Wordsworth Magazine Spring 2023 by Wordsworth Literary Magazine

wordsworth

grove of memories

w o r d s w o r t h

Staff...

Seneca Christie, Co-Editor Mia Lewis, Co-Editor Alex Cusack, Co-Editor Victor Riley, Advisor Jody Bault Adams, Advisor Alosia Weber Ava Schuman Behrett Logsdon Berkeley Mclean Callen Coté Eli Thomas Elliot Christensen Ellis deJong Emma Horrocks

Esperanza Meza Holland Hauskins Holland Roudolph Isabel Giacchino Jacquelin Cannon Josie Sanderson Jude Squire Lillie Sawyer Lillian Lafontaine

Luna Young Mahalia Champney Marley Cowen Mars Libby Mercedes Contreras Morgan Edenfield Myst Morgan Noa Upfeld Peyton Hammit

Riley Gardner Sage Bledsoe Simon Olsen Soren Andersen Sumi Dyment Vivian Collmer Zoë Zerzan

editor’s letter Dear Reader, Welcome to grove of memories, the spring issue of Wordsworth Literary Magazine. As this is the last issue of the year, we invite you to reflect on past memories and find a little extra peace within the pages of this book. Throughout this year, you have all grown as artists, and we hope this issue can show you just how far you’ve come. Every piece is beautifully unique and thoughtful; a true garden of eloquent writing has bloomed between these pages. We want to extend our deepest gratitude to the Wordsworth staff, each meeting with you all has been magnificent, and your hard work never goes unnoticed. From those who just joined us to seniors about to begin a new chapter, we are grateful to have watched you blossom this year. Many thanks to Mr. Riley, his addition to Wordsworth has allowed us to truly flourish, and we are so incredibly grateful for the work he has put in this year. We would also like to express our deep appreciation for Jody Adams and her guidance from afar; we could not do this without her. And as always, thank you for reading! We hope you enjoy your journey through the grove of memories. Sincerely, The Editors

It is with pleasure that we present our spring 2023 issue:

grove of memories

t a b l e o f

c o n t e n t s

root -w Ai Hua Aloisa Finch Logan Holland Havarah Elizabeth IR leo amundson mahalia Maebee McCormick Mars L. Noa U. ours Paden Geddings patricia c. pizza Seneca Sumi Dyment Vivian Collmer Vivian Collmer Zee CCC goon Mae Noelle F. R. S. Gardner sage

Why am I a Hoarder 2 Doe Eyes 4 Old Growth 7 Does My Existence Terrify You? 11 Trying to be strong 13 The Repotting of Plants 14 Lump in the Bed 15 Bare Roots of Humanity 17 Untitled 19 All for One 23 Welcome to Israel 24 hush, love. shatter. 29 sepia 30 Night 31 Pizza 32 nineteen 33 Roots 35 Paranoid 37 Reflections 41 In Tandem 44 Performance 45 snoozin 46 What Runs in my Roots? 47 A dream? 48 Insomnia 50 A Step Worth a Lifetime 51

stem Ai Hua Pips’ Stardream Brew 54 anon untitled 56 Anonymous Brab’s Resolution 57 Anonymous glass 58 Behrett L Untitled 59 Blue-Gray Iris Nature 60 CCC Grow 62 Felix Duncan It Doesn’t Bother Me 63 H puzzle 67 Holland Havarah Elizabeth You’d never understand 68 Holland R. Portait 71 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik Rotations without Revolutions 72 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik The Dancing Mime 73 Lacey When Will I Grow? 76 Lillie sawyer Kitten 78 Luna love you 79 Mercury Wealth 80 Morgan Edenfield Strange Seasons 81 Myst Morgan A Man’s Love for Celery 82 Nico Coiteux-King The Poet 84 Noelle F. Snap 85 R. S. Gardner Beige 86 Sushi Cat What If? 88 Sushi Cat Changing 90 Wilma The BackBone 91

leaf Anonymous The Red Leaf 94 anonymous The State I Am In 95 Anonymous “Our” December After I’ve Moved On 100 Anthony Vladimirov Little Leaf 101 Cole Fletcher Crunch 102 e. de jong of peoples and farewell 103 ellis de jong Orchestra Of The Night 105 eren Until There Was Nothing 106 Finch Logan Untitled 109 H Daisy Days 111 Ian Sandver Moren: An Excerpt 112 isabel inarticulate innocence 113 Isabel Adaption 114 J. Squier Pencil 116 Lillie Sawyer Plateau 119 mahalia The Floating Leaf 120 Mars L. Gas Station Dog 125 Mercedes Feel 126 Mercury NK and He was Glass 127 Myst Morgan Rage 129 Paden Geddings vermillion 130 Paul Collins Changed for The Worse 132 Soren A In The Dark 134 Val H. First Spell 135 Yours Truly. Management 137

visual art Rayne Untitled 61 + cover Aloisa Roots 12 Anonymous Untitled 77 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik A Voiceless Song in an Ageless Light 108 Isabella Bonifacio-Sudnik The Cycle 22 Luis Trejo Remember 115 maia:) snooze 36 Noa U. Martyrdom 49 patricia c. it’s your golden hour 122 Yarah Youssef What A lovely Flower 87 Zoe Thomas Mia L. 131

~Why am I a Hoarder~ i’ve spent a lot of time thinking working through everything that i have, categorizing, modernizing, working out my determined path. and in this un-tired reflection it does me no harm to see i am rarely more than what i collect, my possessions encapture me. maybe it started way back in time, maybe it came with the job. but if you had talked to me way back then, you would never have determined the cause. maybe it happened before i was born with CDs being moved to a drawer, but without proof that they were ever there, rich musical memories seem poor. and maybe it comes from my grandparents, who kept every playbill they saw, in hopes that one day when they look back on them that maybe they’d remember them all. what would i bring with me if my house burnt down? of course after stop drop and crawl i would run back inside, and hide under my bed, i’d burn with my American Girl Dolls. now maybe this could have all been stopped all the back when i was a kid,

maybe if it were just a bit different all this strife would have been prevented. you might think that i am exaggerating, for the sake of a song sounding glum, but if your strongest memory is one you were forced to make you might see where i was coming from. and on that fateful day when it is lost and being anywhere starts to give me pause, i should hope that if i walked into my room i would remember who it is that i was.

- w

~Doe Eyes~ Dreamy evergreens that oh so wanted love would swallow her very whole Pluck pines Replace spines And fill stomachs with strobilus divine Create empty skins Full of rotting fall flesh With leaves and lips Nails and teeth, spat out Lovely Amanita consumes How lovely How lovely How sweet darling Amanita Dreamy evergreens that spill hopeful love Have swallowed her very whole

—Once upon a time, there was a princess so fair. So fair in fact that her eyes could cast one into a trance, and cause even the strongest of knights to fall off their horses and lose their heads. An event so often occurring that I suppose it can no longer be called an event, no? As she walked through town, the folk would cry and sob, until their throats ran dry, and stained cobble with blood. How pretty our princess is! They would call. How pretty their princess was. The king and queen of the kingdom would pamper their daughter and let her dream of happily ever afters. Painted her 4

hopes with strong knights and kind princesses. Told her that these are her happily ever after. They are her only happily ever afters, and it was her choice! Among other choices of course. Yet these choices all paled to the one that was taken away from her as soon as the sun baked her skin when she was young. The forest. The forest would take away her happily ever after. That’s what the king and queen would say. But the princess didn’t worry. After all, she was such a pretty princess. Such a darling girl that nobody could stand her. Nobody could get close to her. Not even the soulless grass that snapped under footsteps. Not even the thread of death. She smiled. ~ Not even me ~ whispered the forest. Once upon a time, there was a darling Amanita. She danced through the sun dappled evergreens. Rays shining through like the speared rouge and acid rivers of a husk. Her steps bled into the earth. Digging into thorns, and wilted roses. Creating a path from earth and death, as she danced in the forest. Such a lovely Amanita. Yet such a lonely Amanita. Every waning moon, where only the castle garden was illuminated in the cloak of night, dear Amanita would wander. Eyes trailing a graceful figure who passed lilacs and traced vines with a delicate finger until her skin became raw and split to reveal a rosy blush of blood. Our darling Amanita with the watchful wide darling doe eyes, carved from the creature’s sweet corpse, was intrigued. The beautiful princess, oh how she was adored. On these waning moon nights, the princess would watch the forest, eyes full of care. Letting her fingers lightly stroke the flowers and vines around her. Quickly pulling back as a cut on her finger breathed in the candy sweet air. Sucking in a breath at her carelessness, the beautiful princess glanced over to the forest. Chaotic eyes that dripped with a nightmare colored syrup of sorts found her. The princess then used her own entrancing eyes to stare back. Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl and a glassy 5

eyed fae. The girl, ever so curious, would meet with the fae. The girl, ever so curious, would meet with the fae on the outskirts of her kingdom as the night covered the choking sobs of the sun. The fae would dig her long brittle nails into the dirt until they cracked and fell off. Curiosity and questions, overflowing like a tyrant’s goblet of wine. The fae and girl would find happiness together, wouldn’t they? They would fall in love, wouldn’t they? They must, mustn’t they? Each on the cusp of their worlds. Each finding loneliness farther and farther and farther away with each visit. Until visits became stays and stays became forever. Once upon a time, a princess fell into a happily ever after. Barefoot on nails, soil, and rotten sweet deer. Evergreen whistles and iron tasting skies of kingdoms. Perhaps these kingdoms were nothing but sorrow drowned cobblestone and bitter tears to drink. Such kingdoms are weak. The kind that cry and sob of loss and resort to death filled means. how charnel my history. Spat the missing princess. ~ shatter it ~ the fae embraced the princess deeper into the woods. ~ let me carve you eyes so darling, of a birds view, or foxes swift ~ the beautiful princess smiled.

A i

H u a

~Old Growth~ A l o i s a I remember the cold wet earth that nurtured me in my infancy. I knew not of the world above, only of the comforting embrace of the soil. I remember reaching out my first milk-white roots out from my seed-shell, looking for moisture, nutrients, anything to help spur my growth. I remember beginning to push myself up through the soil, though I knew not why I needed to. And I remember the first day I broke through the earth, extending my sprout into the open air for the first time. The feeling of sunlight first gracing my young skin. I could see a broad field in front of me, brimming with the bustle of small woodland creatures darting through the grasses. I was at the very edge of the treeline, and countless trees stood tall behind me. I noticed many sprouts just like me shooting up haphazardly through the forest floor, taking in their first moments just as I was. The sun came and went, wandering overhead until the sky darkened. The cycle went on, over and over, and I grew stronger each time the sun visited. I could feel its bright rays nurture me, entering through my first needles. One day, I recall the first time I saw a deer. It was a mother, with her child not far behind. I watched as they gracefully strode over to one of my fellow saplings, who was not yet even six cones tall. The deer began to eat the poor sapling and I watched as the hungry stomachs of the family claimed three more of our number. Such were the first losses I bore witness to, but not by far the last. I was spared however, and once the deer had their fill, they trotted away to some area unknown to me. I did not weep for the fallen, nor did I feel sorrow. Such was the way life went after all, and to judge a deer for eating plants would be the same as blaming the rain for falling. The first time I experienced actual rain was different however. It was only about seven visits from the sun after I had first seen the deer. Dark clouds engulfed the normally blue sky, and I 7

felt myself weaken in the shadow of the looming clouds. I could see no shadows, and the world seemed to go entirely grey. I felt the soft pitter-patter of the showers I had grown used to, the droplets of water lightly bouncing off of my branches, but the intensity of the downpour kept growing. After mere moments, the land around me was entirely engulfed in the onslaught of water that fell from the sky. Those rains brought with them life, and with time they allowed me to grow ever taller. As time wore on, each passing of the sun overhead felt shorter and shorter compared to my overall life. I grew, and I grew, day after day, night after night, and before long, I could feel an icy chill in the air, and the days began to get shorter while the nights lingered longer. Snow fell in increasing volume, blanketing the ground around me in a field of white, and covering my limbs with its icy grip. During this time, my growth slowed, and I could feel my energy lessen, but in what seemed like just another blink of my eye, the sun returned in all of its warmth, and the winter began to thaw into a new spring. And once more I grew, stretching taller, growing wider, my roots burrowing ever deeper. Life passed that way for a very long time. The rainy spring turned to hot summer, which in turn gave way to the nip of autumn when the animals would gather food for the inevitable coming of the winter frosts, which would thaw back to spring. The cycle continued, for winter after winter, each passing by in a blur. In the summer after my fifty-first winter, I remember the land around me being engulfed in a suffocating smoke. I had seen small brush fires before, yes. The occasional plume of smoke in the distance. But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. The younger trees around me were bathed in orange. The fire spread along the ground cover, and I felt it lick at my bark, but the trees that had reached my size were spared from the charring of the fire. When the scourge had burnt itself out, the land around me was unrecogniseable. The earth was blackened, and the young trees burnt. But with destruction came new life, and the animals returned not long after the smouldering stopped. New grasses grew, and the soil was richer than I had 8

