YWW Session I Litmag 2015

Of Mice & McGonagall

Infinity

Jess Calvert Infinity Infinity Oh sweet infinity Where do you go when time runs out?

Do you wait for another lonely soul To come and sweep you away?

Do you hide in the shadows of pain Because only you know it will end?

Or do you relish in the thought that You are the unknown force we all crave?

Tell me, tell me infinity, Where are you now?

Tell me how to find you, Guide you, Steer you my way.

I want to feel ease and I want to know truth I want to understand what it means to be safe And what it means to be secure Tell me, tell me infinity, Where are you now?

Lines On Snow Avery Fletcher I I remember the snow in the loudest hours of summertime. The sky was first heavy as a damp midnight towel with its wet thickness. Then the first flake fell to the earth, textured with the bodies of leaves, an icy messenger warning of a white tempest.

My breath fogged the windowpane.

II The color of the five’o’clock sky: a piece of streaked amber encasing a dying sun.

My steps crunch beneath me and I shake the snow from the branches, creating a snowstorm of my own.

The landscape is silent and still.

The holly berries look like beads of blood amongst the spinning needle leaves.

III We watched the snow fall later when the amber cracked and it was gray.

Flakes tangled in your eyelashes like cobwebs in rafters.

Stick Figure Natalie Frontera

the stick figure on the paper he jumped out, oh the stick figure on the paper he's not around, oh I drew him so I could a friend to talk to, la di da da da da but he didn't even stay in the end how rude the stick figure on the paper he disappeared, oh the stick figure on the paper you won't find him here, oh when loneliness hit me, I thought he could help, la di da da da da but he ran so fast, despite how I felt the stick figure on the paper he may have left, oh but at least now it's not you in my head

If It Wasn’t Love Emma Lanford

Some things look good from the outside But up close the cracks are more clear Other things are made from gold so pure And I thought that that was what we had here Sometimes when my mind wraps around you Overwhelming me with your sly infectious smile I realize I’ve memorized even your atmosphere eyes And I’m forced to relive you for a while Maybe someday I’ll see you again With my habits still engraved in your mind But without fate’s intervention I’m forced to accept That you didn’t think this was worth your time Chorus: If it wasn’t love Then why does it hurt so much The body I’ve become is turning numb From the absence of your touch If it wasn’t love Then why did you make it that Did you spit fire of careless desire Not knowing they were words you can’t take back But if it wasn’t love I’ll try to be fine with that I know that I should be made of metal Anyways that’s what you liked most about me But I was really built of paper bones that could easily break Until you came and showed me what I could be But people are not puzzle pieces I can’t rely on you to make me whole And I can’t keep waiting to claim your whole chameleon heart Even though I gave the remnants of my soul But maybe sometime you’ll meet me again And you’ll give me that face you knew once We’ll live out the stories I wish were in pen You’ll return the leftovers of my lungs Chorus But if it wasn’t love I’ll have to be fine with that

Sarah Luria SCENE 1 INT SUBURBAN HOME, KITCHEN, LIGHTS DOWN Two women are in the kitchen, the younger one (LILY) is seated at a marble-topped island. She has her fingers wound through her hair. The older (NEETU) on has her hands flat on the top of the island, head hanging below her shoulders. Scene is frozen while the lights are down. Then you hear a single note from a xylophone and the lights suddenly come up. They are homely, however there is a row of lights that shine against the cabinets on the back wall that are an angry red color.

LILY Fuck you.

NEETU Why do youLILY I’m not listening.

Neetu drops her head into her arms where she cradles it against the cool marble. Lily looks out the audience, as if through a window.

NEETU I just wantLILY I know, okay?

NEETU No, you don’t.

LILY I’m not youNEETU That’s right.

With a jolt she raises her head and turns to the fridge behind her, placing her hands on the handles.

She seems to pause, and then looks back at Lily.

NEETU You’re not me.

AJ Pfeiffer FADE IN. INT. HALLWAY- DAY PIPER WILLIAMS is standing in front of an open locker, putting books into it. She slams the locker shut, and turns to see EVAN ROBERTS, smiling and walking down the hallway.

PIPER (VO) Evan Christopher Roberts. The nicest, smartest, most athletic, dreamiest boy at our school.

Not that I would know firsthand. Evan is like perfection: impossible to obtain, but that doesn’t stop you from reaching for him.

EVAN walks by PIPER but doesn’t look at her. She follows him down the hall and enters a classroom behind him.

INT. ENGLISH CLASSROOM- DAY EVAN is surrounded by friends, but PIPER sits alone.

PIPER (VO) But this could be my chance. All year, groups have been changed at the last second, keeping us from working together. But finally, Evan and I will actually be in the same group for a project. Who knows? Maybe this could be the start of something great.

MR. PARKER moves from behind his desk and approaches PIPER. MR. PARKER Miss Williams? (Piper looks up at him.) I was wondering if I could talk to you about the group project.

PIPER Oh, I’m really excited for this one, Mr. Parker. I love mythology, and I think I have a really good group!

MR. PARKER That’s what I wanted to ask you. Marcus and Luke were in a fistfight last Friday, but I had originally placed them in the same group. I was wondering if you would switch with one of them.

PIPER looks crestfallen and looks down at her desk.

Um.. yeah. That’s fine.

PIPER

PIPER (VO) I stand corrected. Looks like the drought is gonna last a little longer.

Emme Pugh Scene 1 (Gary and Zack are playing truth or dare in Zack’s room. Zack picks on Gary and asks him who his first kiss was.)

Not who, but what?

Come again?

GARY ZACK

GARY I didn’t kiss a person. I kissed a dolphin. That’s when I realized who I truly am.

ZACK I am so confused. This...this is not right...at all GARY It’s ok Zack. I know this is hard for you to understand. Let me explain. When I was 5, my parents took me to Sea World for the first time. I got to go pet a dolphin and I kissed it, not thinking anything at the time. Then once I kissed it..mmmm I just wanted more. Then..the dolphin swam away, with my heart. After that I would look up pictures of dolphins all the time and it just turns. Me. On. That flipper. That dorsal fin. Oh GodDAMN. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

ZACK I-I just. I don’t. Why would you. I can’t. What the fuh-. Why the fuh-. What. What was its name? I guess…

GARY His name is Tommy Bahama.

ZACK It was a DUDE DOLPHIN?!

GARY Yeah what’s the problem?

ZACK So let me get this straight. I have known you for 7 years. And you have never thought to mention to me that you are gay for dolphins?

I didn’t want to frighten you.

GARY

These Kind of Girls (Take Two) Kasey Roper

These kind of girls were everywhere. You know, the ones who got up really early in the morning just so they could take showers and put on their makeup, presenting themselves as the nice, outgoing, and cheerful women from beauty commercials that convinced every young girl she wasn’t pretty enough without concealer.

And foundation.

And eyeliner.

And mascara.

And whatever else they now kept stocked in stores that only served to belittle women’s view of themselves, forcing them to think, I need this. Nobody will like me if I don’t buy this.

But, as if the pressure of conforming to the very expensive and very unnecessary trend of makeup wasn’t enough pressure already pounding in their heads, then they had to worry about their clothes.

These kind of girls weren’t like guys, they couldn’t just throw something on and call it a day; it had to be planned.

Everything had to match- the low hanging shirt, the short pants or skirt, the fancy necklace, the extravagant earrings- because every girl just had to get holes punched into her soft, delicate skin just like the thin piece of paper she is, flat and lifeless and something that’s just gonna get thrown throw away at the end of the day anyways- even the strappy sandals had to match. The eccentrics, or the bold, even went so far as to make their underwear and bra match whatever bright, girly color they sported that day.

All of these kind of girls were bubbly, oozing confidence and radiating good-looks. They were the type who could strut up to any guy and start a conversation with him easily. That’s how gorgeous and outgoing they were.

That’s how girls were supposed to be.

But she was not like these kind of girls.

Jazz Hands

Echoes

Zoey Sokolowski EXT. BRICK ALLEY - EVENING A couple, BLUE and SAPPHIRE walk along a brick road that leads to a downtown area. This is the first time they have talked since the fight the day before.

SAPPHIRE (hesitantly) Blue, (pause)I know what I did (pause) was wrong and god, it kills me. But I(pause) I need you to know that I haven’t stopped thinking about what I did and God, I am so. so sorry.

Blue walks over to the stairs, sits and places her head in her hands. Sapphire comes and sits next to her giving her enough space. There is a silence. Finally Blue raises her head and looks at her.

BLUE What are you trying to get out of this? You never apologize.

Sapphire lets out a heavy sigh SAPPHIRE Blue, I want you. I want you to forgiveForgive you ?!

BLUE

Suddenly Blues tone changes and she lets out an upset laugh.

BLUE (CONT’D) That is sure a lot coming from you, my god! Saph I know forgiveness is easy for you, but my god you are going to have to do a lot better than that. Sorry doesn’t fix anything, princess.

Blue stands up and walks out of the alley and into a coffee shop across the brick road and leaves Sapphire sitting with her head in her hands.

The Sixth of June Anna McNulty

His eyes sink into their sockets. The white marble twinkles as he slouches out of his limestone mansion. His mottled fingers tremble through his gelled hair, and then he stuffs one hand into his front pocket. There is a stillness about him as he awaits for his car to arrive. He quickly glances at his gold Cartier watch and gently taps his foot on the ground. A black SUV pulls up in front of him, and he grips his briefcase stumbling to the car door.

“C’mon Mr. Bronstein, we’re in for a ride. Last day for a cruise through the park before de Blasio shuts us out!” The driver says from the rolled down window. Mr. Bronstein gives the driver a toothy smile, and he abruptly glances behind him before hopping in the car. He sees me sitting on the stoop with my bicycle adjacent to his extravagant home. I give him a little smile, but he turns his head and doesn’t look back.

When we moved into our new house a few months ago, my mom insisted that we meet our neighbors. Although they weren’t our type of people, she insisted we needed to build a ‘neighborly relationship.’ Honestly, I’m not as hopeful as Mom that we will find our type of people on this block. Most of the neighbors seem like recluses who stay at home playing clarinet, or pretentious social climbers who throw private benefits every Friday night, or passive-aggressive tree huggers who comment, “your recycling bag looks bigger than last week.” When I look across the street, I see the apartment building that burned down in a fire last summer forcing the tenants to move out.

According to Butch, the neighborhood handyman and gossip, the owner set the electrical fire himself to move out his rent-controlled dwellers. When I look at the video cameras hanging from almost every tree, I think of the self-proclaimed mayor of the block Joe Bonnamo, the enemy of both city survivors and hedge-fund homeowners. And when I see the little girl who skips down the street in flip flops and ponytails, I think of her mom who had an affair with Mitch, the man with the motorcycle who lives on the corner above Raku –– It’s Japanese.

Voices of the Deep Madi Wine

The ocean is calling me again. Today it is only a whisper. The sea is calm, and the smallest waves crash softly on the white sand. Save us. Save us. Or you will become one of us. The drowned.

