisting into the sea of deceptive dissection Peace love and divinity my sweet child. Voodoo star baby of the nights candied wax. Capture your heart within the love of your soul to another. Christen the day with childlike swanfulness. The nectar is pure and sweet as candied day. Sugars calmly serenade the mouth. I’m in love with the universe and her existential presence within my soul bones and veins. An effervescent presence sourcing’s the orchestrated bone. they move with strong physical action against one other. The nectar is pure and sweet as candied day. Sugars calmly serenade the mouth the existential jazz slumber jewels. Floating and suspecting in a car invaluable to the circle around the forest. The dairy cows from the wet island thirst for sapphire water from the depths of infinity. Glows and shimmers of love and sweet diamond delights.

Sunlight [ A s p e n ]

I am sunlight filtered through tree leaves and landing in patches on the ground Bringing only some specific places light Leaving the rest in shadows I want to be warm and bright To bring light and joy to everyone But I’ve learned through the years to block off myself Used tree leaves to cover the parts of me that are too bright So I am desaturated and watered down Sure the dapples of light are beautiful And the leaves don’t block everything off But not all of me shines through No matter how much I may want it to I’m closed off.

Ruins Crumbled walls Millions Stretched ivy Of lives Covering the once temples They are everywhere Once houses People bustle from every time Once lives RunninglaughingtalkinghurtinBarren now gyellingwonderingloving Taken over by nature But only a single boy The stone taken from the earth Stands now Once again claimed by its right- Perhaps the last ful owner Of billions Centuries later Alone In a world he could have been Then a boy born into He walks between the fragBut never got to see ments The wind Of lives lived and lost Howls for his loss All is silent Whips his hair But for the light steps He listens Of one walking upon holy As the wind cries ground Then slowly opens his fist He brushes a hand over well And lets the dust float away worn bricks Dust sticks to his fingers As he pulls away He stares Hundreds of years [ c a m i l l e Right on his hands m c c l a f f e r t y ] Hands curled into a fist He pulls it to his mouth Surrounded by hundreds Thousands 65

Exactly What I’ve Done [ D a n a

D e w ]

It’s fascinating, the way you look at me. You look at me as though I was a monster-- a heathen-- even though I know you would do the same thing. I don’t mind that I betrayed them. After all, I’ve never given them a reason to trust me in the first place. It was just poor judgement on their part. Now I sit here, watching your scornful eyes watching me as I burn. Sure, you got to keep your wings. But that doesn’t make you an angel.

[ S o p h i a

L . ]

Outside the Window The rain outside the window changes to water, and then dries up into sunlight, and she decides that it’s time to go outside. It’s something of a tradition: every season, month, week, every bright new day after rivers of rain, she takes a walk. There’s a little path behind her house that runs curving into the green space beyond, with blackberries and grass and at least five different species of trees. After staying inside during mornings and afternoons of gray, each step through yellow-tinged air feels like another percent charge on a newly-rebooted computer. Drain the battery, restart the system, and then charge it back up again, fresh and ready to go for the next task. A never-ending cycle. The colors always surprise her; when the sun’s been gone for weeks on end she doesn’t realize what she’s been missing until there’s real color in the world again. She loves the greens and the browns, and how rich and saturated every color feels, pressed into the earth like a child painter who doesn’t understand the diluting properties of white. Simply being outdoors is a little piece of magic. Her walk doesn’t take any specific path, it just meanders along, brushing through the green space and its tiny forest, then across the field where home builders installed water pipes long ago. Even the running track of the school nearby is a delight, with its black, bouncy rubber and grass straining to survive. She walks, and she watches, and she listens to how many birds emerge after weeks of rain. Their cries mix and meld until they form a melody of cheerfulness for a day with sun. The rustle of trees in the breeze is ever-present, and the undertow of their sound carries her onward. 68