ever felt it to be. And that became a new part of the cycle known to me. And so it went for the next three-hundred winters. But then, for the first time in a very long time, something changed. A new kind of animal showed up. They were short, and mostly bald, with hair atop their heads. They wore strange coats that were not a part of their skins, and they used their hands to manipulate tools in a way I had never seen. I could not understand the words they spoke, but I watched with curiosity as they worked away, moving stone and all sorts of tools about the clearing. I watched them with slight sorrow as they used their tools to fell some of the middle-aged trees around the clearing, and processed the corpses of these once-mighty beings into planks to build their curious structure out of, and I watched in shock as they actually made their own fire at their campsite. They were able to control it, and feed it wood to keep light and warmth throughout the night. I watched them skitter about, day after day, building up their structure until they abandoned their tent in favour of the home of wood they had created. It reminded me of when I first spread my roots into the soil around me. I grew to respect these strange animals, and their stranger-yet shelter. I watched them as two became three, and eventually four. The two young ones had boundless curiosity for the world around them, and I watched them grow year after year, maturing more and more. There was a light I hadn’t felt before that I had for them. I chuckled as they climbed in my branches, and wept when one of them scraped their knee, and my apathy began to fade. But I am a tree, and to me, their time was a blink. I watched them as the young ones grew to resemble the two adults that had first come to my clearing, and I watched with sadness as one day, the eldest packed up and left for the broader world after a tender moment with the parents. And so four became three. I remember as the youngest grew more distant without their companion, and but one year later, began to pack up as well. And so three became two once again. I kept watch through the years as the couple became grey haired and began to move slower. I remember watching them share tender moments with each other into 9

their twilight years. I remember the tears that fell to the ground and were absorbed into my roots when one of them had to bury the other near the base of my trunk. And so two became one.I remember, with great sorrow, when the smoke billowing out of the chimney stopped one day, and the light in the window faded for the last time, never to return again. And so one became none, and I was once again alone in the clearing, the once bustling home, now vacant and cold.

~Does MyExistence Te r r i f y Yo u ? ~ Tell me, does my existence terrify you? Teeth too sharp, eyes too wide Drinking in the world Pushing and pulling until I fit Gentle hands ripping myself apart To show you what’s inside I pull out my heart for you to see Still beating, blood running down my arms And you turn away Squeeze your eyes shut Until I sew myself back up again Is this better? Is this good enough for you? How much do I have to water myself down before you’ll look at me? Why won’t you look at me? What if I ripped the stitches out one by one And found out what’s underneath? What if I wanted to scare you? I’ll dig my nails into the dirt to find a place for myself I’ll smile with all my teeth I’ll rip apart the world to see what lies inside Molten and red-hot If this is evil I don’t want to be holy F i n c h 11

L o g a n

~Roots~ A l o i s a 12

~Tr ying to be strong~ H o l l a n d

H a v a r a h

E l i z a b e t h

Tell me, does my existence terrify you? Teeth too sharp, eyes too wide Drinking in the world Pushing and pulling until I fit Gentle hands ripping myself apart To show you what’s inside I pull out my heart for you to see Still beating, blood running down my arms And you turn away Squeeze your eyes shut Until I sew myself back up again Is this better? Is this good enough for you? How much do I have to water myself down before you’ll look at me? Why won’t you look at me? What if I ripped the stitches out one by one And found out what’s underneath? What if I wanted to scare you? I’ll dig my nails into the dirt to find a place for myself I’ll smile with all my teeth I’ll rip apart the world to see what lies inside Molten and red-hot

If this is evil I don’t want to be holy

~The Repotting of Plants~ To plant a seed, you dig a hole in the dirt for it to grow in. If the seed is planted too shallow or too deep then the seed can’t grow. A plant needs lots of sunlight and water. A plant also needs enough room to grow. I think. I am really bad at gardening. There is a potted plant on the doorstep of a house I walk past on my way home. The pot looks to be too small for all the plants roots, The stems are weak and flimsy, The leaves are droopy. Seasons change, time passes, and the plant continues to sit in that tiny pot outside someone’s door. I walked past that house the other day, And the potted plant was gone. I’d like to think the owner repotted the plant or gave it a new home in their backyard. I’d like to think that there is still a chance for growth. I’d like to have had the chance to see that plant flourish. I R 14

~Lump in the Bed~ l e o

a m u n d s o n Content Warning: Horror/Psychological Horror

A laundry basket enters a blue-walled bedroom, carried by a young girl, and is set on the rough carpet floor. The laundry basket is overflowing with clothes of all sorts. The girl gets straight to work, grabbing clothes at random to fold them. Without looking up, she talks to a familiar lump in the bed across the room. “You know, you’re gonna have to do your chores soon,” she starts, “I’m not going to do them for you like last time.” The lump ceases to move. A couple messy piles of clothes have formed in front of the girl already. “Do you ever stop sleeping?” She whines, thinking of a way to get the lump to listen. “We should be talking or having fun together. You’re my sister, after all.” She watches as the lump ignores everything she’s been saying. “God, you make me feel like I’m talking to a corpse.” The sister carefully put folded piles into the dresser’s drawers painted white with pink around the edges, twirling around the sides like icing. The laundry basket is empty. She lifts it, feeling the relief in the sudden loss of weight from the basket, and leaves. The sister comes back without a basket or clothes, and stands beside the bed. “You’re definitely sleeping. You’re such a heavy sleeper sometimes, y’know?” She pulls the heavy quilt over the lump, but not enough to disturb it. Underneath was a girl, her body curled into a fetal position with her eyes open wide and discolored. Her skin was a pale blue and almost melting off of the bones. The girl wasn’t breathing, she definitely hadn’t been for a long time. 15

But instead of a horrified shriek from the living sister, she smiled. There was no fear, just love. She put her hand on the cold forehead and pet the matted hair back for a better look at the face. It was emotionless, numb. “Goodnight, I loove you!” She cooed, walking to the light switch. The sister left the corpse to rest, and everything went dark with a faint click.

~Bare Roots of Humanity~ m Always always Never not Words slip through teeth and never touch tongues. Always always Never not Never knot Never tangle Never never Never not Icy skies Squint at earth shakes its hands dismissing us Trembling trees scream eerie notes Save the children! Save the children! Always always Never not Promise love with your fingers crossed behind your back Licking the taste of tears out of salt water 17

Watch the wings cast light colors dancing Isn’t it beautiful? Hello? Anyone there? Ah… Cords bound together creating illusions seizing the mind. Earths’ beauty? Birds’ silky wings? All simulated in a thing lacking touch lacking reality. Beautiful humanity Always always Never not Watch time tick by, listen to your soul sing. Don’t let Earth’s magnificence slip from your eyes. Let it fall over you like honey. Let it blanket you in a cocoon of peaceful infinities.

~Untitled~ Slowly becoming smaller, shrinking smaller and smaller. The season brings me down, s l o w l y Children take me, using me with their imagination, parents keep away, unless to comment on my colors. The old smile at my changes, the young oblivious to me, until I fall. 19

The fall is easy, drifting, s l o w l y Down, Down, Down, landing lightly, to take a rest, on the ground. Feet trample, over, over, stomping, 20

stomping. Until I am reborn. Growing from my branch, one, Last, Time.

M a e b e e

M c C o r m i c k

~The Cycle~ I s a b e l l a

B o n i f a c i o - S u d n i k 22

~All for One~ M a r s

L .

She is the grass at the cliff’s edge, clinging to the earth while the ocean air whips her senseless. They are the clown, smearing on their white grease in the dark, waiting to be taken off the shelf to perform while blood leaks from beneath their suit. He is the discarded pile of teeth behind the drugstore, cracked and bloodied from a fight he never meant to win. I am the old man in the woods. Laying in the corpse shaped crater in my bed while the walls of the cabin rot around me. I smoke in the dim light, my bones glowing red, waiting for anything. 23

~Welcome to Israel~ Welcome to Israel, where the roads are paved Some withered with snake-like cracks I promise, you don’t need to be afraid Village houses are beige stucco, the roofs flat The sun is a blanket, through smudged window panes As you read right to left, the rain comes down soft While at night in the total darkness sings a lovely chorus of frogs Can you hear them? The cows and proud peacocks and horses they roam A dog passing by on the street wags, “hello!” The riders they canter And crazy drivers drone The people, they fight, but it’s all in respect For the interest of opinions they are curious to collect What do you want to collect? Let me show you around – cats meow under tinted blue tables for scraps Stores shut down in the midday heat for afternoon naps The markets and ‘supers’ get filled to the brim With neighbors who know being rough fits you in Hey! That’s my shopping cart! Not my coca cola! There’s pitas and hummus and the ‘mahafia’ that on friday Fills up with every challah size and shape and variety Such wonderful smells and plentiful samples Bins of sweet or egg-glazed pastries and rice and coconuts and pomelos There’s cheese filled bourekas and of course falafel (for a small shekel price) What toppings would you like? Cabbage? Tchina? 24

Sky brushing buildings and awkwardly named stores Such as ‘We Are the Kings of Vegetables’ and ‘We Actually Sell More’ Neat climbing gyms and local places for soccer – sports and languages all across the board And candle-lit holidays where driving your car stikes a bad local chord Huh? Who’s that driving on Shabbat? There’s blues and great rapping and those old polish songs So turn up the radio (station Galgalatz) Walk by crystal clear seas that in summer get closed When the jellyfish (“medusas”) come out for some fun (probably been plotting it for a while) They’ll sting you or worse so watch out Better enjoy the sun from the sand Have you ever been stung? Hah! My cousin did once, it didn’t bother him. But he’s crazy! Salad is common for breakfast, you’ll find chocolate milk comes in bags Yeah, in bags, and you cut it open with scissors With a small library nearby and much bigger ones outside the village The air has a nice scent and enormously tall date trees line the way Most heads that walk by are covered with circular velvet kippot A few of them on their way to pray So many fluffy cats hanging out outside the synagogue! Weird sounds in the night At first one would lay awake, thinking it was missiles But much merrier, in the morning Are the joyful sounds of the villagers’ whistles Missiles? No, that’s just a drill. Wait, why would the army launch missiles for a drill? 25

Silly. Who knows what that ruckus is, but let’s get some sleep! With the warm(er) months come remembrance sirens All across the land where everyone must freeze or stand, to think There’s good chocolate (mmm!) and miles of tunnels And stores full of just roasted seeds Imagine if a squirrel got in there. What a happy life! There’s olive and lemon and orange and pomegranate trees So no need to buy those fruits, and you can grow more from seed Colorful money, heating your own water, and whole lot of mud or dust As you pass crumbling ruins and desolate crop fields Nesher malt beer, let’s get some to drink! It’s non-alcoholic, don’t worry. What do you think? Yes, sometimes giant cockroaches scuttle out And sometimes people enjoy eating bananas too much (help! These are already brown! And I don’t even like bananas!) But overall, Israel has many surprising things to offer, if you care to take a look in The hardships here and there make life more harmonious somehow At least for me, on the land that generations ago my family bought and planted eucalyptus trees all across to dry up the swamplands and build a whole town It’s called Kfar Hasidim now! So if you’re ever curious Don’t be shy, take a trip (you just took a short one!) The people there won’t bite All those I’ve known are only genuine In a world of community patchwork 26

Thus welcome to Israel, I wish I could show you more of what I have seen (out of element again, a fish flopping) But for now, it cracks my world into burned skin as I recount to you all (my everything) that I’m once again stuck missing It makes me feel like I should apologize But that’s why I seem to go on Overflowing When someone at last will listen to my tale (in-part) of Israel’s song

N o a

U .

~hush, love. shatter.~ Call me when it’s over. Birdsong. Tell me when the lights come back on. When I can stare into the sun, When I cant see you anymore. When I forget. Forget how. Why? Now? I’m wearing down. I was wearing a downy coat. Speak to me, Once the tears dry up past my throat. When I’m done living by the words I had written and wrote. I’m out of thought. I was flying, and flying, and flying. 28

I was caught. Fell. I’m never quite done. Fallen, words. Torn, Broken birds. That’s what we are, That’s who I am. I’ll never live past those words I wrote. Sunken wings will pull us Down. Down. Down. to the earth.

love... do you know everything you’re worth?

o u r s 29

~sepia~ denim clasps across tethered plains. a water-damaged future, myself to blame. immobile in an aching sod. sillage faint lingering, familiar scaffolded bog. ineffable terror sinking through sawdust. clawing for a sense of security, affable wheat rust. show me how to feel again. lost your solace in the haystacks, dependent melody on yellows and reds. ambivalent to granite railbeds. stargazing at twilight since the night we met. another day goes by.

P a d e n

G e d d i n g s

~N i g h t ~ he was a flightless bird feathers a luscious black ink eyes the color of fools gold beak sharpened with the knife of deceit carried in by the blistering gale who took pity on him no jewels ever flickered like stars in his wings of the night sky not even the light of dawn could pierce through his flickering heart of blackened coal for he was a creature of the night blinded by the moon’s adoring gaze and hailed by the whispering shadows that slithered and slunk through treetops but tonight is a full moon and under her wicked laugh she smiles at the flightless bird and bathes him in razor edged moonlight

p a t r i c i a

c .