The desperate, the abandoned, the lost. Calling to anyone who will listen and be their savior. As the years go on, the voices multiply, slowly but surely. I can’t even remember how long I have been hearing them, but I know there is no way I am venturing to the bottom of the ocean to stop them. I scroll through my IPod and click on a random song to block out the voices, but before I can put my headphones over my ears, I hear one voice stick out above the rest. It says a single word. Lonni. I freeze. You have to save me, Lonni. It feels like my blood has turned to ice. I know that voice. It belongs to my sister.

I’m running to our apartment, barely paying attention to the people around me. I know the voices are just in my head, but they don’t ever stop, and one day, I fear they will take control of me.

I sprint up the stairwell and burst through the front door. “May!” I call out, praying she is still here. I bang on her bedroom door. She pokes her head out.

“What?” she asks. Part of me hears her and understands that she is not at the bottom of the ocean, but a larger part of me, a part of me with more control, doesn’t realize that she is here in front of me, unharmed. I shake her, hard. “Where are you?!” I scream. I can see the fear in her eyes, but I can’t stop. “I need to find you!” I grip her arms tighter. May writhes in my grasp, trying to escape, but I’m holding on too tight. She begins to cry.

“Lonni! Let go!” She yells. Saying my name was a mistake. Immediately, all of the voices from the ocean flood my head, but it is the worst it’s been. Pleads and prayers all mix together, clashing and pounding in my head. But May’s voice is the loudest. I’m gone forever now. You waited too long. You can’t save me anymore. It’s all your fault. I will haunt you forever for what you did. I’m overwhelmed, and I run out of the apartment and down the long flight of stairs, screaming the whole way to the beach. Tears are streaming down my face but I ignore them and keep running until I reach the water’s edge. I collapse on my knees and press my hands against my ear, but the voices have completely taken over and they are all I can hear now. The pull of the ocean is too strong for me to resist anymore, and I stand up and wade in the water, all the way up to my neck, but I don’t stop there. I keep walking, even after I’m fully submerged. I dive down, swimming towards the bottom of the deep, where the shipwrecks and the drowned reside. Where May is. I try to take a breath, but I forgot that I was underwater and water fills my mouth. The pressure in my head grows and it’s so dark that I can’t tell which way is up, so I try paddling, but it is in vain.

Blackness takes over and I become one of the voices haunting in the deep.

The Guidebook Savannah Slater

Rain pounded down on the windshield, enormous, hard drops trying their best to break through the glass. Large, blaring trucks sped by on the highway, veering our soaked minivan left and right. The sound was deafening, like that of a thousand soldiers drumming on a tin roof. My mom leaned over the sweaty steering wheel, jaws clenched and eyebrows pointed in such a way that they looked like they were magnetically attracted to the bridge of her nose. She was going to get us to Virginia safely.

The trip had been like this from the very beginning, all the way from good old Missouri. It wasn't going to quit, and neither were we. As we passed Indiana, I could faintly hear the barked order of my mother, “Savannah, check the website again. Let's make sure we haven't missed anything.” Not wanting to make her even more stressed out, I complied and pulled up the last email.

“Nothing.” I stated blandly. “Check some of the other past emails,” she instructed, “just to make sure.” I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, until something caught my eye. When I read it, I was completely dumbfounded. Then, with a sigh, I told my mother, “Mom, I've found the guidebook.”

“What?” she asked, in a creepily cool tone. “ I have found the guidebook,” I repeated, realizing my mistake more and more as I spoke, “ You know, the thing that tells you what to bring and the schedule and the directions?”

“Yes, I know. Oh, Savannah.” My mom took her eyes off of the road for a split second and gave me a very reprimanding look. She then shook her head side-to-side, chuckling at my ignorance, as if trying to believe that it wasn’t true. After what seemed like forever, she gave up and uttered a few words: “See if there is anything that you're missing.” I bravely poked the download button and looked over the guidebook. A few minutes later, I was speechless. Finally, I said the only thing that I could think of, “You don't want to hear this.”

“Yes, I do!” she insisted, “ The rain has slacked off a bit. Tell me everything NOW!” With a heavy heart, I began.“Well, first of all, I need a lot more writing materials. Then, I need fifty bucks for the key and ten bucks for processing. Next, I need extension cords. After that, I need a personal word processor and a USB drive, and, finally, rolls of quarters and laundry soap for laundry.” When I finished, I gave her the I’m-sorry smile and went quiet.

Now it was her turn to be speechless. Miles passed as she sat in stunned silence, churning over and over the words I had said. Eventually, she began:“The money's no problem, and we can pick up a USB drive, writing materials, and laundry soap at Target. I'll see about the word processor and if I have any quarters. I might slap you with those extension cords, though.”

“You're the best, Mom.” I said with a smile.

“Yes, I am cool in that way.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And the rain poured on as we crossed into Kentucky, a bit wiser and wetter than we had been before.

13 Perspectives of Music Mary Gray I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII.

XIII.

Peace surrounds. The symphony carries on through the hall. Its music lulls the weary to sleep.

A screech blasts through worn down speakers. What some don’t call “music”, others scream their own truths.

She lies in wait for him to call back. She doesn’t know how she feels. She can only play this music to give her something to feel.

It dulls you. Slowly caressing you with its minor keys, this music pulls you into its melancholy.

The guitar plays the familiar few notes that remind you of home. The one you decided to leave behind so long ago. You play more notes to the music.

Notes bounce around the room as heads move to the beat of the sound. Some sing while others stay silent with a smile in the music.

The saxophone belts out the scale, fingers trembling from the effort. This music plays the notes of the past, its hope only in the future.

Her song still rings in your head. The emotion drips from every note of that sweet music.

Mumbles and half whispers buzz throughout. Silence is your only wish as you forcibly endure this music.

The crowd shifts like a wave on the street. Voices try calling louder and louder through the chaos. A scream rips from their throat. This music scares even itself.

A child’s tune laughs happily through the air. This music’s innocence heals even the hardest of hearts.

He looks to him, the tall one resting by his side. A hummed tune from a pop song they both recognize gives the shorter one a blushing smile. This music is sleepily pulling the boys to rest from their racing hearts.

This music is the silence after a gunshot. You wished you had said goodbye.

RIP

Stefanie Kohler Another day of taking out the trash for her dorm mates. Kiara lugged the bag behind her, turning into the alleyway containing the dumpster connected to her apartment. The noise of the city was still like an alarm to her, but she had to get away from her parents. Kiara pushed open the dumpster, threw the trash bag in, and turned to leave when a gleam hit her eye. Was that a statue?

Kiara kneeled down to observe the statue. It was something of a dragon, with steel spikes, deer-like horns, bat wings of a golden color, paws with four digits and claws, a tail, with the head being sort of bird shaped. The main color of this dragon statue was bronze. As Kiara reached for the statue, eyes of electric blue snapped open.

Kiara jumped back, words streaming through her head that she would never say out loud.

There was an actual, living, breathing, dragon sitting in front of her!

The bronze dragon looked at her straight on, four lightning blue eyes blinking, before tilting their head and smiling with sharp teeth. “Hello, human.” They spoke, with a surprisingly silky, light voice. Kiara stared at the dragon in bewilderment. Not only was a dragon, a creature that was supposed to be imaginary, sitting in front of her, it was talking? The small dragon that was so similar to a statue tilted their head. “Why do you look so confused? Are dragons spread as lies in your city?”

Kiara tugged a strand of her orange hair around her pointer finger, thinking. How was she supposed to break it to the dragon that they weren’t supposed to exist here? “More like the entire world…” She muttered, looking at the dumpster. The dragon got onto their paws, four electric blue eyes widening, and the lack of pupils now registering in Kiara’s brain.

“What?!” The dragon shouted, in a clearly feminine voice, “How is that possible?”

Mouse Bones (Excerpt) Annie Castillo

He was surveying the growth of mushrooms in his yard in different locations, as one does, when he saw the puddle, the mouse’s little upturned belly turning grey as mud splashed against it.

He ran to it, immediately pulling it from the water, but it was dead, fur hanging wet from its little frame. It had died with its eyes open.

He was not happy to see the mouse dead, but when opportunities present themselves, you must understand, he would never hesitate to take them. In small hands, slightly shaky, he scooped up the mouse, forgetting all about the mushrooms he was cataloguing. The ones he had gathered, the ones he was sure were not poisoned, lay discarded, their fleshy domes pressing into the earth. He ran inside, the mouse still cupped in his palms, and he tried to forget that the mouse would surely be clawing out of his hands, suffocating in his palms if it were alive. He did not think the mouse would be happy to die in such light rain. Reputation to maintain, and all that. Even mice deserved the dignity of a heroic death.

Looking For Sita Kate Cobey She was the lone figure who stood on the border between reality and illusion, but as for which was which, she could no longer tell. On one side, there was an empire of gold, a utopia that faded to blue as the ocean caressed its glimmering diamond shores. On the other side, there was an overgrown forest, where she stood on the face of a fallen idol and the trees all sighed one nameSita.

She was a shadow, darting amongst dark trees where long abandoned houses stood with windows bleeding with vines and doorsteps violated. She alone opened and closed their doors, tough skin cut and bleeding from wrestling with weeds in an attempt to save the buildings which had once been her own, and all along the dying houses softly mutteredSita.

She was feared down in the golden paradise, where festive followers of mad gods danced and sang in the streets, never ceasing and never stopping to realize how close they were to her fate, and amongst them they whispered her name, spreading tales of the witch in the woodsSita.

She was the queen of ferals, the daughter of the moon, and the prophet of the stars. She was the cat who had been left behind by the world and still waited in the forest, tending to a new master who stroked her back and cared for her like the owner who she had lost. She was the one who the earth itself cared for, calling for its humble servantSita.

Sita, ghost of a city long gone, looked down on an uncaring shade of yellow that reminded her vaguely of the dandelions in her kittenhood that had sprung up in the negative space between houses. It reminded her of a girl, lit from the inside by dandelions and glowing cheeks, who had once lived in a city so much like the glorious one below, but yet so different, so different from the warm light of her city and still the wind cried for places long goneSita, Sita, Sita‌

FREEMASONS

Coffee Revenge Katelyn Wolfgang

Her anger boiled inside her gut, building like a pot about to spill over. She had tried to be patient and nice. She had followed their every whim and allowed them to drag her around as though she had no thoughts of her own. Being the new girl was hard and she had wanted to fit in. When she saw the group of popular girls, she had latched on and had thus sacrificed her dignity in order to get the reward of high school fame. Finally, after several weeks of being their servant girl, they had seemed to accept her into the clique, but it was all a lie. They had pretended to be friends, had invited her to hang out at the mall that weekend and shop together. However, come Monday, they had ridiculed her. Pictures of her trying on outfits covered the halls, derogatory comments spelled out for everyone to see.

The head bitch herself had led the group, taunting her. They pretended she didn’t exist and forced her to serve them. She had finally snapped. Entering the student council office, she went to the coffee pot in the kitchenette, dumping its contents until all that remained was the sludge at the bottom. Grabbing it, she proceeded to dump it in the mug, grabbing some stale crackers from the back of the cupboard, a bottle of soy sauce, and a pinch of dirt from a flowerpot. Stepping into the courtyard, she used a stick to gather some slime from the pond as well as several worms dried up on the sidewalk. She proceeded to mix them together with some pond water in order to make it look like a regular drink. Then, taking her concoction, she walked down the hall, spotting her attackers in a crowd of admirers. She proceeded to plaster a pleasant grin onto her face and walked up to the head cheerleader.