Each breath in holds that specific smell that comes after rain, the scent of new growth and recently displaced water. It clears mustiness from her lungs that she had previously been unaware of, and she can feel herself standing a little taller; can feel her peripheral vision expanding as her eyes adjust to the big picture of life. Each step is minutely lighter than the last, and as she turns to move toward home--with its artificial lights and minute-long tasks--she feels clean, washed free of the grime that threatens to overwhelm her after too long away from the open sky. And so she walks back to her responsibilities and worries, and everything that keeps her trapped inside, but it’s all so much easier to bear than it was just a few hours before. The gray days will return, but when light glows anew, she will once again leave her immediate life and go out into the colors of the world outside her window. [ E d d i e

S o b c z a k ]

A Final Morning

[ E l a n a

S h a e ]

I had driven aimlessly through the night until the gas ran dry, after which I left my car in its final resting place and began walking along the side of the road. I don’t know how far I’d gotten from town. Far enough that when the sun began to swell on the horizon, everywhere I looked were pale yellow fields that seemed to stretch around the globe, endless. I felt a cold breeze on the nape of my neck that skimmed gently across my ears. It sounded like breaths, old and tired, and I shared in its exhaustion as my feet throbbed with each step. They told me to stop there. My eyes that stayed shut longer with every blink told me to sleep. But I knew that if I took the slightest pause everything would come crashing in. I would look up and see Death’s arms reaching for me from the sky, and I would lie on the ground until it all went dark. So I focused on the pain, the asphalt, and I pushed on. I found it with little time left. A rabbit on the side of the road with tire tracks and dried blood on its brown fur, dead. I wasn’t sure if it was envy or pity I felt when I first saw it, but its stillness, like a sunken stone under a great big ocean, and the deep, hollow blackness of its eyes made my head ache as hot tears welled up. Without thinking, I took the rabbit in my arms and stepped off the road, into the field. The grass poked at my jeans as I sat down and placed it beside me. I dug my hands into the firm dirt, feeling the granules grate against each other beneath my fingernails. When I had carved out a large enough hole, I laid the rabbit down into the earth. With each sweep of my arm piling soil onto its body, I buried something. I buried the rabbit first. I buried my home. I buried coffee froth tickling my lips. I buried rain soaking my hair. I buried my car. I buried hugs I sorely missed. I buried 70

the world. After the rabbit was covered, I noticed the sun had fully risen. It hurt to look, but I watched until specks of purple dotted my sight like stars. The wind rattled through again. Deep, solemn, peaceful. It guided me to the ground as it rustled the grass. With my back against the earth, I took in the sky for the last time. The waking blues and yellows of morning seemed so new, yet wise beyond what I could ever know, and the clouds looked like towering jellyfish slowed with age. And with it all was the end; a large, speeding rock that began to pierce the atmosphere, whose brilliance showered light down onto the world. There was a heat with it, one that set the sky ablaze. Yet, the wind was cool on my face, as was the soil between my fingers. I held tight to it as everything began, saying thank you as I closed my eyes.

Life [ B y : 72

R i l y n

H a y d e n ]

coffee/tea [ e l l a

t h o m p s o n ] bitter coffee bitter tea stir in sugar sip with glee

eleutheromania [ h . e .

g e r d t s ]

Like a snowy white dove caged behind bars of iron, she too was trapped, by the words she spoke out of those pretty red lips, by the words she wrote with those ghastly pale fingers. She was suffocating, drowning, and the only way out was down, down into the darkest depths of the deepest ocean, down, further into the cage that held her so, that kept those peridot eyes from seeing the heavens, kept those ears from hearing the sounds of the waves crashing on a distant shore. She wanted desperately to be free, to see spiders spin webs of finest gossamer on an early winter dawn, to feel the grass on her back as she lay watching the clouds meander through the sky. Yes, she wanted desperately 74

to be free, with every fragment of her shattered and broken soul, but freedom wasn’t an option.