~Pizza~ pizza. pizza pizza, pizza. pizza? pi… zza. pizza.

p i z z a

~n i n e t e e n ~ we climbed the fence behind the hospital to watch stars against the water, you held Sirius in your palm and my heart on your shoulder. but you’re taller stretched like you’re dancing on water and I’m drowning now. we drive down I5 white knuckles gripping the wheel, counting breaths, nineteen and I’m pressing crescents into my palm begging you to understand, but I’m just water against a brick wall. you played devil’s advocate until I cried and fell asleep to Abbey Road, suffocating in the empty space between my ribs and the indent where your body should have been. I had a dream that night, I couldn’t find you in the crowd, couldn’t remember your face until the people drowned you out. I woke up crying, mind twisted in the sheets, 33

but I still, for the life of me can’t figure out what it means. So I sit in the kitchen and watch the windows start to frost, cup water under the bridge like it will save what we lost. But the air is cold and Sirius has fled from the night, it’s just us now against gossamer skies. S e n e c a

~R o o t s ~ She was held down by her roots, They seemed to be like burning hot chains keeping her trapped, No one saw how deep her roots reached into the damp soil, They kept her from reaching too far, They keeps her from reaching up to the stars, From feeling the light silky clouds, They kept her from falling, But she never knew what it felt like to fall, She never knew how the light wind felt on her rosy cheeks, She never knew how the falling rain felt on her ivory skin, She never knew how the sun could warm her cold hands, Her roots kept her from the feeling of freedom.

S u m i

D y m e n t

~ snooze ~ m a i a : )

~P a r a n o i d ~ V i v i a n

C o l l m e r

My throat was sore, the sandpaper kind of sore throat that feels dry and itchy, as if you haven’t drank water in weeks. Was I sick? I couldn’t be. It was too bright for early in the morning. Had I slept in too late? My stomach started to twist even before I had opened my eyes. When they opened, I instantly regretted it. The world had already awoke, and noise filled the air. I untangled myself from my sheets, which were wrapped around my limbs like snakes, squeezing tightly. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. Was it just your absence? Or was I going more insane every day that passed? I felt empty without you. I missed your voice, your laughter, your smiles. You promised you would come back. But where were you now? Was it still too soon? Maybe you were on your way home, riding on the same sleek boat that had pulled you away from me, waiting for the moment you would see me again. I walked over to my side table, picking up my thin wire glasses before placing them on the very end of my nose. Through the yellowed blinds next to my bed I could see glimpses of the world pass in the cracks of light that faded in through the foggy window pane. I tugged on them, but they refused to open. What had happened? Did somebody not want me to see what was happening outside? My pulse quickened, and I felt my breath become shallower and shallower as my eyes widened in fear and concern. You said you would be back with me by the time the first snow fell. That we would make hot cocoa and watch one of those rom-coms I always hated. Go on a trip to the mountains, rent out a cabin together. You promised. I needed to know. Was this a sign? Had you left me for good? My hands shook as I picked up my phone before dialing the 37

number I knew all too well: The repair man. I sat down on one of the large chairs in my living room, trying to focus on reading. I waited. And waited. Was this chair too creaky? Should I have him look at it too? Where is he? What if something happened? What if he isn’t coming? Finally, I heard the hollow sound of knocking emanating from my front door. I slowly stood up, before padding my way across the moss green carpeted floor and peering from the little eye sized circle of glass that served as a viewpoint into the outside world. There stood a short man, wearing a gray grease-stained jumpsuit and matching cap which hid his unruly dark brown hair. Something about him seemed not quite right… I stood there, frozen for a couple minutes. Should I let him in? After what seemed like forever watching him knock and check his watch, I opened the door to let him in, ignoring my uneasy thoughts. How could I live if I wasn’t even able to answer the door? I felt insane, the strange look he gave me as I struggled out a meek hello. He walked in before promptly starting his work on the blinds, and I couldn’t help watching him as I made lunch and went about my day. It seemed to be taking him an awfully long time. Should I ask him what was happening? And if I did, what would I even say? Thoughts of you kept fluttering back, and I remembered snow ball fights and hot cocoa last year, decorating the tree with you. I felt as though a pumpkin, my insides hollowed out, a smile carved into me, struggling to keep my light filling the gaps in a seemingly dark world. I didn’t know who to trust. Everyone seemed to want something, and the constant bustle of the world silenced anybody like me, anybody erasable. Why had you left? Had you ever thought of me? Did you remember snowball fights and hot cocoa, decorating the tree? Or had you moved on, leaving any thoughts of me behind? These thoughts haunted me, to the point where I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, felt fake, felt scared. I guess that was the root of everything I was now. Fear. “Will that be all?” My heart tumbled, knocking the breath 38

out of me. Of course it was just the repair man. Usually my high level of discomfort with new people left after an hour or two, but still… I couldn’t shake something about this man. His face was covered in sweat, and it dripped from his chestnut colored hair. Did just fixing the blinds usually take that much exertion? His face was stern, a stranger to smiling, and his eyes revealed disdain. Towards me? Towards his job? I wasn’t sure, so instead glanced away, breaking his unbearable eye contact. “I think so…” I said, no longer wanting this strange, unsmiling man in my house. I ignored the creak of the chair beneath me. Normally I would have checked to make sure the job was done well, but something about this man froze me in place, the same way as when I was younger and would hide beneath my covers from the monsters at night. I paid him, and then he stood and stared at me a moment longer before promptly leaving. I shook from the spell that seemed to hold me, walking into the kitchen slowly. Then my whole body trembled, my heart stopping. The kitchen was in shambles, things broken, glass shattered. My cabinets were ramshackled, food crumbs lying on the floor in disarray. I looked into my bedroom which went straight into the kitchen. At first I sighed in relief to see it was untouched, but then realized my laptop was missing. Panic surged through every inch of my body, blood turning cold, every movement distraught and unsure. How did I not hear any of this happening? Was I so caught up in my fear and paranoia that I managed to block out everything else around me? How could I trust this man? How could I trust anyone? Finally, I managed a small step forward, inching closer to my bedroom, all my attention focused on that folding plastic that covered the thin panel of clear glass. Closer and closer I crept, footsteps echoing behind me. And then I was standing in front of the window. I was speechless, watching those flurries of white fall past my window. Hopeless. Scared. They fell quicker and quicker, each 39

one carrying a new pang of loneliness. My hand flew to the blinds in one last effort, in need of one last memory with you. But they stayed motionless, frozen with the rest of the world.

~Reflections~ I was underwater. The placid, gargled silence filled my ears, and my body sank slowly further and further down in the abyss, cool and soothing. I was disconnected from the world, free to lay on the seafloor, let the hypnotic ocean melody fill my ears. I swam as I only knew how, an awkward doggy-paddle freestyle, not very fast, but moving. The water’s weight pushed me down as I swam, but I was determined. Never one to give up. In my stubbornness, I had once eaten a live potato bug just to get a sack of them back. My uncle had stolen them and told me to do so. Of course he was joking, but had I realized that then, my stomach would now not be gurgling at this unpleasant memory, the taste of soil fresh in my mouth as if I had just re-lived the experience. I brushed the memory away as I felt the water warm, the surface coming closer into view. And then there I was, floating on top of the gentle waves, staring at the everlasting quicksand sky. I was immediately sucked into it, my eyes staying glued to the cool blue that reflected on the water below, making everything stretch on forever and ever an limitless expanse. That’s what the world is truly, isn’t it? A limitless expanse of life and death. A reflection. I break from the hypnosis of it all, and go back to doggy paddling across the water’s surface, ripples spreading from my limbs. My feet touch the ground, dark brown dust hiding them from view. The world is calm. Cold water drips from my wet hair onto the stones below as I climb out of the silty water to the bank above. They are blues and grays, some round and smooth, others deformed and rough. They are planets, each one different from the next, rolling as I kick them with my sandy feet. And the mud below is the galaxies, the tinier pebbles stars and comets. I told you, everything is a reflection. A mirror to something else, a door to another world. Nothing is exactly what it seems. In some ways, the world is built on lies. As I would define them, lies are something that is untrue that makes somebody feel something they shouldn’t feel. For example, stones. By defining them 41

as that, by deciding where their place is in the world, we know how to feel about them. Mostly nothing. They are unimportant, common, stones. But what if there’s more to them? This doesn’t mean it is bad to have decided this. Lies aren’t always bad. They are just… lies. And I guess this may be seen as more of a unsure truth than a lie. Everything is truly a reflection. I think I have a reflection too, or at least it feels like it. It always seems there are two people in my head, two voices. Both are completely different. But they are both a part of me, connected, like stones to planets. I also see a bit of everyone in different things. I glance at my feet, to see a small yellow salamander wriggle through the glass. It is like me, in some ways. Quiet, unnoticed by some, but if you look close enough, you will surely see it, with its bright vibrant colors. Everybody can be associated with something else. I continue forward on the small, winding, stone path, the light fracturing between bushes and fur pines. A chickadee’s tune drifts through the wind, reminding me of spring showers and mud, freshly bloomed cherry blossoms and wind torn umbrellas. If I could only have one power, that would be it, to be able to create any music I could hear. Music is so wonderful, so eye-opening, and how magical it would be to have the ability to create whatever I wanted with it. I try and fail to whistle back the chickadee’s tune, each note not quite right, either ear-piercingly high or too baritone. Still. It is a reflection of the song in a way, maybe not as pretty, but a different version of it, more imperfect, a bond between human and animal. I think, though, that even if I somehow possessed the magic for this great skill, fear would always be there, holding me back. I think that is my biggest regret in life. Not doing things I am afraid of, especially performing for people. I often refrain from doing things because of other people. I am afraid of their disapproval, in some ways,which everyone is, a little bit. But maybe I could push past this, maybe I will push past this, maybe we all will. As the pathway comes to an end, I stare at the small wooden 42

house in front of me, a river flowing past it to the sandy water below. The chickadees song repeats, this time as a chorus, a group of other voices joining in. This is perfect, at least my version of it. It is so beautiful, so breathless, it almost seems like a life sized painting, the mossy trees and wooden steps covered in hues of orange and yellow sunlight. I am alone. But in a lot of ways I am not. I have the rushing river, and the small chickadees, and the music, and the bright yellow salamander, and the rocks, and the planets and all the reflections in the world. I am away from it all, but in the center of the universe. We are all reflections. We are the stars. We are the planets. We are silt filled waters and salty air. We are birds and reptiles, bugs and wind-torn umbrellas. We are spring showers and cherry blossoms, mud and everlasting quicksand skies. We are all of these things, but we are also none of these things. We are reflections, but we are also the mirror. Others reflect off of us. And we choose what we want to be reflected into the worldjoy and laughter, or sorrow and anger. Yes, we are reflections, but we are also the mirror.

V i v i a n

C o l l m e r

~I n T a n d e m ~ You are like the air I breathe Too often I forget you are there But without you I cannot live The moon to my tide Forming the ebb and flow Of my heart Beating in tandem with yours We’ve shaped each other Sculptors playing with clay And accidentally making something beautiful Something to cherish To love Hand in hand We skipped together Through the early path of life Our paths are separate now Yet still run alongside each other For I cannot fathom our futures As anything but intertwined Z e e

~P e r f o r m a n c e ~ The thunder awakes me. She shocks me, her deep rumble and melancholy roar. She brings herself to show, flaunting her vocals she has waited everlong to perform. My breath passes with the wind, a gust of sudden disturbance. The rain sets me to sleep. Her faint patter taps upon the window, humming me a tune. She paints herself a temporary portrait on the wide open plains. Captured by many, in many, but never the same. The lightning opens my eyes. She strikes her strenuous pose. She points her toes and jumps with a sudden jerk. Her feet pound against the skies as she makes her landing. The wind drifts me to sleep. She covers my ears and eyes with a flowing blanket. She washes over me, head to toe. She drowns out my chattering thoughts with her own. The shouts do not wake me. They surround me, hovering above me. Their loud, forceful voices break and crack, stammer and shiver. They do not wake me. The wind, her blanket, covers me with her arms. She embraces me and holds me close. The yells do not wake me. I awake to a world. One forever familiar. Not a change in the air or a disturbance in the light. The flowy curtains settle as they were yesterday, the big green chair sits comfortably in the same old corner, my light still hunches over my desk. The beat of my heart slows, my eyebrows fall. The wind, she holds me still. C C C 45

~ s n o o z i n~ The scent of your hair is like a mug of pale coffee left out on the counter for three days. In a good way. Two dead flies float in the center of the dairy lagoon that has bloomed upon the surface. It is noon. No one is home. The clock doesn’t tick because this house does not have a clock. The coffee just sits there. This is why I like you. I prefer your hands to your humor. I prefer your warmth to your words. My face is buried into your sweatshirt and your zipper is like the taste of blood. The whirring of the school-bus envelopes our consciousness as it rattles through wherever we are now. Your sweat on our interlocked fingers is the fog stuck to the windows. Your hands are teaching my hands how to feel warm. Your chest is absorbing me like the lamplights absorb the stars. As your belly deflates, the breeze from your nostrils rustles my hair like the winter chill in dry grass. Like the wind-fried field by our homes where a rotted wooden barn stands half-collapsed. The pulse of your heartbeat is like a cursor flickering when I’m trying to think of the right word to type. But I don’t need to think right now. We are playing dead. We are two flies in a mug of coffee. We are drifting away, floating on mindblanks. Somewhere in the zero-gravity, the spaces in between. We are a clear night sky falling asleep, the embers of evening eating the cold. g o o n

~What Runs in m y R o o t s ?~ What runs in my roots? From the hoods down in Georgia To the Red Sea in Africa I was born in the USA Feet in the puddles of the North West rain I moved across the states Down to the humid summers of Georgia and back up to my birth place I grew on the surface, big and tall but deep inside I still knew from which I came I came from my mother and my mother came from a village Africa African African American That’s what I am to the public eye To my family I am not American at all Just African Just me

M a e

~ A d r e a m ?~ N o e l l e

F .