“I brought you the coffee you wanted. Here you go.” With that, she swung back the cup and chucked its contents at the girl.

The splash hit her opponent in the face. Cold, sludgy, black coffee slid slowly down her brow and dripped onto the designer clothes she had been flaunting. The drink soaked her recently styled hair, smelling like a mix of swamp mud and dirty socks. She ended up looking as though she had rolled around in a pigpen, make-up running and rolling off her face in rivers along with the disgusting cocktail. The attacker, or rather victim, turned and walked down the hall. They stared as she walked away. The victim had finally decided to take no more and retaliated. For once, the little guy had managed to stick up for herself. She didn’t care to be popular anymore. Those girls were disgusting and she had decided to show everyone exactly what they were like by exposing their inner personality with the nauseating mixture. Because just like that deformed coffee, they were surrounded by a pretty wrapping to disguise the bitter and disgusting inside.

Eight ways to look at Beth Eliette Chanezon

I Tired hands squeeze Pressing the lint away Pointy fingernail In rosy skin fixed Is the last novelty of the aged body II Up and down the kitchen floor Pacing, grabbing She still knows what to do III Brush tangled tiles Scrub porcelain plates Fingers pink from cold Or the heads you have held IV Dull pelt, bright eye One hundred creams could not revive dead skin V She glues paper onto her thumbs and grazes The face of a husband she barely sees Ankle deep in his chest cavity Reaching for something she knows she’s missed.

VI Swallowing, one by one, Fourteen pills scattered on wood Fourteen pellets that force their way Down a cramped throat Men in white coats etch numbers beneath your skin, Ancient membrane engraved with doses and diseases You try to scratch the past away.

VII She is a dusty brown box behind closed closet doors, filled with nostalgia in black and white She is a pair of damaged socks, the ones one keeps in a drawer but never use again She is Pluto, a planet that exists but no one ever counts She is a child’s washable marker She is the last bullet point of a girl’s bucket list She is a regret, coarse and dark, Indelible VIII Lying thin under the linen eiderdown She closes her eyes

30 White Cows And One Ass: Berry Picking on a Saturday Morning Sophia Menconi

this seems like a place you're supposed to go slow slower, keep the memories, fold them between your lips and tongue berries on your collarbones and between your fingers— this is art, happiness, the grey sun and green sky, and purple fingers tracing up and down my spine between my teeth we are art, berries ripening on a vine red to purple to black the sun setting in our throats we are art and you are beautiful like I am beautiful like blood, juice we just can't capture it in images but we've trapped it in nets and cages wedged between our molars and under our tongues even the shoeless man knows that days like this can only happen once

SUICIDAL MICE: THE LABORATORY Kamryn Leoncavello

they were touching me picking me up it’s to distress me to cure a disease that I don’t have my mother would have loved me but they wanted to see how I’d be if she didn’t so my childhood sucked too I run around mazes through these lines and paths all day again again I always smell cheese and peanut butter that’s what I’m supposed to love bleach starch rubber glove not my mother’s tongue my own tongue tastes the air now my legs are held against me with one thumb now it’s to test my heart is it still beating?

I would just tell them if they asked the answer is no it stopped beating ages ago when I was an embryo conceived in a test tube I haven’t drawn breath since someone is laughing I’m still held against a thumb they imagine I am hungry I imagine myself dead someday the steroids the hormones the insulin the sugar pills someday it was an accidental OD no one will quite notice anyway there are many able bodies left to stuff themselves with anesthetics

The Inevitable Megan Maharry

The woman stared down at the grave in front of her. This wasn’t the place she was supposed to be. The sky was covered in dark, gray clouds and a cold wind stirred fallen leaves in a circle before dropping them to the ground again. The bitter weather seemed to match her mood.

She hugged her arms around her thin body. She’d never been this slim before. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Or showered, for that matter. Her hair was distraught: the blonde strands were knotted and dirty. Tears cascaded down her flushed cheeks and she rubbed at her eyes, causing them to turn redder. Though she cried almost every night, her body never ran out of water.

The grave was for someone too young, too important to her. Her husband— once full of life and love—now buried and nothing more than a memory. The couple had been young and married only two years before. The loss was too soon. There were too many things she’d wanted to say, too many things she wanted to do with him, and now she would never get the chance. The agony filled every inch of her heart, body, and soul as she choked on another sob.

She recalled memories from the past, prior to the horrific accident. She and her husband would crawl into bed, kiss goodnight, and whisper ‘I love you’ before closing their eyes and drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms. The woman had loved her husband more than her own life. Loving her husband was inevitable. After all, love is an inevitable thing in life.

But so is death.

Behind White Picket Fences

Dominique Spencer

resembling A volcanoes debris i sit there

With all that’s wrong

and smell

in this universe

Everything.

pre-pubescent

mom’s revving snores

Humanity,

John’s unedited groans

a baby’s high-pitched screams,

you can say,

i wonder if this is all noxious Gases within A fabricated dream.

with Saturday night snores waking the dawn. the sun hugging the clouds.

Scorched and burnt

I have quite the memory.

From year 1, till now A women’s body barbie’s breast

Bear claws Slipped in Between elastic walls Among the flesh And sultry secretions My flesh is pink-

A child’s favorite color, The color of burnt skin.

My room is pink, Solid, Disorganized.

Has been

A volcano has erupted in my room.

Always will

In hidden crevices,

Never not

And broken cracks,

It is 2015.

In The

My hands blister

It is depicted through glass walls

And perk like pimples

In drunken man’s drink

on picture day morning.

Inscriptions on man’s back end

Vomited tear-stained screams

Laughed at on soundtracks.

Burnt flesh

The scent of burnt flesh Like a pig’s lips My lips meet.

So wrong.

soft carpet Years old and clothing strewn floor

Floor Boards

A ruined room.

Of girl’s screams.

Behind white-picket fences

John’s Groans.

A girl is ruined

Of girl’s screams.

Ruined room

Of A girl’s dreams.

Running pink.

Of A girl’s body Turnt to meat.

Mourning Discoveries Mary McDonald

FADE IN: INT. HALLWAY-MORNING A long hallway, mostly dark, stretches with two doors to break the flat expanse of blue flowered wallpaper. The carpet is awash with yellow light. LILY enters through the door to the left, her dress askew and hair messy from its original style.

She is smiling faintly, although she it is evident that she is trying to be quiet by the way she tiptoes into the hall and eases the door shut softly. She heads towards the door to the right along the same wall, but something catches her eye out of the audience’s viewpoint. Slowly, she approaches the source of the light, which is revealed to be coming from a window in a room across the hall. LILY steps through the open door.

LILY Daisy?

The room LILY is looking into is vacant, the light from a streetlamp outside breaking through the sheer curtains draped across the window. The bed, a Queen size, is made neatly. The clock’s hands read 4:47.

LILY (CON’T) W… what?

(She turns back to the hall, confused.)

LILY (CON’T) They can’t have disappeared.

LILY begins to walk down the hall. The only sound is that of her FINGERNAIL, SCRAPING against the cheap wallpaper.

LILY (CON’T) Daisy? Kyle? Where… (breath) Where could you have gone?

LILY rounds the corner and into the living room. Against one wall, partially obscuring the archway into the kitchen, three easels reside. There are paintings rested on each of them, a wide range of psychedelic colors splashed across the canvases. In one corner is a television, its blank grey screen reflecting the rest of the room back with a twisted image.

Against the back wall, about one foot from where LILY is standing, a couch and a worn leather recliner sit, as though ready to accept occupants at any time. LILY observes the room, scanning across the television for a moment. Her reflection stares back at her until she looks away, settling on the partially obscured archway between the easels.

LILY Daisy? Kyle? What’re you doing up so late?

LILY makes her way around the easels and into the kitchen. As she does so, it becomes evident that the light on the left side of the kitchen is out completely, leaving half of the room in darkness. Resting in the patch of light to the right, barely in sight through the archway, is a pair of boots, the dirt encrusted toes pointed at the ceiling.

LILY (CON’T) Kyle? Is that you?

(She enters the kitchen) LILY (CON’T) You can’t go disappearing on— She stops abruptly, hand flying to her mouth. On the floor is KYLE, his face lax and his eyes open and glassy. His dark blue workman’s uniform is torn in multiple places and is saturated with blood. A few feet away, near the wooden kitchen cabinet, is a bloody knife.

FADE OUT

The Morning Mina Rao

4:48. I am dreaming about rats. Huge rats, lurking at every entrance of my house, closing in on me. 5:06. The shiver of their fur against my skin. 5:13. The scratching of their nails on my forearms. 5:22. A lingering slither of a tail, imprinted on my flesh. I’m no Freud, but I’ve noticed that I always dream about rats when I’m stressed out. It could be any day from Monday through Friday, September through June. The first thing that comes to mind at 6:30 in the morning is usually the high-pitched squeak of vermin, or the lingering feeling of fur on flesh.

But before they can pile up on me, they mysteriously die. I am able to step over their bodies, seemingly smaller, to climb staircases or just leave the house. The rats start to fade, and a transition into the names, faces and facts of reality begins as my brain ascents into a murky stream of consciousness. A failing grade on a test, a missing homework assignment, the terrifyingly realism of my semi-dream snowballs to its near-breaking point. Then, a terse yet gratifying ending, the nonsensical resolution in which something pleasant is able to be worked out. I roll over in bed and grasp my cellphone to check the time. 5:28. My head hurts in a way that cannibalizes any other thoughts. There is nothing beautiful or eye-opening about it. It reduces me to a scared child, looking for something, anything to bring about an end to the pain, both physical and mental. It’s okay, I tell myself, go back to sleep. But I can’t and don’t want to go back to a state of dreaming, so instead I focus on letting my muscles relax, uncoiling the tension like air escaping from a balloon.

First the toes, then ankles, calves, thighs, stomach, arms, and neck. The brain however, won’t rest as it transitions from realistic dreams to conscious thoughts. Crap, I have that test today. And I need to study for the Latin quiz. And do the homework. 6:23. There’s no point in prolonging the inevitable. But there’s no solace in getting up and living through this day. Breathe in, breathe in, breathe in. Let every pleasurable thought soak through, somehow let the feeling of happiness penetrate the feeling of anxiety. Stop. Lungs filled with air, I collect good feelings for later usage, then release them with my breath.

Monotony. The doing for the sake of doing, highlighted in every tug of the brush through my knotted hair and every stroke of bristles on my teeth. I’m half-aware that what I’m doing is real, half impersonating the smirking puppet-master, amused by the underdeveloped creature who struggles to squeeze the perfect amount of toothpaste onto the brush. He looks down at me and thinks I am nothing more than a windup doll. Twist the knob, she performs the motions.

6:37. I take slow and deliberate sips of my tea. This may be the best part of my day, I think.

The notion is instantly rejected by the governing bodies of my brain. It can’t be! You are a creature of higher thinking. The best moments of your day will be grasped not by gratifying the body, but the mind. I finish my tea. Perhaps this is true, and, at any rate, at this time of day it is easy to believe.