Dripping [ J a d e n With snot dribbling from nose, a short little boy (hardly a head taller than his umbrella) dashes his way about the cr acked concrete, his raincoat barely zipped to his chin his mother insisted he wore the glossy orange overcoat on days in which mere fingertips were invisi ble in the downpour. He skids scuttles slides beyond blacktop headlights hitting his legs with fierce intense light as if to say “I am the Sun, present in every waking moment; I will not leave your side.” Through his mop of matted hair youthful eyes speculate where he could be. The corner store had already passed, as did the gas station. In the temperamental torrent 76

L i n d s e y ]

of biting drops and sweeping wind as though some great being willed t o pull the boy from his path... still he per sis ts until the illuminations of the glossy Safeway sign (warm in its glow) meet his horizon line and he knows he is only mere minutes from Home.

the soul of a skater [ E l i s e

M c C l o r y ]

Dance [ J a d e n

L i n d s e y ]

His world did not exist in the brisk-brisk tap-tap sense. he had slid along salsas tangoed with terror waltzed with whimsy and wonder and those things that make us Human but his world did not exist as dance there was no metronome to his heartbeat his feet ran briskly but never truly soared his heart was confined to the straggling straining sense of Himself and The Floor. at this moment, all of those tangos and salsas and waltzes existed without partner, only his reflection in the mirror a shard against his own mind. His world did not exist in the brisk-brisk tap-tap sense. but... when his eyes settled into her comforting corneas his gaze awash in a sea of blues and green-blues in that moment he swept himself up in chasse and chased his dreams about his barren room until he collapsed with light laughter and heaving breaths. the constraints on his calves broke. he understood that it did not require the present their relationship would grow and billow from the Floor, swinging stanzas would unfurl at their fingertips 79

he understood that in the future all of those tangos and salsas and waltzes would be With Partner, there would be two silhouettes in his mirror, and in the confines of a controlling world, that was all he needed to know. His world did exist in the brisk-brisk tap-tap sense. He just needed her rhythm.

daybreak [ J a i l a ]

when the sun crests upon the horizon, and the moon is still clear in sight, it’s the only time i feel those great energies collide within and around me. as the sun tells me who i am, in every sense of the word, the moon is right there to remind me i can change it.

Tulip Bud [ L u c y

C o l l m e r ]

I am a bud A green shoot, poking out of the dirt Alongside all the others Like the little tulip buds that I see in our front yard every year That you have to bend down to see. Small, but hopeful Just beginning. Although you walk past it every day, you don’t notice any changes But it is growing Into something more than before. Love shines down like the sun And knowledge soaks into my roots Pushing me upwards to success. All the lovely flowers bringing new joy and color to the world.

Her [ N o r a

V a n R e e s ]

she reminds me of the drowsy roses in late february the softness of spring roseate on her lips as if we were sleeping in the dream of yesterday, when we were young and blooming still.

Hopes mountain [ L u c i

D e n i s o n ]

n e w y e a r ’s e v e [ S e n e c a

C h r i s t i e ]

Delicate hands grasp mine as we spin high heels clicking on the hardwood floors and your laugher spiraling out like the twirling, shiny, paper decorations hanging above us. You held me close as we swayed back and forth staring out across the sparkling cityscape. the people around us faded like bubbles in a champagne glass as your eyes caught mine. I hope you know that every time we spin and sway my heart wraps itself around yours once more. We are bound together by a single thread of hope, a single piece 85

of the confetti that lies trampled beneath our feet. I will forever remember the clinking of our glasses, the shimmering lights, and your smile, for we will remain intertwined forever in my mind even after the music fades.

Winter Weddings [ S e n e c a

C h r i s t i e ]

I Golden ringlets like a magnificent waterfall spill down your back, as you wrap your arms around my neck and suddenly we’re waltzing. Weaving along checkered tiles and between piles of silver packages we haven’t even opened yet. Teardrops glisten on your cheeks as you pull away, keeping me at arm’s length. You flit across the room eyes gilded with romance, empty of reality. I reach out towards you grasping nothing but a shiny band of broken promises. Then you take one final glance over your shoulder, as the closing screen door whispers promises of return and suddenly I’m left shivering in the kitchen all alone. 87

II Memories of you linger like the sweet smell of perfume in autumn air, or a coffee stain on the rim of a cup Chests in the attic gather up dust, full of unopened sterling packages. empty promises, and mismatched socks. You left your things here promising to return when the flowers bloomed but it’s been twenty years and I’m still wishing for spring.

Cover Art by camille mcclafferty Wordsworth Literary Magazine Spring 2021