The things I see are not quite what they seem to be An endless blur of things to think Some things familiar, some anew All of it is kept to me, something I can’t control A dream it is A dream it is Dreams happen all the time, this one I can control A lucid dream? A lucid dream? Is it a lucid dream? I lie in the meadow the green grass sharp and long Dry from no rain Is it green? Or is it black? It’s hard to tell Dreams are weird That’s for sure The sky swirls and small dots appear burning slowly through my eyes The grass tickling my back even through my jacket Sticks poking up on both sides of me The sun beaming down, beads of sweat roll off of me The calming songs the birds sing Slowly getting quieter as time goes on This dream feels real Really real It’s kind of weird. Eyelids drooping down, Thoughts of what would happen when I awoke, A last breath being drawn Is it a dream? Is it a dream?

~ Martyrdom~ N o a 49

U .

~ I n s o m n i a~ I stare up at the same spot of the ceiling, My eyes twitching, winding, wanting to close, But they can’t. My eyes are stuck, taped, stapled open, Unable to shut, Patterns on the walls seem to dance around me, Flowers, letters, words, Pictures. My mind is speeding at a hundred miles Thoughts grind away, Thoughts crank, chug, churn like gears Every little noise, Every creak, crack, groan echos in my mind Wind blowing outside, Wind whistling, twisting, folding around me. A draft. My mouth is a desert, My mouth is dry, dehydrated, drained Car horns blare in the street Car horns shriek, bellow, blast Trees rustle outside Trees sway, whirl, whisk, Ripple. And as I stare up at the same spot of the ceiling, My eyes still twitching, winding, wanting to close, But I now know they can’t. My eyes persist to stay stuck, taped, stapled open, Unable to shut, Patterns on the walls continue to dance around me, Flowers, letters, words, Pictures.

R .

S .

G a r d n e r 50

~A Step Worth a L i f e t i m e~

I knew it was coming, yet I did nothing to stop my fate. It was a truly horrible sentence, one that would keep the people of your town up at night; too scared to go to sleep for fear of the nightmares that were sure to await them. But I did not fear it. No, I welcomed this end, for even if it was horrible, it was sure to be just as honorable as any other would be. I began my ascent up the winding steps, made purely of a gloomy cobblestone. The people below me looked up with equal counts of fear and hope. My feet ached beneath my shoes, bloody ankles rubbing against the leather as I reached the last step. As I looked around, I was met with rows of tulips and pansies; all the brightest shade of pinks and oranges. Oh the irony of this lively image. Such a peaceful sight before such a tragic end. Perhaps, this is supposed to make me feel at ease. If it was, it did not help. Where I stood, I could see that just beyond the beautiful flowers, a long twisted path with but one light illuminating the walkway. That is where they wish for me to go. And so, I stepped onto the sunset meadow as I continued my journey towards the everlasting darkness. … ‘“As you all know, every year one is chosen to walk the path beyond these very steps.” The mayor spoke with such certainty that even if what he spoke were lies, no one would be able to defy him for the fear of being wrong too pronounced in their minds. There was a murmur seeping through the crowd of gathered townsfolk. No one particularly liked this part of their home. No one wanted to be forgotten with the winter winds. You see, no one really knows what’s at the end of the path; no one who has left has ever come back. Which is quite surprising given 39 have made the trek. This year will mark the 40th year anniversary of, What Lies Beyond, a title created unanimously by the townspeople. No one knows why we still do this, perhaps it’s because

of our founders. Or perhaps it’s that no one knows how to stop such a sacred tradition, even one as scorned as this. I have never been one to pay attention to the ceremony, yet for some reason today is different. “Now,” the mayor’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, “if you will all quiet down, I will draw this year’s contestant.” He placed his hand in the metal raffle bowl as the crowd quieted to a low whisper. “And the chosen man will be,” anticipation gnawing at everyone in the crowd, Mothers held onto their children as if their puny lives depended on it.’ … I’m not sure how long I’ve been on this path, I know it’s been awhile. Perhaps days, I’m not sure. I’ve almost fallen off more times than I can count. I think in the beginning it was solid all around but now as the path starts to rise, I’ve been made aware that if I take one wrong step I will tumble off the edge. A death like that would be a death forged in vain. I was chosen to complete this, to bring honor to my name, therefore I will stop at nothing until I reach the end. My end. I almost didn’t see it. In all honesty it was quite underwhelming. A drop. That’s all, just a cut off. Like the world just ended here; with a fall into pure nothingness. No stars or other planets, just forever darkness. As I peered down the drop, a sinking feeling ran down my stomach, just as a rat in the walls of a house. But even if I am as petrified as a deer is to a bear, I stood proud; shoulders unwavering in the darkness. For even if no one is around to see me now, even if my story will just be another tale parents tell their children before they’re off to bed, I cannot go back. I cannot make the trek back. I am too weak to do so now. Even if I somehow made it back to my home, I would be shunned. No one who is chosen should even be seen again. So for that, I will stand tall. If only for myself. I take the final step.

s a g e

~Pips’ Stardream B r e w~

Ingredients: - ½ of a strawberry - 1 teaspoon of sugar - 2 rose petals - 1 wildflower tear - 3 sweet dreams - 1 pinch of salt Steps:

1. Pull the green leaf off the strawberry and place the fruit in your wooden bowl 2. Sprinkle the sugar over the strawberry, ensuring an even coat 3. Place the strawberry and sugar filled bowl on a wise toadstool in direct view of the morning sunrise. Allow it to rest for 2 sunrises. 4. Squeeze the rose petals until the bowl is filled with their nectar and the strawberry is submerged. 5. Carefully stir your brew, slowly adding your wildflower tear to the mix, stirring until everything dissolves. 6. Add your sweet dreams and don’t fret if the brew begins to sizzle and pop! This simply confirms that the dreams were exciting and fun. 7. Sprinkle a pinch of salt over the brew to cut the sweetness. 8. Enjoy 54

~ Twirling and leaping across daisy to lilly, all rush over for a sip of Pips’ stardream brew. Served in a wooden bowl, meant to be shared with fellow creatures, or personally indulged in. Fairies from all skies enjoy this jolly drink. Best served with Pips’ grape muffins, we invite you to relax and enjoy a lovely meal at the tavern ~

A i

H u a

~ u n t i t l e d~ trace the lines on my face as the sun crests over the hill, and when my eyes reflect rainbows onto the soul of a boy who will never know me like he used to, do you mind? when the imprint of a body you never touched lays lonely beside my absentee lover, and as the shadows screams fade into drowsy murmurs do you miss me?

a n o n

~ B r a b’s R e s o l u t i o n~ “I don’t think you’ll be solving this one, Brad.” Brad looked up at the shadow looming above him, the wind was ice cold against his amphibious skin. Something small and metal was pressed against his skull, threatening an irreversible release from the hell he’d been dragged into. From his view on the ground he could see traces of what looked like a sunrise spilling out from the sides of Brab’s shadow. He finds himself unable to stop the tear slipping down his cheek. “Don’t be so sad, the town’s in real good hands now.” A click filled the empty desert. “You’re better off passed, just look what happened to your pals back east.” Brad’s head fell to the ground, his relinquished pride spilled out his tears as he looked to the sky. The stars were beautiful, fading quickly as the day came anew. It was ironic that Brad would die during the sunrise, a staple for hope and new beginnings. He hopes that this beginning will be better than the one for this story, a better beginning without him. “I didn’t want it to end like this.” he whispered. “And I hoped you’d put up more of a fight.” A skull shattering noise bounded through the sand and rocks before the first wave of peace spread throughout the biomes. And Brab could finally breathe. A n o n y m o u s

~ g l a s s~ she was made of glass her body so fragile, so delicate her shining translucent skin the true figure of art she was so beautiful. her glistening glazed eyes, fired to perfection. the floor-length white-gold dress. she amazed so many with her pure form. until she shattered. at first it was just one crack that crack soon turned to a spider web of breaks. she hid it with her beautiful flowing dress. she held it together with glue. it worked for a while. not long enough. she was made of glass.

A n o n y m o u s

~Untitled~ The room was frosty. I turned on the generator to find the source of the cold, but the light didn’t work. Nor did the floodlights. I began to climb down the stairs when I heard a tree tumble over in the distance. I tried to radio the other fire tower, but there was no answer. Suddenly I heard another tree slamming into the earth. And another. I tried the village’s radio. No response either. Another tree fell, but further away. When I tried to turn on the car, the battery died. As I ascended back up the tower I heard the flapping of birds and the sound of uprooting. It took under a matter of seconds to see the trunk falling towards me from the darkness.

B e h r e t t

[Nature] Running through fields of green Clouds careen through the sky In shadow roses die Clouds careen through the sky Laugh despite the tall heights Wish for nothing to do In shadow roses die Withered to seem obscene Running through fields of green

B l u e - G r a y

I r i s

~Untitled~ R a y n e

~Grow~ The stress upon my roots has been relieved. I sprout, and I grow. But of course, one day those leaves must fall.

C C C

~It Doesn’t Bother Me~ F e l i x

D u n c a n

They’re all staring at me. Well not the regulars. I think they are used to seeing me by now. I think they still steal a look sometimes but it doesn’t bother me. At least when I don’t catch them looking. The twenty dollar bill in my hand is weak from all the creases I’ve put into it. I’m trying origami. I got a book about it. I have it with me now. I think I’m going to return it. The bill looked nothing like the crane I was trying to fold. Wrong shape of paper. But that’s not the entire reason. The bus halts as another few people leave, some stealing a last look at me. It doesn’t bother me I tell myself that alot but it’s not true. Doctor halls said it’s not healthy to lie to yourself in our last bi-weekly meeting. I still do it though. I feel a bit bad about lying but I could ignore that in favor of making myself feel a little better. I say that I don’t care if people gawk at me in my suit. But I do care. Doctor halls would say I’m feeding into my negative habits and I’ll want to tell her I don’t care, but I don’t. I stay quiet and listen to her talk about it. Tell me why I can’t do it and how my head works. I don’t think it works sometimes

Sometimes I just sit there and forget. Forget that I’m there. I forget that I’m in my suit and try to smell the flowers a young man is holding. But I forget I’m on the bus and I forget about the man holding them. I stand up and try to smell them. I walk over like I’m in a field or something. But then I remember where I am and I remember who I am. So there I am being who and what

I am standing over this now terrified young man, helmet inches away from the bouquet he’s holding. That was two months ago This is my first time back on the bus since then. It’s no different than before. Same driver, same route, same dirty seats. The driver doesn’t like me, I can tell. But that doesn’t bother me. And I’m not lying to myself this time. I don’t think they really like anyone. I think they just hate people. I don’t hate anyone really. At least no one in my life right now. In the past there were people I hated. But the past is gone and now is now. Doctor Halls told me that. There are people I like. The old man who owns the puzzle shop is kind. I hope he’s doing ok. It’s been a while since I saw him and he’s old. I hope he’s doing ok. What if he’s dead? No. no. I don’t like that thought. I would know if he had died, they would have told me. Would they have told me? Surely they would have, I mean that’s where I’m headed, to the shop. Unless they dont know I’m going there. No. They would have had to have told me. I dont realise but I was tapping my foot. Everyone on the bus is looking at me. My feet are loud. It clanks against the floor twice more before I stop it. My stop was another five blocks down but I pulled the wire to stop anyway. I dont realise but I had been holding my breath. But I don’t let it out cause that would make noise. And I don’t want to make any more noise than I am clunking towards the front of the bus. So I continue to hold my breath till I’m off the bus and until I almost pass out. People are still looking at me. And it bothers me I keep walking down the street, moderating my breath so I’m not just gasping down the street. I feel so trapped in my suit. 64

I’m lightheaded as I walk and heavy in my feet as I walk down hill. Concretes nice. You can’t hear my boots clank on concrete. I like that. I should think about things I like when I’m stressed. Doctor halls told me that. I think about puzzles, I like puzzles. They wait for you. Let you take your time. As my head started to heavy again my neck nearly snapped from my thoughts of panic. All I can think about is the old man in the puzzle shop. I don’t know his name though. I don’t know his name. I just called him sir most of the time. Well all the time. He seems to like that, the formality of it. I feel horrid. I didn’t know his name. I’ve known him for nearly a year but I’ve never asked his name. I walk a little faster. People look at me as I walk down the street. It bothers me. I want to run. I want to run but I don’t know if I want to run towards the puzzle shop, towards the strangers, or if I want to run home. Run all those miles home in my heavy shoes. I want to wear slippers I walk past people who look and people who don’t. They think I might attack them. At Least that’s what I think they think. But I don’t know them. I want to be like one of them sometimes. Not having to wear this stupid suit just to go outside. This stupid suit that deprives me of feeling. I can’t feel the gust of wind as they blow the leaves that race me down the sidewalk….they win.vThe bus stop I should have gotten off is to my left. The fresh fish shop that I’m sure stinks is to my right. I feel safe in my skin. I turn the corner and there’s a mural. It’s new A picture of a forest covers a once blank wall. The forest is lush and green. But there’s pieces missing. On the wall. It shows the bricks wall behind. 65

It’s a puzzle. I stare at it. I stare until my eyes feel dry. So I blink. And stare again. I like my puzzles but they feel small now. The book in my hand feels small. I feel small, so small. The trees are pretty and tall with reddish bark. It’s mesmerizing. I want. I want. I want something. I want to be there. I want to be one of the trees. Stand tall like them. Doctor Halls likes to ask me at our meetings what I want. I usually stay silent or make up some answer with correlating to a few key buzz words she likes to hear. I don’t want to be bothered. I want to stand tall trees and feel immovable. But just looking at that mural doesn’t suddenly make that happen. I feel uncomfortable right now.