6:48. A final touch to the morning. I insert the earbuds attached to my phone, trying to hang on to some sort of comfort. Comfort songs are those of Ed Sheeran, Troye Sivan, and Mumford & Sons.

Soft melodies about love and steadiness. Storage for later.

6:54. As I’m about to leave for school, I ponder whether to drive or take my bike. I’m tired and will risk being late for my first class. But I’m trying to cut down my carbon footprint, and want to stay healthy. I opt for the bike. It will be harder, but at least I can acknowledge that I tried.

7:00. I think the puppet-master is real. Only he’s not smirking. He is glaring at me, willing each of my actions until he has some good material to work with at 4:48 tomorrow morning. Just storage for later.

Jessica Steves Attempting to avoid my family in the early morning has made me a crepuscular creature, one who comes alive when the sun is weak but neither dead nor yet unborn. In the glorious realm of Room 301, I have so far always been the first person to wake up. (Maggie waking up at half past four to check her ACT scores doesn’t count). There’s an iPod under my pillow, since the beloved roommate who sleeps below me likes to stay awake past midnight on her chromebook-looking thing and the noise of the keyboard prevents me from sleeping, but I have no use for it now. This is the quietest Room 301 will ever be when anyone is awake.

Time slows, or stops, or races—I don’t know. When you drift on that indefinite edge between sleeping and waking, everything turns fuzzy and stops making sense. My eyesight is too poor to be able to make out numbers or hands on a clock without my glasses, which are on the desk that I do not want to climb down to, so when I’m cognizant enough I measure the passage of the hours (gotta be ready to go by eight o’clock) by the light on the wall that shines in through the shades that cover the window.

The light is grey at first, and then becomes a very pale, delicate yellow that I associate with the word “taffeta” for reasons known only to my subconscious, and then strengthens steadily with the dawn. The changing angle of the sun makes the light slide on the wall, looking like the pooling blood of some mythical, golden creature, and it’s slow enough that I can keep up with its progress without coming truly awake.

My room in Dew dormitory is arranged in such a way that it’s actually three interconnected rooms, with two occupants each, which makes a total of six of us. Fortunately, we immediately hit it off and became great friends (bonded by our common obsession, no doubt). We have a communal snack shelf, argue loudly about whether or not swearwords are valid in Bananagrams, and—to demonstrate the true measure of our camaraderie—I ended up sharing my toothbrush on the first night.

Among the merry band of idiots in Room 301, I am the person to have the privilege of sleeping on the top bunk of the only bunk-bed, which is actually somewhat terrifying because there’s no bar on the bottom edge of the frame that sticks out beyond the mattress, and I keep thinking that there is one (ah, childhood muscle memory) and keep trying to step down on it when I want to get out of bed. My foot goes into empty space and oh my God, I don’t need coffee to become very awake very quickly. My terrifying bunk-bed is located in the central room with the door to the hallway, which has been fittingly dubbed “the no-privacy room”—anyone who wants to go to the bathroom or visit someone else’s room has to go through my and my roommate’s space.

So in my drifting time as I watch the light change and let my thoughts wander hither and yon, I am the person who knows all of my roommates’ shower habits. Olivia, Sophia, and me take showers in the evening, and Dominique, Caitlyn, and Maggie shower in the morning. They try to be quiet and are actually quite successful (God bless their conscientious souls), but I know when they leave to go down the hall to the bathroom.

I’m worried that they find me creepy, just lying there in bed, very still, and when they glance at the bunk-bed that Sophia and I occupy they just see this pair of eyes looking at them… that’d be creepy. I try to smile and give a little wave, even though I can’t see their faces clearly, which hopefully makes it a little better.

So yeah. Mornings in the dorm. Pretty rad, ain’t they?

Twin Sister Maggie Russo

I grew up with a twin sister—not that we’re twins in the literal sense, but sister simply seems too small a word to describe the scope of our relationship. I may be older, but it feels like I didn’t really exist for that year and a half before she was born. So many of my memories are with her, and the idea of Maggie without Jenna is as foreign to me as the thought of breathing underwater.

Our parents always tell us that before Jenna could speak, she would, like most babies, grunt and whine instead, and I was the only one who could understand what she wanted. We have retained this deep understanding; I know, when I see an article, or a book, or something in the store, what she will think of it—if she will be excited, nervous, or angry; joyful, sad, or amused. At dinner we speak through glances, eye rolls, hidden smiles, and raised eyebrows—no words are necessary.

When we were young, we shared a bedroom until our family moved, and even after that we’d have sleepovers in each other’s rooms because spending all day together just wasn’t enough.

There was this game we’d play, as we sat in the dark waiting for sleep to overcome our will to stay awake. I can’t remember now what we called it, but the premise was simple: hum the tune of a song—neither of us could whistle—while the other tried to guess the title. We would go through every song we knew, until our minds were so exhausted that all we could think of was “Jingle Bells.”

Although we eventually reached the age where we had tired of sleepovers and guessing songs, we never really moved out of each other’s rooms. When I get home late and have a story to tell or something funny to show her, I don’t hesitate to stop by her room before I get ready for bed, because sometimes things don’t seem real until I’ve told her. When she’s up late and wants to talk or just finished a book, she bursts into my room and stays for hours while we whisper back and forth.

This proximity is not just comforting; it has become a part of me, like breathing or blinking—something I feel incomplete and untethered without. Last year when she went to camp for a week we texted every day, and this year we have done the same while I have been away. It scares me that in only one year, we will no longer be across the hall from one another but in different states, halfway across the country.

I like to joke that when I leave for college, I will miss our dogs the most. The truth is that I will most miss my sister, who, by some colossal mistake, was born a year and a half late, instead of as my twin sister.

Tesselating Olivia Vande Woude I own a triangular mole and chipped nails Sometimes rip the wrappers of straws into neat pieces.

Watch red ants illuminated by the Sun caress my leather sandals and explore my locks streaked gold by angels in the womb.

By habit, I thumb St. Christopher’s caricature hanging round my neck and when you wear yours, I wear mine.

Observe the swallows above exchange glances at noon and wonder if they notice when the clouds move fast.

Pass swaths of cork inhabited by thumb tacks in shapes of broken hearts and search hexagons on the bathroom floor or maybe octagons, I’ll have to count their sides sometime.

Stare at them as they stare at me, dizzying abundance, tile edges their fates solidified unsurprising, harried by dirt and wine stalls with doors abused by projectile profanity.

All this my unblue eyes see and veiny palms sense only to someday erupt into detritus nothingness.

Sweet Caroline

Alcoholism Destroys Families Maddie Albro

THALIA sits in a chair in what appears to be a kitchen. A steaming cup of coffee sits in front of her. She looks around to make sure no one is watching and then pulls out a bottle of rum, pouring it into her coffee. Another woman, LESLIE, enters and drops her newspaper when she sees what THALIA is doing.

LESLIE How’s your coffee this morning, dear?

THALIA splutters, putting the rum under the table, knowing LESLIE has already seen it.

THALIA It was a little weak, but a little sugar always helps that out.

LESLIE Really? Well you don’t want to get diabetes, now do you?

THALIA Not particularly, darling.

LESLIE You should probably use less sugar then, sugar.

THALIA I’ll definitely keep that in mind next time the coffee’s too weak. (tense pause) What’s the headline today?

LESLIE Oh nothing new, just more people rioting about the Trolley-builders downtown.

THALIA They’re just doing their job, people! Leave ‘em alone!

LESLIE Well I think they’re right to protest – maybe not riot – but the Trolley workers need to take responsibility for their destruction of families.

THALIA Destruction? Who’s destroying families?

LESLIE You are! You’re destroying this family – our family!

Leslie takes the rum bottle from under the table and storms from the room, tears flying from her eyes.

The Object Caroline Wendzel

It sits. Watching. I don’t look at it as I walk by, and I try not to think about it.

I brush my teeth with exaggerated slowness; I scrape every tooth in my mouth with meticulous delicacy in order to push off the inevitable.

I scrub my face with makeup remover – rinse. A “gentle cleanser”- rinse. An exfoliator – rinse.

But no matter how many times I rinse and repeat, I can’t wash away the fate that awaits me.

I steel my shoulders. I flip my hair off my neck. And at long last, I march into the bedroom.

It is still staring at me, despite its lack of eyes. Lurking. Taunting.

I want to run away, but in my heart, I know my fate is sealed. My teeth wanted to grow, and no amount of rubber band ropes or barbed wire braces could restrain them. For my own protection, I have to resign myself to greater shackles.

As I edge the case from its perch, its innards clatter menacingly, like steel mouse traps. I carefully pry the case open – And there it sits. It could be a miniature frozen waterfall, flowing and half-translucent, its surface a hazy glass glittering with thousands of rainbow colored specks. The thin band of silver traveling halfway along its apex could be a guardrail, preventing curious travelers from venturing too close and plummeting to their deaths. But I know if I turn it on its back, its belly will reveal its true nature - that thin band is not a guardrail keeping something out, but a wall keeping something in – my front teeth, to be exact, forced to their “normal” position. I rage at this.

What if my teeth don’t want to be normal? I ask the ceiling. What if they want to be unique? What do you have to say about that, Mr. Orthodontist? Who are you to curb someone’s rights? Are you God? But the Orthodontist doesn’t answer me. He is probably at home, all snug in his bed, fast asleep…blissfully unaware of the horror he has inflicted on me.

I will be sure to tell him the next time I see him, but for now, I must submit to my slavery.

So, with a wince, I close the case, slide the retainer into my mouth, and begin my prison sentence.

Everlasting Light Olivia Wann

The thunder rumbled loudly, echoing off of the stone walls in her bedchamber. Joanna got up from her plush seat, Maudie's unfinished braid unravelling in the process.

Joanna heard the old handmaid huff loudly as she drew the curtains back from the single large window. Maudie always hated when Joanna allowed her mind to wander.

The clouds were a dark, almost black color. Their appearance made Joanna feel as if the once blue afternoon sky had abruptly changed to midnight. A bolt of lightning flashed across the inky darkness, the contrast between the two made the illumination seem almost unbearably bright.

Another boom of thunder rolled across the sky immediately after.

Her husband, James hated thunderstorms, and this was a big one. “Storms make the peasants complain more. They always want more food, more time to finish their work, and more sympathy. I hate it. I hate them.� he remarked only three days after they were married.

As Joanna haphazardly closed the curtain, Maudie attempted to get her to return to her abandoned chair, but Joanna's mind was occupied with things far more important than re-braiding her hair.

It was the spine of the book that caught her attention, the flame of the few lit candles in her room made the gilded binding glint and made her attempts of hiding it seem futile.

A part of her wanted to put the book in plain sight. She wanted to see it, because seeing it reminded her of him. Seeing it made her think of the book's beautiful pictures in a vast range of colors, the neatly written words on the crisp pages, and the smell of the freshly tanned leather.

Seeing it reminded her of the trouble someone went through to bring a smile to her face.

Seeing it reminded her that someone truly loved her.

After she married James, she felt that no one would ever truly love her again, save her family and Maudie, but that love was the obligatory kind, and she craved voluntary love.

It didn't even matter that the someone who expressed his voluntary love to her was her brother-in-law.

Simply Paradoxical Caitlin Matthews

You put your arm around my waist In the bathroom mirror and You said we were a painting and You said my hips were Venus You took me in the shower and you said We’re going somewhere So you blasted the cold water and then We ended up in space You told me “close your eyes” And then we closed our eyes together and You said “just trust me darling” We’ve got nothing left to waste And then we looked up at the ceiling and We saw the Little Dipper and It whispered a little story About how it spends its days It told us that it watches Everything it lays its eyes on and It told us that it saw us on That Tuesday in the morning when You told me that you loved me and We drove to the convenience store And bought band aids It told us that it saw me when I drove through heavy thunderstorm to Be inside your room with you Watching 60 minutes and Talking about the existence of a God

We said thank you for remembering what Others have forgotten and Thank you for being wonderful Up in this void of space We kissed each other on the lips and Gave a big ‘ole wave To the Little Dipper and Then we were on our way You asked me how I liked this trip Through the constellations and I said so far I am grateful for The things I’ve seen today We used our imagination to Create a bridge of broken things Between the Little Dipper and That ex-planet everyone seems to hate We walked across the bridge and then We ended up on Pluto and It really was surprising that We got here from my shower and Survived on our residual breathing patterns We discovered that Pluto is entirely made of All the things that we’ve forgotten And all the things we’ve loved and brought upon ourselves Up to this very day And then suddenly we stood together Soaking wet in the shower And the water had shut off because You forgot to pay the bill

the window on my side nan marsh

the broken door of your father’s old car, the cups from our take-outs pile up, the window on my side has footprints on the windshield, our blanket under the seat for when we’ve driven too much your box of childhood things, i sometimes wonder if i’ll make it in collection of teeth from when you used to be into dinosaurs the indigo bracelet i left in your room, inside your pocket and under your clothes, i’ve seen it hide beneath your thumbs but you never try to let it go your box of childhood things, i sometimes wonder if i’ll make it in collection of teeth from when you used to be into dinosaurs two months till september first, two months till september, two months then there’s no more your box of childhood things, i know i’ll wonder if i made it in

Avery Samuels Here are the rules: if you are still alive after ten days, you can go free. However, first you must make it through ten days with no food and a gun staring you in the face, giving you a way out at any time, if you choose. Each person is given three sips of water each day, but no more. The logic is that if you’re able to survive immurement for ten days then you’ve suffered enough to redeem your crimes.

I have never seen the cell before today, but now I understand why some choose the gun right away rather than try to wait it out. It’s a cement block, the only piece of furniture being a small wooden table on top of which is a gun and a cup, which is filled every morning. It’s full right now. There is also a hole of potentially infinite depth in the corner for the prisoner to piss and shit into. Diana is staring at the cup of water but she isn’t going to drink it until she’s really thirsty. I don’t know when that’ll be. I know what else she’s thinking, too, not because we’re twins but because I imagine it’s what everyone thinks upon entering the cell: there’s no bed. The only thing to focus on is the window, through which we can see one another, but I figure they’ll cover it up as soon as I’m gone.

Slowly, Diana, wide eyed, walks back to me at the window and presses her hand against the glass. Her head has been shaved (prisoners have tried to eat their hair, which is cheating) and she is naked (a prisoner had once tried to eat their clothes, which is also cheating).

“I’m gonna try to do it,” she tells me. Her eyes are determined. “I’m gonna try.”

The next day I return and I bring our mother, who presses her palms against the window and leans her forehead against the glass. Diana already looks worse than she did yesterday; her face seems yellow in the light. She is slow to walk over to us.

“Why did you have to kill him,” Mother whispers.

Diana doesn’t answer.

I come by myself for the next few days. Each day, Diana looks worse and worse but she remains coherent, if clearly fatigued. I worry about her. I’ve heard rumors that the prison guards like to whisper horrible things to the prisoners, to make them suffer more, but whenever I ask Diana about it she avoids the question. Then one day I come up to the glass and she meets me there, flattening her face against the window.

“Please,” she begs, “give me food.”

I tell her I don’t have any. She doesn’t believe me and begins to cry, accusing me of keeping food from her.

Of torturing her. It’s day four.

The next day, when I come by, she seems eerily calm.

“It’s not so bad today,” she explains. “The hunger.”

She also apologizes for her words yesterday but already I see less of Diana in this person, this calm person who is starving to death. My sister used to be giggly and light. I notice that the gun has moved from its usual place on the desk to the corner where I assume Diana sleeps.

On day seven, I see that the window has scuff marks on it. The desk has been dismantled––smashed would probably be a more accurate term. Diana has probably tried to break out of the cell with one of the legs.

Maybe she also tried to eat it, but I doubt that, seeing as none of the guards have removed the broken pieces.

She’s in the corner right now, and its like she doesn’t see me. She’s muttering to herself. I can’t make out what she’s saying. She won’t respond when I call to her.

As I go to leave, she suddenly stands up and walks to the center of the room. She places both hands flat on her temples, eyes bugging out of her skull, and starts screaming. “Evil! Evil! Evil! Evil!”

That night, I sit straight up in bed with a pounding headache. I guess some part of me sensed what had happened, because a few minutes later I receive a phone call from the prison where Diana is being kept. She has shot herself. It is 12:17 in the morning of day eight.

Inspired by “Even Flow” Erin Riley

Everyday, he lived to survive, though he couldn’t remember why survival was so important.

Sleep came whenever it wanted to and left without a goodbye, no promise of return. He would sit where he could and watch the clouds go by in the sky with a disconnected sort of amusement.

Sometimes he would watch the people go by as well. Thoughts flew into his head as if on the wings of butterflies—the little girl with the pigtails probably had a dog, the man in overalls was a widower—and just as quickly as they came, if he tried to catch them, they’d fly away and leave his mind empty.

He had forgotten his own name years ago.

But he called himself Starbuck after the coffee cup he carried around with him. He had found it one day in the park, rolling to and fro across the brick pavement as if to get his specific attention. Picking it up, he saw two names on the cup; one was Starbucks, the other, written sloppily in dark marker, Lola. He realized that the cup, Lola, was calling to him. His name must be Starbuck.

Lola was there to save him—to be his companion.

Lola was the only thing he could remember.

Lola was the only thing that seemed to like him either. He couldn’t understand why, no matter what he did or didn’t do, his presence made so many people uncomfortable. He would sit against the brick walls of buildings, wrapped in his tattered wool blanket with his cardboard sign in hand: NEED MONEY. PLEES HELP. GOD BLES. Though the occasional kind soul would hesitantly approach him, drop a few coins into Lola, and walk away without responding to his thanks, most people went out of their way to steer clear of him. Mothers would hug their children to their sides and cross the street, while businessmen and women would try to look the other way.

Babies stared at him, they’re little mouths turning to frowns. The teenagers treated him like he was merely a shadow.

And so he’d end the day by migrating to the nearest convenience store, where he’d pour the coins from Lola into his hands and ask the clerk on duty to count the money for him. He usually walked out with a drink of some sort and boxed pastries. On a good day, he could afford a hot meal from McDonald’s, though his options were limited, considering that he’d lost three of his front teeth ages ago.

That night, Starbuck sat on the steps of an old church, turning Lola’s tattered form over and over between his stubby fingers. He sang softly to himself, the tune changing often as one butterflylike memory would leave and another would reappear. Rain fell gently, soaking into his goodwill sneakers and drenching his socks. It made the air smell fresh and made him feel cleaner. The street lights’ fuzzy reflections in the puddles looked like small glowing oceans. The thought that it was beautiful popped into his head, but when he tried to remember beauty, his mind turned white.

Excerpt from Friends of Friends Lois Chen We walk silently along the path to the Woods behind the empty school parking lot. The only sounds we can hear are the crunching of dead leaves beneath our feet. Cal breaks the silence; She starts answering my questions before I even asked them. No, she wasn’t with Hex anymore. They broke up a couple months after because she caught him fooling around with one of his co-workers girlfriends one day at the shop. She’d gotten into more relationships after that. One of them was with an older guy, he wasn’t the prettiest but he had money and bought her new clothes, shoes, and jewelry. This guy told Cal that he was gonna leave his wife so that they could be together, but he kept putting it off and she didn’t want to be an old woman when he finally did, so she broke it off with him. Then came the artist she met at the grocery store she worked at. He would invite her over and she let him paint her, then they’d drink bad tequila and smoke cigarettes all night. But he ended up being bad, too, she says. Just like the others.

We reach the Woods and take a seat on the hood of an abandoned red truck. Finally, I tell her that I missed her. I tell her that I’m just glad she’s back. Up above us the sky is as bright as my hopes. In my mind, I think: we could run away. We could finally drive to San Francisco or Los Angeles and find a place there with the money I saved. It was enough to get us started. We could marry. I could work like Hex. I could spoil her like the older guy. I could have fun with her like the artist, all without hurting her. We could start our lives fresh.

I take her hands and she doesn’t pull them away. We stare at each other’s souls.

Cal, I need to tell you something.

I need to say something too, she says.

I grasp her hands tighter. O.K. You go first.

Last year, I started having these coughing fits. They got so bad I had to go get checked and-Cal lets go of my hands. Chris, I’m sick. They told me it’s real serious.

When I hear that, I’m thrown back into reality.

I don’t know how much time I got. I came back because I wanted to see you before— And I take off running. She screams after me, Chris! but I run and run and run till I don’t know where I am anymore. Then I crumble to the ground.

I stay in the house for months. I quit my job at the café. When Cal rings at my door, my father opens it and tells her I left home and didn’t say where to. She says she doesn’t believe him and even tries to push past him into the house once. He threatens to get a restraining order and she leaves. Even the back of her head looks sad. I watch her leave dejected everyday, and everyday she looks worse. A week passes and she hasn’t come to ring my doorbell once. I put on a jacket even though it’s sunny and 75 degrees out, and take a walk through the city. I enter a tall building and go up to the front desk.

I’m looking for a patient. Callahan Paz. The woman behind the desk tells me that she shouldn’t have visitors right now, and I say that I’m the only visitor she is going to have. The woman looks at me and nods: 4th Floor, Room 109.

I am standing next to Callie and there isn’t one flower or Get Well Soon card in sight. She’s got so many tubes in her that her face is barely visible. I didn’t know she could look any weaker, but there she lay like a small child barely taking up half the size of the bed. I sit next to Callie and take her hands in mine.

Only this time, she doesn’t let go.

Elevator

Christina McBride She wheels in. Her chair takes up half of the space. The door is closing.

“Hold it! Hold it hold it hold it!” A man calls, rushing in with a stack of papers in one hand and the other filled with an orange and a granola bar, his water bottle tucked between his side and his elbow, and a sandwich held between his chin and chest. He’s bald with olive skin and deep wrinkles in his forehead, suggesting his emotional lifetime is twice that of his physical one. She quickly leans forward to press the “door open” button, forgetting her brakes aren’t on, and the force of her reach sends her chair to the wall, crashing just as he sticks a foot in. Hair in her face, she doesn’t notice the folder holding her application scattering forward, very important seeing as she’d be late already – and she emailed late, and had to reschedule. She’d lie and say it was a doctor’s appointment.