I think I’ve been standing here for too long.

~puzzle~ i slid my hand into yours and paid close attention to every groove every line every wrinkle, in your fingers you were telling me something but i wasn’t retaining it i noticed how perfectly your hand fits in mine our knuckles don’t crush each other, our fingers don’t dig in i can’t help but feel that you’re my puzzle piece your fingertips are tough and your fingers are jagged but the only thing that matters is that we fit. you complete me.

~ Yo u ’d n e v e r understand~ I could never explain it So i never tried I didn’t know why you Never felt it Why doesn’t your Heart collapse And your chest ache When i’m sad Because i feel everything But you would never understand You’d never know what it was like To feel the weight of the world Layed down on every part of your Mind Body And Soul You’d never realize that Your pain, your anger Your love was More than overwhelming All of my systems Misfiring Protecting my physical being But no one was ever There to protect my mind My heart I’ve always had cracks That I tried to hide

You turned them into canyons Craters that could never be Sewed together No matter what life brings I will always be a girl With half a heart A shattered soul And a burning mind

H o l l a n d

H a v a r a h

E l i z a b e t h

~Portait~ Everyday I visit her in the museum, because she cannot visit me. She cannot move. She is confined to her one spot. Her spot on the wall, inside her wood frame. The painting must be around three hundred years old and she’s long gone by this point, but she’s frozen in time as her twenty something self. On the gold plate under the painting, it says that her identity is unknown. So I gave her a name. I named her Lydia. I’m not sure if that was a very common name when she was alive, but I don’t really care. I think it fits her. She wasn’t some sort of princess, or duchess or anything. She was just a random girl that lived in a random town somewhere in the UK in the 1700s. She didn’t have her portrait painted because she was an important ruler, maybe she had her portrait painted simply because the artist thought she would make a good model. There isn’t that much information on the artist either, some guy named Henry Lewis. He wasn’t a famous painter and he didn’t live a remarkable life. He only has a few known paintings, all of them are landscape paintings or portraits of people he knew. Unfortunately, he didn’t title any of his pieces, or make any sort of notes on where his paintings are supposed to be, or who they might be of. No one can be sure as to what his relationship to Lydia was. Maybe she was a friend that he partied with, or his sister. Maybe she was his lover. No, I take that back. I don’t think Lydia really had relationships. I’ve always thought that maybe Henry was in love with her, but she only saw him as her friend. Of course, I have no proof of anything that remotely implies this, but there’s a small possibility that maybe that’s what actually happened. It is hard to love someone that hasn’t been alive in three hundred years and only exists on a canvas. She is not made of flesh and bones, she is made of paint. And although she is young and lively in the painting, the painting itself is starting to fade away. The colors have become more dull and muted. I’m sure 70

that when it was first painted, her rosy cheeks were far more pigmented than the light pink they are now. And her delicate blue dress used to be as bright as a clear sky, but now it’s beginning to look worn out. Maybe she did wear it so much that it actually did start to look like that at one point. It’s also hard to love Lydia because if I’m being honest, I don’t think she would even notice me. Obviously, I don’t know what she was like in real life, but the smile on her face tells me that she was adventurous, and had a big social life. I think that she liked to party and take risks. I do not do any of these things. We probably would never even have met if we lived at the same time. I don’t think we run with the same crowds. I think she had loads of friends, and she liked to gossip. But she would run her mouth too much and get into trouble. She’s stunning. Her skin is that of a porcelain doll, and her lips look as if she just bit into a cherry. Her eyes are a rich chestnut color, you could almost get lost in them. Her dark curls are pinned up, but a few strands fall next to her face. Her blue dress has a string that ties in the front that is draped between her fingers. She sits on a brown stool, and surrounding her are pink and yellow flowers. She holds a pink flower close to her face, ever so slightly grazing her cheek. Her head is tilted, but her eyes look straight ahead. She looks amused, like she’s messing with the person she’s facing. I wish I could say that I stare at her for hours, but I don’t. Because sometimes when I stare at her for too long, I stop seeing a person that I adore and start seeing shapes and outlines that vaguely form a figure. I realize that it’s just oil and water on fabric. I start to see nothing.

H o l l a n d

R .

~Rotations without Revolutions~ I s a b e l l a

B o n i f a c i o - S u d n i k

Each drop of water in the well Contributes to the funny smell Of puddles in the subway. And people begging for mon-ay. I remember her hair. It was half shaved off. And there she was On a different block. I can’t escape Dirty palms facing up. Eyes glaring down. Dirty palms following Shoving through crowds. And I know as I walk Through the flowering parks, My eyes caste away Towards the prettier parts. Suddenly, It came to me. I can’t rid sorrows Easily. I saw her face, Mangled and worn. But we all saw And ignored.

~The Dancing Mime~ I s a b e l l a

B o n i f a c i o - S u d n i k

“You want my nuts?” my mom pulled her shoulders back. The squirrel stood on its hind legs. No one moved. “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” my mom growled. Yes, my mom growled at the squirrel. At least she’s picking on someone her own size. “Grrrrrrr,” she continued. More squirrels climbed down the trees and watched from the bushes. My mom leaned towards the squirrel, “What do you want?” The squirrel stood its ground. A lady with her baby stroller approached us. She looked at us. Stopped. Then turned around. “Mom, you look like a crackhead,” my sister whined. “You’re scaring people,” I said. My mom stared into the squirrel’s eyes, “Fine, I give up.” She pulled out a bag of peanuts from her purse and threw them at the squirrel and his buddies. We continued our journey back to the subway. The lady walked down the path once we were far, far away. The subways felt like arrows on geometry questions. Never touching, playing mind games. I think I’m going fast when I’m really going nowhere. There’s an earthquake whenever the ground shakes. It all kept spinning until I climbed out of the underground world. My expectations were far too high. Horse feces blocked the gutters. Honeyed cashews sat cold on my tongue. Any other city could have this park. And to think so many movies took place at Central Park. Rocks sat on hills, stopping them from reaching the stars. I would have declared myself Queen of the Rock when I was younger. Who am I kidding? I would have stayed below. While other kids hung upside down on tree branches, I stared at the

roots. My dad said I’d break my neck. After a cost-benefit analysis, I decided to live with my head above my shoulders. I’d rather be a coward for a minute than paralyzed forever. Lovers and dogs walked on curving paths. Artists and singers sold talents they walked past. A singer’s hair fell onto her guitar. “Look, she’s trying to be discovered. You could do that too.” my mom said. “I don’t want to be famous.” I did want money though. Maybe performing at parks wasn’t such a bad idea. Well, ambition makes people do stupid things. I chased my dreams of performing in the summer. Heat seeped into my flesh but I wore long sleeves, boots, and of course a beret. The world was painted. Except for mimeself. My speaker didn’t work. I made silence my power. A woman with breasts sinking over bare ribs stood by a fountain in the Tom McCall Waterfront park. Mini bodies ran under arcs of water. Families sat on benches with shaded eyes. “Are you sure you want to be in the center of everything?” my stepmother asked. “I want to be in the center,” I smiled. A basket full of opportunity laid at my feet. I waved and people smiled. But I didn’t come here to smile and wave. I pretended to get earbuds and connect with the beat. Hopefully the crowd understood what I was “miming.” The “music” filled my head as I danced to a silent rhythm. A man pointed his phone at me. The hidden eyes stared. People that smiled turned their heads away. “Oh no oh no,” I panicked. I looked at my watch and pretended to be late for something. I closed the basket, trying to contain my disappointment. I breathed in the shade of an oak, then opened the basket and smiled. Two guards came around tents of trinkets. Oh no oh no, what if they saw me dancing and thought I was high? “Hello, are you trying to mime?” one asked. “Yes, but it’s not working out,” I awkwardly laughed. 74

“We don’t want to tell you to stop, we just have to ask you to find another spot.” “Should I stop?” “It’s your choice.” “I’ll just stop. Have a nice day,” I said before we parted ways. Once they were gone, a man wearing a stained wife-beater came up to me. “You got anything to smoke?’’ he asked with bulging blue eyes. “Uhhhh. No.” I said clutching my basket. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?” my stepmother asked. “Hi, where are you guys? This was a bad idea,” I laughed.

~When Will I Grow?~

L a c e y

I began life isolated, unable to move Trapped inside the ground for months Hoping no one would destroy my shell Stopping me from my growth. My surroundings are stopping me The sky won’t let me grow When will I become beautiful? I’ve only ever wanted to be free My stem will grow soon I will have leaves I will become a beautiful flower I will be able to have a life, a normal life The sun will offer me heat I will help the bees gather their nectar I want to grow, I need to grow, I will grow And when I grow I will be the best flower

~ Untitled~ A n o n y m o u s

~Kitten~ A tiny tan tabby kitten Wished to buy his mother mittens So he found a job in Briton Inside a exhibition he gained recognition and raised his position But then he gained an ambition And make it his new mission So the tiny tan tabby kitten Left the idea of mittens To become a magician

L i l l i e

s a w y e r

~love you~ L u n a In October, I missed you Like, I’m counting every second Until you’re back Like, I keep looking at old pictures of us When we were like, Together and happy, And happy and together And it’s like I think, Was that, like, even real? In November, I hated you Like, did you really think and hope and pray That the ghosts of your, like, unsaid words Wouldn’t like, bruise me and scar me and, like, hurt me? Like, maybe you should try a little harder When you, like, act surprised and walk the other way Like you didn’t memorize my classes Back in September In December, I mourned you Like, I thought of you today Like, I saw you smile for the first time in months Today I wish I could like, smile with you and like, know that you thought about me too Like, I think I still miss you, Like, almost as much as I still hate you But like, I wonder if You ever missed me, If you ever hated me, And mostly I just wonder if, like, you ever mourned me

~Wealth~ M e r c u r y I am gold, he says. beneath a fractured mask, under the facade A light glistens. his eyes shift, hinting at gold. I am silver, she is. her movement speaks for symphonies inside the softening mirror, within a glance, A light wavers. her stature falls crumbling for silver. And the two become intangible, surrendered to the depths of their minds. Disoriented amidst a darkening sea, they begin to sink. thoughtlessly dancing along to the melody of each lost soul forgotten by the thickness of their skin. They are gold, and they are silver. they are gone.