The space is limited. Cramped. Maybe one and a half linebackers could fit in here. Six National Spelling Bee participants. Eight Pomeranians. Actually, nine. But the maximum capacity is five humans.

“I’m so so so sorry, I-I uh, are you okay?” There are beads of sweat on his forehead and he’s pinning his elbows inward, trying to hide his pit stains. He lifts a leg to press his foot into fourth floor button before he realizes the girl already has. Quickly, he retracts the leg, with an embarrassed look on his face, as if his previous action offended her, like he was bragging for having full use of his body.

“I’m fine,” she looks up at him, something she hates having to do with everyone, and ties her hair back, all of a sudden feeling the heat he brought with him. She notices his arms, straining with the cumbersome load, are popping with veins. This is a rare occurrence as his veins are set deep into his skin, problematic when blood is taken; which has only happened recently, when his mom said he should give blood since her friend-from-knitting-class’s hairdresser’s niece was just diagnosed with leukemia, and isn’t that a shame, more people should donate blood – of course she can’t, on account of her being old and fragile and completely unwilling – what a shame it is, really.

He continues to sweat through his button down and probably his slacks, too. She notices his shoes are black and his belt is brown. What a hurry he must’ve been in.

Her own outfit is off-putting, not completely tied together, a teenager dressing as a working adult, made up of old church clothes that don’t fit just right, a parent’s button down, the least ragged shoes found in the back of a closet. An internship interview at 11:30. Business casual. It’s 11:27.

They creep up to the second floor. 11:28. The girl checks the watch her dad lent her and would tap her foot if she could. The motion draws the man’s attention as he notices her short, neon pink fingernails, as if she uses them like bikers use reflective vests. Parts of her wheelchair are decorated in other nail polish art, swirls and stripes, a broken heart, the Hamsa hand, all scattered about in places she can reach.

They passed the third floor when he was thinking about her traffic safety compared to that of cyclists, and the doors are opening to the fourth. Stepping into the corner to create more room, he lets the girl pass into the hallway before realizing she dropped something important – he thinks so, since it’s in a manila folder. “Wait!” The man calls, releasing his food and papers, sending everything flying. She swivels herself around and wonders why she’s wasting more time. He finds the folder underneath his own mess and runs it out to her, placing it onto her lap and quickly moving back to the elevator to ensure it won’t take his belongings back down to the lobby. She thanks him.

HANEL No. 9

Dragon Train Emma Patterson

Shimmering like translucent fire, it wreathes through the countryside.

Gargantuan Unfrictioned Streamlined It puffs black smoke to mingle with rain-spewing clouds overhead.

Never a collared puppy; a savage canine racing over land and water.

Blink and it’s gone in a haze of magnetic gold speed.

Samantha Moguel

EXT. ROOFTOP ELLIE (teenager, short hair and sad eyes) is sitting alone staring off into the sky. KELLY( her older sister. Longer hair, nervous demeanor) comes up, hesitates, then sits next to her.

ELLIE you came back.

KELLY I can’t stay ELLIE You never can.

KELLY Its not because I don’tELLIE You keep leaving for a reason.

KELLY I care about you, you’re my little sister for Christ’s sake ELLIE Then why? You keep leaving and then coming back, and saying you care, then you leave again. If you cared you’d stay or at least explain whatsKELLY You wouldn’t understand ELLIE I think I do. You keep leaving because he says you have to.

KELLY Leave him out of this!

ELLIE I will when he leaves you alone!

Late Night Driving Miranda Xie

The best time to drive is when the sleep is in the back of your eyes because the sky is still dark, and the streets are still black, and the words still echo in the back of your head.

The best time to live is when the car lights line your eyesight, and shadows hide in the dark and the only thing you can see are the stars above your head and the ground below your feet.

In the essence of continuity, the ground only feels further away, and the horizon keeps coming closer, and closer.

For the only way to chase the stars, is to find a way to leave the sun.

The best time to cry is when the only ones who’ll hear you are the owls in the tree and the dancers in the constellation.

When the people from before only remember you by your distant wailing, and they say they’ll miss you, but you can’t say you’ll miss them back because how could you miss heartache and headaches and the aching in the back of your neck that only throbs to the rhythm of their heartbeat and all of a sudden, you think you can’t let go and that is when driving seems the only way to leave.

You Are

McKenna Martin

You are the sunrise and sunset And every beautiful ray that erupts in-between You are the glittering light that warms my skin And kisses my cheeks until they become crimson You are golden and dazzling And you gleam so vivid I have to look away You are the sky and the earth And all the life that exists loudly in-between You are blossoms blooming that are compelling And make the ground an alluring dwelling You are captivating yet intoxicating And your care is a contagious bliss You are twilight and midnight And the fluorescent moon the radiates in-between You are the one who controls my ocean And floats in my ever changing emotions You are considerate and compassionate And continue to keep me in my high tide You are passion and rapture And every positive vibration in-between You are the reason a delightful laughter escapes my lips And is there when I feel the loneliness seeping in my fingertips You are the smile in my expression And my moment of clarity

Woman With a Parasol Anna McLean

The grasses sing in the light springtime air as she makes her way through the field alive with approaching summer. Wildflowers catching lightly on her dress as if begging her to stay, to stay and sit among their sweet scent, to stay and let her dragging petticoats lay out about her legs like warm blankets in the sun, like a pillowy bed stuffed with sweet grass. Or better yet- shed them. Shed the tiresome trailing layers and let the warm breeze spill like warm water over her body, trailing like soft fingers over her sweaty skin, baked with heat in her corset. The day calls her to let the breeze capture her parasol and let it fly among the pure white clouds that streak the sky like tufts of cotton.

She wants to let the sun spill on her face and turn rosy her pale cheeks. The urge almost overwhelms her. She starts to loosen the buttons on her coat and holds her parasol up to the sun. The warmth just barely grazes her forehead. She almost laughs, she wants to dance. She wants to be a girl again.

But the little boy is calling; his hat has fallen in the mud. He finds her on her on the wild flower hill and tugs at her thick skirts with dirty hands, whining softly about reed filled river beds and how the hat his mother forced on his head, the straw one with the red ribbon, is probably half way down the stream by now; the water scooped up it before he could grab it out of the mud, you see. Of course, he probably threw it in there; he didn’t want to wear it in the first place. She looks down at her charge with a sigh before taking his hand. Shifting her umbrella to her shoulder, she starts towards the forest, new leaves on the trees, from which the steady of trickle of water can be heard. Her skirt sweeps behind her, and the flowers let her go.

Rubies

Savannah Hanley Print out a picture of 3D flowers and place them in her hands.

Hoping she knows he doesn’t have an eight bedroom house and hope she understands That he can’t Shower her with hundreds Or pull rubies from his veins But he’ll treat her like the stars and love her just the same He can’t make Diamonds from his eyes Or cry her tears of gold but he will treat her like the summer and never grow old.

Wishing he could afford the best but he knows it’s unreal.

He hopes she sees it’s not what he gives her that shows how he feels.

So he buys her a plastic ring, from one of those quarter machines And hopes she says yes even though he can’t Shower her with hundreds Or pull rubies from his veins But he’ll treat her like the stars and love her just the same He can’t make Diamonds from his eyes Or cry her tears of gold but he will treat her like the summer and never grow old.

He hopes she says yes She said…

Elliot Van Noy I am five years old cozied up in the back of my parents’ silver Volkswagen with stuffed animals named Sugar or Chocolate or other diabetes causing foods. The sky is dark and my face presses up against the foggy cold glass peering out at a highway landscape flying by. My fingers are sticky from lollipops I shouldn’t have been eating. My stockings light pink and my Mary Janes red and no Mommy they don’t clash. My parents chat quietly to make sure we don’t wake up but I never sleep. Car rides excite me. The Rolling Stone’s Wild Horses plays softly. Mommy’s eyes fix on mine in the mirror. “Sleep Buddha. Sleep.” But I am restless.

I am seven years old spinning in my bright blue kitchen in my bright blue dress with bright yellow dragonflies; skirt flying out in front. I hold my kitten in my small hands and insist she likes spinning as much as I do and the scratches are just love scratches. I have just seen The Lion King and Muffin is Simba and she, my itty bitty calico kitten, will be king one day. Bob Marley croons on on the stereo and tells me not to cry. I do not like crying and decide to trust Bob Marley and his chorus of beautiful singers.

I am thirteen years old and a boy is talking to my friend. I feel lonely and I shift my feet and adjust the floral dress to seem occupied. The boy is beautiful and reminds me of an old Hollywood star like Marlon Brando. I think about writing a book called Biography of the Ignored. The boy is talking about Eric Clapton and my friend pretends to know who Eric Clapton is. I believe this boy is the kind of boy who would play Wonderful Tonight to me. No boy has ever played a song for me and I look at myself in the mirror and wonder why. It’s because I have braces. It’s because my eyebrows are bushy and awkward and untameable. It’s because my cheeks resemble those of a small child. I look for my friend and I find her moving her body against the beautiful boy’s to the beat of the music. I sit and cover my face. I don’t want to be here.

I am fourteen years old and staring at the ceiling and thinking about the boy whose eyes scream seduction. I am thinking about the smell of his skin and coverture of his neck. I am thinking about the taste of another girl’s lip gloss on his lips. Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd plays on my computer and I want to cry, but I promised Bob Marley so long ago that I wouldn’t so I bite my cheek instead. I think about fish swimming in a fish bowl and the memories of summer come rushing back. His body slices through the lake water towards mine until strong arms grab my the curve of my waist from behind. I think of freckles. I think of laughing til my chest hurt similarly to the way it hurts now. Because I thought we had forever and longer when you laid your head on my lap. Because you kissed her. Because there wasn’t regret in your voice.

I am fifteen years old and crying and loving it. Tears run down my face into my mouth and I taste salt and scream a noise of pure uncontrollable freedom. I am crying for eight year old me and ten year old me. I am crying for eleven, twelve, and thirteen year old me. I’m especially crying for fourteen year old me and her broken heart that fell for a boy who never caught it. I am listening to American Girl and smiling and sticking my head out the window and singing along to Tom Petty. The clock reads 12:43 AM and I look in the mirror, and see five year old me looking back, and I smile.

‘Don’t sleep’ I mouth to her. ‘You’ll love being awake too much.’

Sophie Falkenheim

The streets of the neighborhood were big enough for one person to walk through at a time, only a few inches buffer-space on either side. The cement building walls were covered in red paint and graffiti for no apparent reason. If one tilted their head straight up, they could see a strip of sky that varied in color, from gray to blue to purple, but never with stars. The stars did not grace this polluted place with their presence. People lived here. Sometimes, walking down the stone streets, one would find a person curled up in the corridors. They’d be unable to get by; after all, the streets were only shoulder length-wide.

The upper-classes called this neighborhood a slum, and perhaps that’s exactly what it was.

But the people in the neighborhood never found it to be so awful. The residents of the neighborhood counted themselves fortunate. All except Jones, who lived in one of the awful cement blocks. He had seen people come and go. Jones noted that no one had ever left to somewhere better, only gone somewhere else exactly the same.

Jones was incoherently drunk, which was generally how things went. His angry cement room resembled some sort of abandoned insane asylum. It was entirely for lack of trying. When Jones was this intoxicated he couldn’t even remember how he had arrived in this neighborhood, so he stood up to go ask someone. As he wandered through the narrow streets, he tripped twice. The first time, he landed on his arm, and his bottle did not break. The second time he was not so lucky. He swore loudly and shook the pieces of glass out of his hand. He picked himself up and staggered down until he came upon a door. The door was completely ordinary, sans the fact that it had a large slur spray painted across it in big, black letters.

Dear John Kaylee Davis

Dear John, I remember when we first met. It was the summer of 1924. You were my brother’s best friend and I was the annoying seven year old sister. You played dolls with me and I made you dress up and join my tea party. When we were older you used to come over to hang out with Josh and whenever he wasn’t there, you would stay with me because I was alone and even though you were so much older then me (two whole years) and I’m sure you had better things to do, you would keep me and my crayons company.

The first time I went on a date, you were there to see me off and to threaten the guy. You made me feel beautiful.

I remember the first time we kissed. Michael Cressler had just broken my fifteen year old heart by going to the movies with Sally and I was sobbing. You held me and told me it would be alright. I asked if you thought I was dateable, if anyone else would date me, and I blushed you laughed. You said any guy would be lucky to kiss me and hold me. I smiled and I suppose I was feeling brave because I asked if you would kiss me, so we you did. We didn’t talk for a while after that. I saw you in the halls in high school, but you were a senior and I was a sophomore.

I think the next time I really saw you was in college, we went to the same one to be close to home. My roommate set us up on a blind date and I had never been so excited surprised. We talked about life and laughed over old stories. I was happy. We continued seeing each other and I was happy. After college we got engaged and I was happy. It wasn’t until you were deployed that I was sad I was not happy. I cried into your shoulder and you held me telling me it would be alright and that when you got back in six months we would get married. You told me working in Pearl Harbor was as safe of a job you could have. We would have gotten married December 16, 1941. I had my dress and the plans were set in stone. You were scheduled to leave the ninth. When I first heard about the bombing, I cried. I knew that the chances of your survival were slim to none. The official death notification came the next day. Your name was in the newspaper, after all, out of the three or four men that were sent from our small town, only you didn't return. I cried. I didn’t leave our room until your sent was gone from everything. I cried until my eyes refused to shed liquid.

Now, in my old age, I write reflecting on our time together and all I have to say is I’ll see you on the other side.

Betty 1987

SSHHH

Anne Devlin SCENE 1 Melony and her family members, which includes her in-laws, gather at the funeral of her husband.

The mother of Melanie’s husband breaks the silence in the room.

MOTHER IN LAW It was your fault.

The mother stands up, approaching Melony.

(CON) MOTHER IN LAW (Angrily) You were probably fucking that friend of yours who killed him you whore! Why did you do it? For the money? I remember that you didn’t sign the prenup when he handed it to you, you gold digger!

Melony stands when the mother is no more than 2 feet away from her, at this time being held back from hitting Melony by the other family members.

MELONY I loved him! I’m just as upset as you are but you should at least aim your hate towards the one behind bars, not me.

MOTHER IN LAW I’d rather have that mindless man run free than you, witch.

The mother, exasperated, picks up her things and heads toward the vase of ashes.

MOTHER IN LAW Goodbye, Will. I’ll come to pick you up later. I’m sorry for creating a scene.

The broken mother exits the funeral. Melony collapses to her knees and starts to weep.

MELONY I didn’t want this to happen!

Kayla Guo ADAM sits in the middle of a couch in a living room, facing the audience. The room is clean and classy looking, a stark contrast from the image of ADAM. There is a wooden coffee table in front of him. Several opened and empty beer cans sit on the table in front of ADAM. ADAM is a young man in his late 20’s with sunken, empty looking eyes. He has a ragged and unkempt appearance. He stares ahead blankly with dead eyes and clutches a beer in his right hand. DANA is ADAM’s sister in her early-thirties with a tired face. DANA enters with an armful of groceries and a six-pack of beer in her hand. She goes to stand near ADAM. DANA: You don’t have any love in you anymore, not even for me. Nothing. That’s your problem.

ADAM: (Dryly; without looking at DANA) I love beer.

DANA: (Exhales in frustration) Get yourself together, Adam. I’m tired of having to take care of you while you waste away.

ADAM doesn’t reply but takes a sip of his beer and continues to look forward. DANA pauses, sighs, then drops the pack of beer unceremoniously onto the table in front of ADAM with a bang. She walks away from ADAM. ADAM: (Quietly) I loved her.

DANA: (Turns back around to look at ADAM) But she didn’t love you! God Adam, can’t you see that?

ADAM: (Dangerously, looking at her) You think I don’t know that? The fact that she didn’t love me, the acute awareness that she NEVER loved me lingers behind my ears every second. I don’t go one day without her crowding my thoughts, without being blinded with pain and resentment.

There is a silence as both absorb ADAM’s outburst. DANA walks towards ADAM and the couch.

DANA: You can’t let her do this to you…She made a choice. Let her do what she wants, but you need to forget about her.

ADAM: I can’t just forget about her like that! She was…the love of my life.

DANA: Well apparently not! She forgot about you when she made her choice, so you need to do the same.

ADAM: Fuck you. (Exhales) I drink so I can forget the pain of being left for another man. Can’t you understand that? Goddamn it, Dana, try and understand.

DANA: (Sighs) I just hate seeing you like this. And you’re soiling my couch.

ADAM: That’s what brothers are for, Day. Plus, you’re being annoying.

DANA: (Indignantly) I’m annoying? Seriously Adam, get yourself together.

ADAM: One day I think I will. But not today, and not tomorrow.

DANA: (Angrily) She’s not worth it! Stop drinking and forget about her.

ADAM: Dana, stop! Just let me wallow, okay? (Takes a sip and laughs bitterly) Just let me drink myself dead.

DANA looks at him with an explicit pain in her eyes. ADAM resumes his staring. He takes another sip of his beer. There is another moment of silence before DANA exits slowly and sadly.

Annabeth Stokely

I don’t think anyone knows the exact contents of my grandfather’s basement. He lives in an old building that might have once held some of the small town’s wealthy steel tycoons but has since been separated into two smaller apartments, one on each side of the house. The basement isn’t accessible inside the home; it’s one of those older cellars that have two doors sunk into the ground in the backyard.

Morgan and I sit on those stairs, swirling red popsicles around in our mouths and watching the family reunion commence around us. The day is hot and we’ve decided that chasing our younger cousins around the paths that circle the house is too much effort. I have already won the prize of a baseball cap taken from my aunt in one of our games of spy, and it sits like a crown atop my ponytail.

“This is boring,” she announces decisively, finishing her popsicle with a slurp! She sets the stick down on the pavement next to her, even though she has to know it will stick.

“Yeah,” I agree, wishing the hat wasn’t made in a such dark color. “We could… go in the basement?”

“We could hide the hats there,” she says. I nod.

After deciding that the rest of our family is too wrapped up in each other to notice the disappearance of two of its youngest members, we chatter aimlessly as we inch down the stairs that lead to the doors, trying not to look suspicious.

“If it’s locked then we can’t go in,” I say, studying the door. Its paint has started to fade and peel, but it’s discernable that it was once bright red.

“I bet Grandpa has the key,” Morgan replies, tilting her head in thought.

“Not in his pocket, though.” Our games of theft are limited to what people have on them, mostly because that’s what we’ll get in the least trouble for.

She sighs. “Got a bobby pin?”

Of course I don’t have a bobby pin. Frowning, I touch the hot metal of the doorknob next to the lock and pull. The door slides open.

“Quick!” Morgan hisses, motioning me inside. As soon as I’ve entered and she’s closed the door I realise that we’ve made a terrible mistake.

Enveloping Hugs Nik Stork

They went up to the villain. “I won’t do it if you come down to the police station,” they promised.

“Never!” the villain shouted.

The hero sighed. Should they knock the villain out or absorb them? They pressed their body into the villain. The villain screamed, once, and then it was done: they had a new mark on their arm, this one making forty, and they had the person’s voice in their head, begging to be let out. They knew it would stop soon, once the others explained.

Their phone buzzed and they took it out. They had a Tinder match. Should they ask the match out? What if they messed up? What if the person said no?

They put the phone away and promised they’d deal with it after dinner. After all, a person had to eat before making big decisions like these, right?

As they sat at Rizzo’s eating a thick slice of New York-style crust cheese pizza (they had debated internally about whether or not to pay extra for green peppers), their phone buzzed again.

They wiped their fingers and pulled it out.

Huh. The person had asked them out to coffee the next day. Should they say yes? The person was cute, short black hair and blue eyes and all. Should they not reply and let the date go by?

That might be rude. They texted a friend asking what she thought. The enthusiastic reply came, telling them to go for it! They hadn’t dated in too long, apparently.

But what if they were ridiculed again, like that one guy? Ugh, they would never date another guy like that again. Sighing, they typed out a reply, sure the response would be that they’d changed their mind.

As they sat at the a table in a purple hoodie and jeans, as promised, the other person sat across from them, giving them a bubbly smile.

“My name’s Chase,” their date informed them.

“Alex,” they replied, offering a hand and then withdrawing it. There was no way in hell this person would go for them. Chase was far too attractive to like them in any way. Outgoing, attractive, and well-off, if Chase’s watch said anything about them.

After the date, Alex mumbled something about another date.

Chase’s wide, easygoing goodbye grin had faded. “I, uh, I’m pretty busy. Sorry, I don’t know about that.” They grabbed their stuff and walked out the door of the Starbucks.

Alex stared after them for a second. Could they do this? Should they? “Wait!” they called as Chase walked away. “Can I at least have a hug?” They were too perfect to let them get away. But what if someone noticed they were missing? No one would suspect them. They were a cop.

Chase smiled again. “Yeah, sure. The date was really nice. It’s just…you’re not quite my type.”

Alex sighed. “It’s fine.” I’m sorry, they thought as they enveloped them behind the Starbucks.

Chase’s screams echoed in their head, and they readied themselves to change and head off to the station for their shift. That was forty-one.

Emma Johnson Loud laughter with quiet chirps, I’m not sure which came to my mind first.

The laughter stops, chirping rolls on. Wither head rested on a metal table. I try to pace my mind.

Eyelids flutter, like the birds.

Struggle to keep them open. Like a door. Let light in. So I can see.

The sun is hot as I focus on feeling my heartbeat throughout my fingertips into the red pen.

Talking starts again. The birds moved to a further tree. They’re chirps…muffled by distance.

If I were a bird I’d fly away, but Everyone says that I need something different.

I’d soar? No. Glide, maybe? No. I’d float.

I’d float just above the trees.

Slide across the top of the water.

Ice skate on tops of clouds.

Spiral dizzy past you, and up past your roof, and into the depths of blue. I am not a bird.

So I must stay.

Lauren Yun Tox City has a killer exotic foods shop in the very center of town. And the shop itself is lovely; open and airy, wooden planks painted a creamy white, draped in a frothy profusion of blooms; in hyacinths and carnations and droopy wisteria.

Shrubby herbs grow in window boxes, delight in the constant, decadent sunlight which pools through the door flung open wide for visitors.