~Strange Seasons~ I watch the daisies bloom through Winter But I’m not going anywhere My time is lost, my head is clear And I still freeze in Summer air The mountains weep warm melted snow And the rain burns my skin, I can’t let it go But it’s building, and I know I’ll cave in The sun rises and sets But my shadow never moves Waves erode the loose sand But never wash away the grooves Sliding down the rope I hold Tearing open what I held in Letting go was never easy But neither was letting you win. M o r g a n

E d e n f i e l d

~ A M a n’s L o v e f o r Celery~ M y s t

M o r g a n

Harold wasn’t a huge fan of celery. He supposed it was tolerable with peanut butter, but otherwise it was just rather unpleasant. The texture was too crispy, like it was trying to be the watermelon of vegetables without realizing that the real draw to the melon was the sugar content of it. Some vegetables seemed to understand this at least a bit. Carrots and beets could be quite pleasant, and don’t get him started on corn. But celery didn’t have any of that. It was the lemon water of vegetables. Meaning the flavor of it was likely around 90% placebo. Harold didn’t usually think about celery much on a daily basis, but today was his annual work party, and he had ended up by the vegetable tray. Carrots, raw broccoli, cucumber, tomatoes, and of course, celery. Not a single piece of celery had been taken yet. Though to be fair, not much of any of the vegetables had been taken. Maybe a few tomatoes here or there, but the crowds were much more interested in the fruit punch or chip bags. The sugary foods. He wasn’t entirely sure why there even was a vegetable tray here. It didn’t seem like anyone was expected to be eating it from its place on the back corner of the table. It was more of a decorative item, he supposed. He stood there in his corner with the vegetable tray for another few minutes. Arms crossed, he scanned the crowds of his coworkers. Yup, as he suspected. There was no one here he actually gave a celery about. He took another swig out of his red plastic cup of fruit punch, glancing over to the clock just above the secretary’s desk. Only an hour and a half more of this. He considered faking a cold to try to get home early, but he’d already pulled that trick two weeks ago. It wouldn’t work again without suspicion. He was stuck here with his celery. Finally, Harold sighed, and picked up a stalk. It wasn’t a very appeal82

ing shade of green, but he’d seen worse. The carpet of the printer room came to mind. As he bit into it, he waited for the epiphany of its flavor to strike. He suspected he’d be waiting forever. He could hardly go back now though, so he picked up another stalk and continued his feast. “I’m glad someone’s enjoying the veggies!” Harold didn’t realize how spaced out he’d been until the voice called out to him. He appeared to have eaten nearly half of the celery sticks. His coworker, Steve, walked over to him, a slice of pepperoni and black olive pizza in one hand, and a coffee mug of fruit punch in the other. “I bring a tray every year, and it seems like no one ever eats any!” Steve continued. I wonder why, Harold thought sarcastically, but he held himself back from saying anything. Steve was a nice guy, if a bit oblivious. He didn’t deserve Harold’s bad mood. “It’s kinda meditative, ya know?” he replied, trying his best to be pleasant. Steve laughed. “Is it now? Pass me one!” Harold handed him a celery stick. Steve picked it up and cleanly bit it in half. “...it’s kinda bland, isn’t it?” he said contemplatively, carefully chewing the stalk. “It’d be much better with peanut butter.” “Yeah, maybe,” replied Harold. “I think I get why no one eats these. Maybe I’ll bring some Oreos or something next time.” “That might be a good idea,” Harold admitted. “Will you survive without your celery sticks?” Steve joked to him. Harold’s smile was almost genuine this time. “I think I’ll be okay.”

~The Poet~ The man who wants to see stars in the cloudy night sky Who weaves fairy houses in the long grass and furnishes them with flowers The one who wants to sleep on a bed of moss and one day be absorbed Who fights off the petulant blackness with with a sharpened quill and a pot of ink The man who wants to breathe fresh clean air and drink from a mountain stream The one who wants to touch the sky and the depths of the ocean But can only reach those depths in paper The man who is tired of fighting, tired of living, the one who wishes to sing Like a bird and fly away on a gust of wind like a crisp autumn leaf His hands shake with every lilting lovely word he writes Looking for freedom in the script he created He is tired I am tired Won’t you come lay with me in the moss and the mist until we get absorbed

N i c o

C o i t e u x - K i n g

~Snap~ A tiny flower tall and bright The colors green red and white, It stands taller and smaller in the wind, Bobing its small petal-covered head. The stem wearing in one spot, Can show you how quickly Good can turn bad Another gust of wind and … Snap! Goes the stem. N o e l l e

F .

~Beige~ My life is Beige, an off yellow, slightly boring color. Not associated with Canary Yellow, an exciting color that brings joy and humor. Most people are Canary Yellow, some are Moss Green, a snobby, selfish, materialistic color, or Crimson Red, an angry, boiling, rage filled color. Others are Hot Pink, an optimistic, yet calm color, or Navy blue, a depressed, broken down, gloomy color. Yet my life is none of those. My life is Beige, an off yellow, slightly boring color, But not because I’m boring. Because I look Canary, yet always seem, well, off. Off yellow. Behind my eyes and my nose is a steamy, Crimson Navy mix. Though all people see is Beige, an off yellow, slightly boring color. My life is Beige.

R . S .

G a r d n e r

~What A lovely Flower~ Y a r a h 87

Y o u s s e f

~What If?~ I stretched out upon my rotting bed, in the damp prison room of my three-story house. The roof, recently fixed with snowwhite roof tiles, felt as if it was falling apart, it was just like a metaphor for my family. I wish I could stain them rusty red, like blood. It would make me feel like life was more realistic. Because the murder of many things is a common action among the roof of our household. Especially happiness. The three layers of blankets, burying me from reality felt enclosed and suffocating. Leaving me trapped. With only the empty shell of me and all of my bottomless problems. In debt of many things. Struggling to stay afloat in the sea of thriving people. It was as if I was stranded in a shipwreck, salt soaked to the bone, wind through my cold shoulders, and not even bony hands to grab me as I drown and fall deep down. Maybe it’s okay to touch darkness once in a while, because how else would you know where to go? Where to reach? How to live? The answer is in our mistakes. But keep one thing in mind, don’t let the shadows pull you in. Once they grasp you. They’ll grab you by the hair, feast upon your gloom and endless blackhole of darkness. And never, will you be able to pull yourself up again. But sometimes you just have to ask the question, what if. What if your family wasn’t insane? What if you could just float in space, and fly with the stars? What if you had ever childhood dream you’d ever wanted? What if you lived in a golden palace bustling with gossiping maids and royalty? What if the walls were pure and blank white, calling for you to finally be able to drawn all over them? What if you had the time to care about every body else’s problems? What if you actually cared about yourself more? Deep down inside of me, I know I ask these questions too much, 88

but it has also sparked something inside me to grow. And deep down, I know that these experiences change you, and create the atmosphere of resolution for all of the bad things you’ve done. Deep down, they suffocate you, but embracing the gasp for air can allow something beautiful to bloom, because deep down inside of you, there is always a sprout. It’s just up to you to allow it to grow.

S u s h i

C a t

~Changing~ The golden leaves of the trees changing and ageing, The world could be a stone, But it’s constantly raining, The world doesn’t need heroes, It’s doesn’t need haters, It wrinkles like our changing faces, It rains on our pride, But the pride is worth waiting, For the world is constantly changing. S u s h i

C a t

~The BackBone~ The Backbone of the System Who? Welcome the Stem! Holding up the leaves Held up by the roots It’s a connection every section For protection They have direction Give the stem some affection The Supporting Role Keeps the plant whole It’s perfect! I am told Helps the plant grow old The plant grows bold As it dies in the cold W i l m a

~The Red Leaf~ A sudden gust of wind sweeps the autumn leftovers in the air and rustles the molting winter trees. Flurries of leaves and flitting blackbirds erupt in chaos as the wind howls a hollow whistle, further chilling the frosty air. Then all at once, the breeze subsides and nature’s vibrant whirlwind comes to an abrupt end, settling in somber silence and giving way to the bleak hues of winter. However, beyond all of that, swaying on the tallest oak, is a single red leaf, its vivid color striking against the gray wood. It’s still intact, continuing to sway slightly, hanging precariously from a thin branch; the last remnant of autumn. The red leaf hangs on by a thread until another gust of wind rolls through, at which point it softly detaches and is carried away by another breeze. The lone leaf has been taken for a ride by nature’s forces. Without even an ember remaining that could sustain itself in a crackling fire, the tree is left empty; devoid of life and vitality.

A n o n y m o u s

~The State I Am In~ A n o n y m o u s

Hello Here, I will unfurl the bloom of my heart So treat it carefully, please Lower your hefted shields for a moment If you read on Except for the monsters – you do not deserve this page I'm dancing by myself In the dark of a crumbling kitchen The house is empty, empty even with those who live here when they return Music is playing on into the melancholy hours My tea is scalding hot, and the taste too strong with memory A blend I call ‘hope’ that I sipped and left behind, far across the globe So it's the unknown between Belle and Sebastian, my throat too parched to sing He's right, look at the state I am in I'm stumbling There's no one to hold my hand but myself, so for a single moment I lift off the mask of always trying to make everyone else happier And I reach my hands up, closing my eyes just to breathe I can't bear living alone anymore I'm a weather vane, turning, turning, with nowhere to go And in this place of pitch and ink and lost purpose 95

I've passed North Bounced between mockery and a consistent second choice, built to be beaten down Listen, I'm scared Because I no longer possess the strength to defend myself from these people In the present, I'm waiting These slow seconds tick in the gloom as the sun clicks off, and the sky gets rid of crimson I finally lift my head in the darkness to see myself, because it's only me here on the floor, truly me And in this moment with nothing else I grasp it I see the kind person I've always strived to be I see someone whole and so willing to give even inside the fires I see someone grateful for life, someone beyond incredible and brave But, laying on the brown tile with another groundhog day approaching I know tomorrow it will be impossible to believe So I feel ready to let go I can't keep up this lie for the others I laugh when it’s custom, when nothing is funny Or I don’t understand When they come to me in tears, I try my best to lift them Until the day I show my own burdens, because I can’t get a word in And as ghosts on the wind, to someone else they’ll disappear The weeds expand, souring a stomach ache They are angered that I don’t have the strength to feed myself, so I decided to starve Feeling guilty anyway I wander the faultline, but wallowing gets you nowhere 96

So, feeling worse for feeling worse, feeling stressed for what stress does, and filling full the well of pathetic I run I made myself small, to fit the places in which they want me And thus, feeling small I tag along, helpfully I’ve survived by being sickly So I let them use me up Forgetting act from reality in the everyday You stop inserting your joys into conversation when you know that no one will respond But it's deprecating to be entertaining Am I crazy? What am I missing? Why have I never been able to lodge myself into these surroundings? Why did I bank here in quiet mediocrity? Will they ever want me? Should I continue to want them around? What made me grow this way? I've used up all my love, I think, spent and never returned It’s anger, but adults are too dignified to see me write these letters to William Talking to walls who never give back, never speak back or stand up Even the silent ones express more, I can see it likewise in their thoughts I won't be anything this way Though this time is one of endless persistence With not much shown So many years summited, I know I'm so sorry, younger me, for all these days I’ve spoiled your hope 97

What I mean to say is If this is how the world sees me, without How you see me, within And how I deserve to be treated Maybe the time has come to say goodbye, fragments of dreams I can't be a dog any longer Please, put me down Put me down Let my soul be a wisp in the wind The caress of the hyacinth The longing in the reeds The love of the hopeful seed The echo of birdsong, no longer tired on brilliant wings The joy of rain, webs of yarn, aluminum foiled baking, unafraid Fresh wood smell and summer and snowflakes and tire tracks in mucky snow Good books and wandering foxes and puffy clouds and howling wolves from the home and the music of wind in the sails, salted but a stand, a golden yellow bleeding sunlight into the cup of my warmed hands So I ask Please, gently Erase me from grace afar Tourniquet before my love Show me how to rise above Nine years, I’ve given up Put me down Except I continue to dedicate Each new day to seeing you Born out of darkness I know it won’t last forever So my tether lives as a chart in balance 98

I was puzzled by a dream, he said, something about 1995 And with that sun in the sky, I know I can’t go to bed Maybe I should take my milk and listen once more to the radio Smiling, smiling, smiling out of the blue The state that I am in For your simple existence, may I lift my muzzled head

~“Our” December After I’ve Moved On~ A n o n y m o u s

I missed the train again We’re very different people I called your name, as if you’d drive it back You feel differently than I do I swear you’re in my head But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Throughout the day, I can say that for a fact Every other thought, you, you, youKnow we had better days Text me first, a 1 am apology and I won’t text back But to keep me sane A box inside a box inside a box inside a box inside another box, this one smaller which will go on the back self, top right I guess that this is just another love song “And would you look at that, one of the people I like is you” One? About you You weren’t lying Just another love song, about you But it was fleeting wasn’t it?

100

~Little Leaf~ Little leaf, lay still and bare Little leaf, just floating there Oh little leaf, you look so sad Little leaf, it’s not that bad Little leaf, I watched you grow From the very first minute we said hello Little leaf, I raised you dear And held you so tight and always near Little leaf, so graceful you are Oh little leaf, you will go so far Now little leaf, just take it slow Little leaf, I love you so

A n t h o n y

101

V l a d i m i r o v

~Crunch~ The smell of fall is in the air, I hear the leaves crunch below my feet. The smell of copper floods my nose, drowning in it. The murky red reflection of the crimson on the floor catches my eye, shining in the light. The red leaves of fall blend in with the floor below. A dark trail follows me as I walk, looming over me like it was my fault. The crunching looping in my head. The flashing of the red and blue blinds my eyes. The screams of the policemen fill the room as the wooden door shaders open. I sat there doing nothing, maybe I could have stopped it, one life for many. It was like an old memory, blurred and muddied. It moved like a shadow dancing across the walls painting with what was left of them I feel the cold metal as the handcuffs click on my wrists. Crunch

C o l e

F l e t c h e r

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~of peoples and farewell~ e .

d e

j o n g

i am going to make a perilous journey up into the sky, past the clouds, to enter the heavens i will approach the throne of his majesty where I shall request to speak dangerously for I think that I have fallen in love your soul an esoteric mystery that I dream to explore i pray one day I will enter your void of a mind to find something beautiful, more beautiful than you i did not plan to fall in love with you it was truly the collateral damage in your inner war yet you still speak these lustful words our hearts dancing an uncontrollable waltz of guilt i had starved for one to just look at me only an insensitive glance was enough though you and you’re sweet, sweet eyes meeting mine and holding them for an ethereal eternity i did not see the end coming so suddenly i did not see the end coming at all yet now our eyes avert as they meet how foolish of me to believe in eternity those late nights when I spoke unfamiliar words my mouth a stranger to such vulnerability seem to disintegrate with every tear my mind out of focus with reality 103

i pray that one shall never have to understand the feeling of complete, wretched pain feeling as though entire oceans drown your lungs dragging your soul to the perpetual depths of the universe for you are not part of my future i sleeplessly ponder what that future is but until then, I shall dance as a celestial silhouette while the sun lays down to rest.

104

~Orchestra Of The Night~ e l l i s

d e

They are starting to believe that ghosts are real, As they lay in bed, the moon high in the sky, Them, not as high as they would have desired, An eerie shriek crescendos into the night , The note, at first a major melody, Dancing harmonically on the wind, Then morphed into a tornado of minor dissonance, All at once, everywhere, a melancholy embrace, The neighbor’s lights began to flicker, An arrhythmic metronome, Only three measures rest, The shriek began its harmony yet again, This shriek was different, Familiar? Indeed, they had heard this before A shiver trilled down their spine, The celestial orchestra of the night, Only heard by some, Those poor, unfortunate souls, Sentenced to life in a beautifully mortifying prison, They never knew what each chord meant, Not until they heard the agonizing decrescendos, Of the breeze mourning its lover, The trees are dying. 105

j o n g

~Until There Was Nothing~ It was 1975, I was out camping with my uncle and aunt, who were quite nice, so it would always be a good time. We’d roast marshmallows, go on late night bike rides, and tell ghost stories by the fire. On the third night, I was heading into the tent to go to sleep after a long night of talking and running around. As I stepped into the tent all of my sense of sound seemed to disperse. My vision went dark as if I’d stood up too quickly. And just like that, I realized that I was in the middle of the woods. The ground was coated in snow and so were the trees. I was confused and scared for a moment, but then I just assumed it was just a dream since they’re usually very realistic. Gunfire sounded from a distance away as I walked through the woods. A scream followed. In most of my dreams, if I died, I’d wake up. I was enjoying this sleep, so I avoided the sound. It was oddly cold, as my dreams usually feel fuzzy like the blanket that was covering me in real life. I proceeded through the woods and eventually reached a cabin. My curiosity took control of my legs and I walked up to the door. I had just barely turned the handle when a blood-curdling scream sounded from inside. Without even closing the door, I darted in the other direction, further into the woods. I don’t like this dream. I want to wake up. I rushed through the woods, in search of where the gunfire had come from. I found a small clearing. A man dressed in black stood there. Seeing this, something made me go into shock. I was too frightened to move. He was in sort of an odd position… like he was in the midst of standing up. I realized that he was and he had just noticed me. It smelled like iron, but I was too frozen to look around. I was staring straight at him, shaking and quivering. When he made the slightest turn of his head, I spun around and raced the other way. I don’t want 106

to die. Heavy, but faster footsteps followed. Something was wrong. My back didn’t feel right. My legs stopped working and I collapsed to the ground hard. I could see the man walking away from my limp body. Usually, when I dream, I don’t feel pain as much. But this time, it felt real. A huge hole in my back had been formed from some sort of weapon. It was paralyzing the rest of my body, it was unbearable pain. But at the same time, I felt relieved, I was going to wake up soon. Everything was blurry now. My body felt weaker and weaker. Emptier, and emptier. Everything got dark. Darker. And darker…

… Until there was nothing.

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107

~ A Voiceless Song in an Ageless Light ~ I s a b e l l a

B o n i f a c i o - S u d n i k

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~Untitled~ F i n c h There are days my limbs Are full of sand And my mind is a twisted spiral Up, left, right, down and back again But I was making breakfast (One scrambled egg, jam and butter on toast) And I looked outside Breathed in And out I am trying again (Always again) To remember to breathe To let myself be Dance badly Sing loudly Create whenever I can Wave at people I know I tend to sink into myself I’ve lived in my head for so long Quiet. Hiding. But I sat around a table In a very noisy room With people I love And laughed until I couldn’t breathe Some days knock the wind out of me Send me sprawling onto the concrete I’ve failed. A lot. I’ve hurt people I love 109

L o g a n

Made decisions I regret The world is a mess of colors and shapes And time is holding open the door Nothing makes sense Everything does Nothing is sacred Everything is holy You’re going to fall on concrete And pick yourself up with bloody knees And everything is broken And everything is beautiful

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~Daisy Days~ i looked at your letters yesterday from the start of it when things were new when our beginning smelt like daisies i want to go back there to that field of simplicity where there were no worries yet only “i’ll call you tomorrow night again” i want to go back to the late nights that cascaded into early mornings 5am giggles echoing amongst my white walls i miss our daisy days.

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~Moren: An Excerpt~ “Three, two, one, go!” Odessa took a deep breath and lunged, swinging the stick out in front of her. Diana blocked, a little sloppily. The branches clacked together, and Diana went on the offensive, swinging the stick towards Odessa’s waist, which Odessa dodged. Now crouching on Diana’s left, Odessa swung her branch towards Diana, slowing down the movement so when the stick hit her it was only a tap. “One point!” Odessa said, smiling. She was pleased to notice Diana was smiling too. “It won’t last,” Diana said, and swung the branch towards Odessa, which caught her off guard. “Now we’re even!” Diana laughed. The girls twirled around each other, lunging and parrying and dodging until the score was five to five. “We’re tied again,” Odessa laughed. “Tiebreaker round?” Diana offered, and Odessa nodded, stepping back until they were back to their starting positions. “Go!” They said together, and they both lunged forward, their branches clacking together. Odessa recovered first, aiming a swing at Diana’s hip, but Diana dodged easily and lunged around at Odessa’s back. Luckily, she spun around and parried just in time, laughing as she did. They were about to continue the fight when suddenly, they both noticed a large figure approaching them. Startled, Odessa turned, brandishing her stick as though it were a real sword. Instinctively, she stepped back to protect Diana, whose face was as white as fresh snowfall.

I a n

S a n d v e r

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~inarticulate innocence~ Pine trees with their green arms and legs, limbs longer than any of mine yet we’re just alike. Their starkness mirrors my own, awkwardly stuck on jetties and mountain sides full of other, prettier trees with purple flowers and yellow auras. I am comforted walking through their home perched on hills, exposed. The wind isn’t a friend, I’ve noticed. She’s beaten the saplings so much, blow after blow that to me feels pleasant, throwing my hair and lifting my smile. She tears branches from these trees, halfway around and creating spirals with their bristles, the ground soft under my fingertips, but now the purple flowers are covered up, and the sun dropped below my own sight, the smallest golden shimmer dotting my eyelids before I am swept into the arms of my hearts, laid to rest on a bed of pine needles.

i s a b e l

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~Adaption~ I s a b e l Sometimes i feel as if i could touch the northern lights when i trace your route after dusk The colors are louder than real life moments Captured in polaroid solitude The palette too deluded to be relatable. Space isn’t physical. a cosmic being who smiles in airplane Centrails and songs that fade into chorus with my voice Spoken words Only dry, lifeless sewer leaves dance to just to throw themselves at the twinkle of sky eyes.

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~Remember~ L u i s

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T r e j o

~Pencil~ I’m in a pocket Snug and secure I gaze out to the world The skies of azure The clouds of white fluff Skimming peacefully along But something doesn’t feel right Something - is wrong The bounce of my pocket Where I live in peace I feel like I’m rocking Then I’m flying with ease I see my pocket grow smaller Smaller - then gone Then I feel something soft What I’m laying on It looks like it’s green Watery and soft This is something That I haven’t felt oft It’s grass - it’s clean It has mud underneath If feels soft and somewhat cozy Coming down is a leaf It lands right beside me Its color is brown 116

I look left and right They’re falling all around One’s coming right for me Floating straight down It landed on my head I wore it like a crown I lay here all-day And the sky turns dark I’m smiling - waiting patiently As I see a spark The crunch of a leaf A spark - then a flame Then the leaves start burning Oh - what a shame [!] The leaf on my head Is caught in the fire The glowing red sparks Flying higher and higher I feel something burning It’s fiery and hot It makes me start sweating It’s hurting a lot I feel myself simmer And I burn somewhat slowly If only I was picked up If only - If only My wood’s almost gone Please - hear my cry 117

Please come pick me up Before I die My graphite is melting I’m sweating a lot I’m barely alive I gave all I’ve got I speak my last words To you - and to all I bid you farewell I’ve really - had a ball

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S q u i e r

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~Plateau~ The prairie grasses stretch on for eternity, holding their soft heads to the sky Letting the wind softly caress their face, bending and bowing late into the night Scrub brush and stones cast faint shadows under the yellow sun burning bright Winding cliffside trails are carved in by hard hooves like a sharp knife While long vine like plants sprout in any sort of hide, thriving under all sorts of strife The plateau is holding up this small world and with its soft breath creating this life

L i l l i e

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S a w y e r

~The Floating Leaf~ The leaf clings onto the tree with all of its might. It’s friends changing from green to red, then to brown, letting go of their keeper, floating down with ease. They land gracefully on the pavement with the softest of noises. The lone leaf clings still, too afraid to let go. Here comes the wind… a seemingly harmless thing, but to the leaf, it is death. The leaf holds its breath as the wind breathes its own. The leaf looks down at its friends on the ground, feeling abandoned, left to rot and suffer until it shrivels. The wind howls, a loud roar, a breath breathing life. The leaf cries in agony, its stem straining to stay attached to its only life source. But before the leaf can plead the wind to stop, it’s floating in midair. It sobs as it unwillingly surfs the wind. A voice that the leaf hears carries through the gusts like gentle snowflakes whispering and giggling. A still, small voice. “Peace.” The whisper carries itself to the leaf, the word it speaks saturates every cell of the leaf, as if a breath of life has been blown into its lungs. “Peace. Be still,” The leaf sighs as the voice envelops it and melts its fears away. “I will carry you. Peace my child. You are safe.” The leaf feels weightless, and doubtless like a ray of sun shining on the world. The voice in the wind carries the leaf, gently but mightily, around bundled up people who are grinning from ear to ear. Their happiness is contagious, bouncing from person to person. The voice in the wind carries the leaf past coffee shops and playgrounds and churches, past stores and flea markets. The cozy joy of the season swaddling the town. As the leaf observes these things, it realizes the enormity of what it has missed all its life. It thinks of all the other leaves talking of sites like these, but it had never had the courage to leave. It had never known anything other than the bark-covered 120

harness of the maple tree on 7th Elm Street. “I know.” the voice in the wind says, hearing the leaf’s thoughts. “This is where you let go. This is where you stand strong.” The leaf feels the wind soften, it feels the cold, wet, unfamiliar ground beneath its veins. “Why did you leave me?” Feeling the fear it thought was gone, the leaf begins to cry. But then… “Have peace. I will never leave you. I am your next breath.” Next Fall The leaf readily waits for the first gust of wind of Autumn. Soon… Sssshhhhh. The first wind blows softly, then grows to a big roar. The other leaves adorning the tree tense up, not yet ready to be blown away. “I’m here! I’m ready!” The leaf hollers, grinning from edge to edge. The wind crashes into it, and the leaf releases the tree branch. “Where are we going today?” A deep, delighted chuckle resonates through the wind, “Anywhere you’d like.” Twisting and turning though other trees, collecting more leaves that express large ranges of emotions. Smells of pumpkin and hayrides and wet pavement swell up through the leaf’s veins. “Anywhere!? Let’s go to the bridge!” The leaf yearns to see all the wonderful people enjoying the beauty of Autumn. The leaf feels the wind loop and curve and wind, shooting up and down. It lets out an exhilarated whoop, and in a couple minutes, the beautiful scene of the bridge is front and center. The leaf breathes in and out, fully trusting the wind to keep it steady and fill its lungs; and feasts its eyes on the captivating and picturesque scene of the Crimson Pointe Bridge. m

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~ i t ’s y o u r golden hour~ p a t r i c i a

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~Gas Station Dog~ Content Warning: threats of abuse

There was this dog once, I saw it at a gas station when I was a kid. My father was pumping gas, my mother inside buying his cigarettes. Lou was asleep by my side, his head hanging slack against my shoulder. I stared out the open window, quietly observing the dog as it panted in the sticky Oklahoma sun. The humid breeze blew my unbrushed hair around my head softly. The pump clicked and my father returned to the driver’s seat. “Hey dad,” “What?” He was busy unfolding the paper map we had picked up two gas stations ago. “Look at that dog over there,” I pointed my bug bitten arm out the window at it. My father glanced up, “Huh, must be the station mutt.” “What’s a mutt?” I asked. His eyes had returned to the map pressed up against the steering wheel, but he vacantly gestured at it with his right hand, “Uh, I don’t know, they’re like the throw away dogs. The street junk that ain’t anything. They’re mixed with all sorts of dog breeds to the point they become worthless. Look at the poor mangy bastard.” “John, don’t swear in front of the children,” My mother chided as she slipped into the car. “Don’t tell me how to be a father Charlotte,” He muttered, “Where’s my Lucky’s?” My mother produced a package of Lucky Strikes cigarettes from a brown paper bag and handed them to him. He opened the pack and took one between his fingers, cracking his window and igniting it with the now tarnished Zippo lighter my 123

mother had given him for Christmas two years earlier. From the same bag she retrieved two cherry-red suckers and tossed them to me with a wink. “Share with your brother when he wakes up.” My father puffed out the window, “Jesus Charlotte, we’ve still got three more hours of driving and you’re gettin’ the kids all hopped up on sugar,” “God John, it’s been a long day. Just relax, please.” My father was about to speak when the dog started barking at our car. I twisted in my seat sharply, Lou starting upright at the commotion. It’s matted brown fur spiked with each sharp yelp. I remember looking it right in the eyes. It looked like it was crying. “What in the hell?” My father grunted. “What’s going on?” My kid brother asked, rubbing warm sleep from his eyes. Then the dog started walking toward the car. Not running, but barking the whole time. It came close to my door and the barking stopped, now replaced by low ornery snarls. It stared up at me and I felt a strange prickling at the base of my skull. “John, start the car, it’s scaring the children.” Concern filled my mothers voice and my father started folding up the map plastered across the steering wheel. Lou leaned over my lap, grabbing one of the suckers from my hand and chucking it at the dog’s head through the window, a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Stop it!” I shouted and shoved him hard. He fell against a bag resting on the seat, his head slamming into my father’s heavy thermos in the pocket. “Ow! What the hell Nancy?!” “Nancy! Don’t push your brother!” My mother shouted. The dog started barking again, louder this time. “Mom! He was throwin’ shit at the dog!” “Don’t you dare yell at your mother!” My father bellowed, finally starting the car and peeling out of the empty station. 124

“You do it all the time!” I knew I was in for it the second it left my mouth, but my attention remained on the dog as it barked and chased after our car. “Nancy!” My mother exclaimed. “Listen here you little shit!” The wind from the open windows rang in my ears and I saw the cigarette fall out of my fathers mouth as he tried not to crash our car. “You never raise your voice at your father! When did we raise such a brat of a daughter?!” He fumbled around for the cigarette. The dog stopped running and sat in the road. “I swear to God! When we get to the motel, you better believe your ass’ll be black and blue!” “John!” I watched as the dog shrunk in the growing distance, sitting there on the pavement, just staring at me. M a r s

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~Feel~ M e r c e d e s She tries to grow her nails out Ripping off the whites again And again Because she can’t stop herself She chews on the inside of her Cheeks and lips She’d chew her tongue and Teeth If she could She examines the ends of her hair Finding split ends Which she rips in two She tried to grow her nails out Breaking them, the tops thin and ridged Ripping the whites down to the skin Because she just can’t stop herself She chews on the inside of her Cheeks and lips Feels the flesh between her teeth She’d chew her tongue and Teeth If she could

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~and He was Glass~ Moss under my hands, soft and damp with the recent rains, and trees sharing secrets with the wind. My mind drifts. Outside, the light flickers above my head, his heartbeat, attached to mine too much for even the sun to take His body is made of glass, depths rising as far as the sea itself. Rich Blues, nearly black under the shadows of his bones. Stunning Reds, like rubies at his fingertips. He could hold the whole world, weightless to mine. watching as his wings unfold, lighting like a candle, Feathers, soft cirrus, comfort over protective hide. He leans over the sky’s shallow railing, and spreads his arms as if welcoming the descent. Each breath as heavy as the one in my chest. I can see it in his eyes, stunningly white, golden, and blue, this was so much more than mine. He falls, graceful as the stars. the clouds belong to him, yet work to wash his light away Waxy pinion fades first, 127

before the atmosphere works to the center and then the light is gone. And this is his descent, lovely as splintering diamonds, taking my breath with its performance. As I hear my heart crashing, shards left on the ground As his melts to peace, all colour and light As he falls faster, and faster, I almost hope to see him rest, however, still, the final drop of water may be. The moment spans for hours, but my eyes won’t close To see imprints of its painting, waiting in my memory intricately delicate, a fallen angel, mourned by the sea His presence that made the dawn, slips until the sun sets. when his last moments are shared, As are mine. though he was so much more than mine. M e r c u r y

N K

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~Rage~ Rage bubbled throughout her veins, pulsing through her brain. Every instinct told her to punch the walls, slam her head into the floor, tear this house to shreds. She snatched a pillowcase from the closet, ready to fling it into the hungry flames of the fireplace. Wait no, this was that pillow case she’d accidentally brought home from the rental house by the beach a few months ago. She still needed to return that. Tossing the pillowcase to the side, she instead reached for a nearby lamp to feed the inferno instead. But this was the lamp her grandma had gotten her as a housewarming gift. It would be rude to destroy that. She sighed, setting the lamp back down. Being angry wasn’t worth the effort.

M y s t

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M o r g a n

~vermillion~ cigarettes shaded in by cotton weary, neglected symphonies shudder with the cold. velvet lips stained on ashy teeth. this is a dream once had. dust settled between the orchid’s wreath. for summertime linen, your body I consoled. overfilled my wicker cup with shrubs and ashes. laid in a field of your calling, tears of gallows dance. holds a promise originating from a box of matches. endless corridor, life as fiction. tears of angels, what became of your condition? silhouette of a whisper, after heavens dark. can you hear my pulse? a heart that breaks, peels off like bark. obsessed with the way you make me feel. dearly somber, ichor cascades down heavy palms. words that I tried so hard to conceal. lost in an empty place, vermillion. till dusk until dawn, waning carnation candle. until you forget that i’m real.

P a d e n

G e d d i n g s

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~Mia L~ Z o e 131

T h o m a s

~Changed for The Worse~ As I board the train I make the hard decision to look behind me and in that moment I see my life flash before my eyes, my whole past in the blink of an eye. What I see behind me is a crowd of crying mothers who just made the hardest decision of their lives, they let their children go. At first the decision is not that scary but when it boils down to this moment they know what will happen, their children will be gone for god knows how long, this moment could also be the last time they lay eyes on their children. And then I turn and see my mothers face. As I look a spear plunges through my body, my face goes numb, I break down on the inside and hold back the tidal wave of tears. As I woefully wave goodbye I climb onto the train and search for an empty compartment, during my search I keep seeing the same faces of terror, torture, and a tint of wonder. Most of the children are terrified but all of us have an ounce of wonder in us, wondering what it will be like without our Mum or Dad, Wondering if our host will be nice, wondering what everything will look like. As my search comes to a stop I sit down in the empty compartment I found. I look out the window one more time before I leave and there it is again, the big clamorous crowd of crying mothers. As the train pulls out of the station, the crowd of mothers goes out of view. I am greeted with the green trees and the rolling hills of the Countryside. In the peace and calmness of the moment there is 132

also an unwanted silence. Although it was silent for other kids on the train it wasn’t silent for me. There was a voice inside of me, screaming, hoping, filled with emotions of rage, fear, and loneliness. My Mum says that this will just feel like a long holiday, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels like I’m being forced to move away from everything I’ve ever known. My Mum says that change is good, I guess she isn’t always right because if this is what change feels like I never want to feel it again. As I exited the train and got picked up by my new guardian I realized that in this moment I have given up my home, my mum, my life, my everything. I once read a quote that said “Change is inevitable, Growth is optional.” whose mouth it came from I don’t know, but I fully agree and I chose to stick with the old memories, the good memories. So yes Growth is optional, but I choose not to.

P a u l

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C o l l i n s

~In The Dark~ You know that feeling you get, well past midnight, when your windows have turned to mirrors and you should probably be asleep? Your neck starts to tingle, your stomach feels wrong, and your skin sweats pure cold. It’s the feeling that you’re not alone, or that something you can’t see can see you. Far past the reflective void of the glass, across the street, buried in your neighbors’ bushes, something feels like it’s watching you. And you know full well that it can peer out between the leaves and see you, as silhouetted as you are against the light pouring out into the front yard like spilled ice. And as you walk closer, to cup your hands to the window so you can finally see the thing in the yard, you know that when you do, it’ll have pressed its broken nightmare of a face against the flimsy, brittle glass so when you do see, you’ll be staring right into its eyes? Yeah. That feeling. Why is it there, coiled up in your guts like a poisonous snake? Evolution is a fickle thing, and it tends to throw out useless garbage. So why has the paranoid, terrified, irrational feeling made it through all these thousands of years? It’s because for someone- maybe me, maybe you -they think they’re alone. But they aren’t.

S o r e n

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~First Spell~

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My absolute great stipulation is the overcoming of man’s absolute. Given necessary ideals, a regard to seek “human” emotion is the absolute of one’s life. We wade in sadness, a pool of contemplation and mindless blinking— we drown in this pool. The calm flow of rumination, ever present as a pleasant body, but a current of discord and ghastly affairs. Now, as the ones who wade, we stare into the face of abnormality, of horror, of objection, of thought, and reject what is beyond this pool. The stability of the pool, this flowing river of mossy stone and beams of yellow sunlight, grasp and punish those who swim within it. Overtaken by that current, we are pulled within and content. The comfort of sunlight and warmth fills us with solemn amenity. Never sick, never dying, never different. Behold! We are to drown in this heavenly pool! It is like an irascible father: the one that beheld his child, and promised unto the Earth to protect his soul, yet grew complacent with himself and his position, and begat sputtering fumes of anger upon his child. Thus, his will begone. From our positions we all endure a commonality of hardship. Yet, after even a menial trial of will and challenges to character, we seek the truth of the water. We dip our fingers within the pool, and as Narcissus, we fall in. Yet not to hubris, but to comfort. It is our morning glow; a pillow that we seek to sit upon forevermore. Never shall we emerge from this comfort, as once reached, it is our end. We look upon the danger, the risk, the pain, malice, sorrow, and grief beyond this pool, and blink. With blissful gaze and superficial attention we continue to wade. But once more I say, escape this snare! The enchanting waters of sun deliver the most sorrowful depression, sufferable grief, and execrable anxiety. This everlasting joy bequeathes no reward; mere fatigue follows this tenure, and the tendrils of fate consume your body and submerge you beneath the pool, drowning you. Once again, spat out into that netherworld of torture. Yet without this torture, we cannot endure the comfort of that pool. Such as an old man, frigid in stature with ailing form, yet

musters his will to tread the path daily. Sought he did all that did for him: he has his power, without no God or no Heart. Within himself is all that power of which he requires. He does not continue his journey, routinely stopping to complain of frequent ills and traffics of fate. With oaken cane he continues, all that will remain to him intact insofar he can continue without violation. Must I bequeath more? Simply there is not but power that struggles to dampen the mood. In our own right, power is a force of good. Yet, one continues his reach of denying himself this pleasure and privilege. Claim he content with what he contains? Yet this comfort is depressing; this constant denial with ones self permits sorrow within this life. Theman looks upon this ugly life, and seeks to accept his place within it. He forces himself into this position of being. Happiness he knows with solemn dearness, yet cannot fathom the escape of life. To look upon that mountain range at the zenith of all creation and reflect upon your lifetime and continue with “I am happy, and that is my truth”. Begone with that truth! There is no truth! Such is there no villain and no hero! There is power before all. The acquisition is the concern of which. Therefore I speak with all heart and one breath, full faith to power before me. Upon the pedestal I behold one who does not seek comfort, still desiring peace (the absolute is without chaos!). One living within the world as not a symptom of mankind, but in league with the Earth. So is this man, beholding his power as a Will to All That Be. For himself, he is above the order of mankind, and exerts his will over himself: mind and spirit, and raises the earth with glances of covenant. Before all now, seek we may or avoid we must, we walk before this time, yet strive again to the next end.

V a l

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~Management~ Y o u r s innocent, mild, and wild that’s who i was as a child when i grew, i became vile throwing things and screeched but they continued to preach yesterday, i asked my mom “who was i as a child?” time stood still after she told me, i believed i was heinous it burns my eyes as they swell heart tearing itself apart as well mind clouded with her perception who was that little girl? the little girl who had spunk the little girl who ran amok the little girl who had the nerve who was she? where did she go? 137

T r u l y .

she’s no longer with us, under new management i would say to catch a glimpse of her is rare but she’ll never compare to him he being the sun of stars burning out and in hoping that she’ll just come in fill the mind she left

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Cover Art by Rayne Wordsworth Literary Magazine Spring 2023