And there are always visitors; tourists, cameras slung around their necks, who tramp down the cobblestone walks in search of shops like these, like flies to sugar pots of honey, who duck in to take just one quick look. And inside, they find an old man perched behind the register, cheerfully smoking a Rocky Patel cigar; can’t help but smile at the way he bobs his head along with the music box and hums the lilting sopranos of wind-up nocturnes, can’t help but wander towards his sweet, toothy smile. He hops up eagerly to show them around, points out the containers, edged in eyelet lace, of exotic cuisine, all lined up in neat rows on huge shelved walls.

“Now this stuff,” he says to them solemnly, “this stuff is the real deal, not those cheap knock-offs you can find in any old place, no sir. These are the high quality sort of products that Tox City has to offer, and imported straight from all those interesting foreign places that make them fresh, you see.”

And those wide-eyed tourists point to one they like the look of, already palming their wallets, say, “What about that one, what’s that one called?”

The old man grins. He likes this part best of all, when he says, “Well, it’s got a slightly unusual name, but you can’t help that, it being exotic and all. You’ve got a good eye, you know, it’s a big hit overseas. Would you like to try a sample?”

And they usually do.

“That Arnie,” the other guys in town say, shaking their heads. “That Arnie is a real businessman. Gets all the tourists, all the big sales, and never a bad review.”

“He deserves it,” their wives say, shaking their heads. “That poor man. Can you imagine? Lost his wife all those years ago, what a thing to go through. At least he’s got the shop.”

The men agree gruffly. “Gotta wonder what’s in that stuff he sells. Lord knows that I probably don’t have the taste for it. I’m a simple man, sweetheart, your cooking is all I need.”

And then they kiss, and nestle like Russian dolls in bed, and sleep fretfully, with jangled nerves. The next day, they pass by the shop on their way to work. They watch the old man, Arnie, water his plants and beam at the young, foreign family peeking through his window. And they continue on their way.

A tourist walks in the store. He’s charmed. He likes the voluptuous white curtains, and the lovely, tripping music, and the roses twined around a golden chandelier that drips from the ceiling, in a capped fall of long crystals.

“Hello!” an old man says. “Haven’t seen you around here before. New in town?”

“Visiting,” the tourist says. He likes this old man. “Nice shop you’ve got here. Have anything worth buying?”

The old man winks. “I’ve got just the thing.” And he reaches up on his tiptoes and pulls down a lace-edged container, offers it to the tourist. “See, I got about twenty new shipments last week, and this one’s a big seller with the customers.

So good, I hear, you’ll just about hear the angels sing.”

The tourist considers. “Huh. What it’s called?”

The old man grins. His teeth look so sharp. “That’s the thing with exotic foods, you know. The names are so odd. Like this first one, this is called aconite. Isn’t that a funny word? And this one’s strychnine. And this one’s curare, and this one’s polonium, and won’t you stay to hear the rest? Wouldn’t you like to try just one sample?”

The Recent Best 30 Minutes of my Life Jamie Han

I am writing this at 18:16 on June 22, 2015. The past two days, at camp, contain so many “recent best 30 minutes of my life” that it’s hard for me to distinguish and point out JUST one. However, a 30 minute adventure that I will always treasure with me forever, would have to be at my elective, “Summer Camp at Summer Camp” with Sarah and Annie. These two T.A.s were amazing, but you would expect only the best from those who have an Australian accent and pronounce crayons as “cray-ONS,” and with cotton-candy pink hair, respectively.

We first gathered together down at Dew Lounge where the counselors explained a bit of what was going to happen, which was making bracelets, eating s’mores, and watching the “trashion” show.

Needless to say, I knew I was going to have an interesting evening with even more interesting people. As we walked to the outdoors gazebo, conversation was slow, almost like the last of the water trickling down a faucet after you turned the knob off. What came afterward was a very entertaining and pleasant surprise--we made a campfire! Well, it was actually just a drawing of a bonfire with annotations and the word, “Hot!!” written around it. It’s the thought that counts right?

We then gathered around in a big circle where we did an ice-breaker game and split off into two groups: the friendship bracelet makers and those who wrote down a playlist. I, along with some other kids I wasn’t too familiar with, started off with making our own mixtapes. As I whipped out my music app, I began to make conversation with a girl I had never talked to before. Her name is Mattie. I picked out my favorite songs from all sorts of musicians and genres, ranging from Michael Buble to Chromeo. I wanted for whomever would receive my mixtape, to enjoy it, no matter what type of music they listened to. Afterward, I made a blue and yellow friendship bracelet, which I gave to a guy whom I met through Creative Non-Fiction.

We went back into the lounge to watch the trashion show while snacking on microwave-made smores. Our elective group really did get the whole package and as I saw the first “model” walk out, I realized that I was grateful to have gotten the chance to experience this program with others that were just as passionate about writing as I am. I knew that others in the world would love to have come to such a great camp to expand on their horizons. From where I was standing, it felt like such an honor to not only work with writing professors and amazing T.A.s, but also to make lots friends in just a short period of time. In that moment, I truly felt as if I had experienced the best 30 minutes of my life.

Laura Philion

The beer cans lie crushed flat on the train tracks.

I stare out the window of the coffee shop, curiously contemplating their existence, and, as well, their location, for there is no easily accessible way onto the train tracks—unless you want to climb two fences on my side or trudge through a forest of kudzu on the other.

Who smashed them and left them there on the tracks?

They are two cans, differently colored to indicate different type. I wonder if there were two people, each preferring a different kind to the other. Or maybe just one person, too preoccupied with their own demons to worry about what kind of beer was left in the fridge and grabbing two at random on their way to the tracks—maybe to drink away some problem, some heartbreak…

Or maybe I’m being too melodramatic—it could have been two teens, basking in the gloriousness of contraband alcohol and the delicious feeling of drunken glee, just buzzed enough to act silly and to play around and go just too far as to be breaking a different law. Maybe they live in the apartment complex across the tracks and through the kudzu. Who knows?

I sit as people come and go in a coffee shop, staring at two crushed beer cans, lying on the train tracks.

SquadE

Money

Ellie Berenson I have a lot of nicknames. People call me a “buck”, a “one,” or the most famous, a “dollar.”

First, let me tell you about myself. I am a light shade of green on my front, a sort of jade color. I am covered with a pyramid with an eye at the top, which many conspiracy theorists point at and scream “Illuminati!” There is my lovely eagle, who is holding an olive branch and arrows, for some reason, which I’m sure the humans have figured out but frankly I don’t care. There is my gray side, which I generally am ashamed of. It is all ashy and makes me look much older than I am, especially since there is a weird old man sitting there. He does not smile. He makes me sad. I used to be crisp, perfect, untarnished, but now I am crumpled and soft. I have a ketchup stain on me from three wallets ago.

I’m actually quite smart. I suppose you have to be, if you have seen a lot of the world. One time I was lost in Europe when I was traded for a Euro in the Charles-de-Gaulle airport. That was back when the Euro had more value than me. I felt very worthless at the time, but the news recently came out that I am now officially worth more than him, which makes me feel just fine about myself.

Anyway, I’m smart. I’ve seen everywhere in America. I’ve been traded for many things, but the usage of me in the vending machine is extremely popular. Usually, though, the human puts me in the wrong way and the vending machine rejects me. Thank goodness, I hate vending machines.

I guess the scariest experience I’ve ever had is when I got stolen. Well, not me in particular, but my whole wallet. My brothers and sisters and I huddled in the leather folds as the owner yelled and the carrier ran, with me and my wallet in his hand. It was even more terrifying when I was grabbed from the thief’s hand. It was scary, but then I realized it was by the police officer, who is always nice to me. I was returned to the man I had been serving before, who I honestly didn’t really like (he folded me up) but it was alright because I was traded to a new wallet the next day.

My value has gone up and down throughout the years, but overall I’m pretty powerful. I would like to have a woman on my gray side, though, one that is smiling and makes me happy, instead of the odd old man who frowns. Women are better.

Eye

An eye is like a black hole. It looks divine as it soars through the sky. It is surrounded by colors of the light that can’t escape, the colorful nebulae that fill the empty vacuum that is space.

Nothing can escape the black hole, and you think that is nice and romantic, that that is ideal. It is so unbelievably alluring that you wish to be sucked in yourself, explore its caverns. Perhaps it is as spectacular inside as it is on the outside. You still hang on to this faithful delusion as you dive deep into the perfect, untouched blackness, your own eyes cameras, able to capture the exquisite explosion of color and wonders that you are absolutely positive must lie ahead of you. You still know this, you never give up on the imaginative side of your mind. However, your logical, realistic mind begins to doubt your sanity as you are spaghettified, stretched on a medieval torture rack, your bones breaking and your brain flattening and your camera eyes widening until all you see is DARK.

Gwen Bernick we’re tied together with a paste of blood and formaldehyde, holding gravestones between our teeth while we walk down the street, praying someone will mistake our wings for birds’ and shoot us down before we reach the ground ourselves, but I will swallow the dance of my sins before I go to church with you, mama, I cannot tell the pastor what I’ve done, because it’s not my fault, because maybe it’s his or maybe it’s His, and darling, I cannot stop your tears or feel your heartbeat before I do my own, lest I bury you with one of my arms wrapped around your waist and the other pressed against your windpipe, lest I pull your body next to mine and tie the torn valves of our hearts together, so that we will beat as one; I cannot help you while my lungs still refuse to breathe on their own and I need to hold the bridge of my nose to keep from having an attack every time I see a steeple-- no mama, I will not read a poem in church because my voice will shake and the echoes created to shatter the windows will puncture my irises, I cannot, I cannot, I cannot touch you when my fingers are trembling blades of grass in the early morning breeze, I cannot speak when my tongue is an ocean in my mouth, I cannot love when I don’t know what it feels like, and darling, my darling, I cannot save you when I have yet to be saved myself.

The marks on my hands aren't moons anymore, but rather red galaxies that she painted herself, for it was not me, because it was her fault, always her fault, cowering like she's afraid, but God she didn't do it at the wedding, she stood tall and proud and said she loved me and that she would always love me, but no no no that's a lie no she's not different or sane or powerful she is scared and small and weak and she does not love me, she says it every day when she's cowering in the corner with a key between her knuckles she says it she says I love you please don't do this I love you I love you please but it's a lie because she is just afraid and sad, so sad, she says while she talks in her sleep, so sad, the people next door say when she walks past, so sad, but they cower too, when I walk past, they are afraid but I love her I tell her in her sleep because she’s not afraid when she’s trembling under the sheets I love you I love you I love you I’ll say it, again, again, because this is important, because I love her so much, and when she doesn’t say it back I try to remember back to when she mumbled good things in her sleep and I taught her how to hold a key between her fingers in case someone tried to hurt her, but now she’s holding it while I tell her she’s no different than anyone else, than mom or my sisters and my wives, because she cowers and they did too, because they all cried in their sleep but she is not afraid when she does, she is powerful and sane and I want more than anything to kiss her goodnight again and tuck her into the sheets, kiss her six times for good luck and another because I love her but I can’t, my lips are stapled shut and my hands are tied so I cannot ouch her sleeping face or her silky hair or her spine because there are raised bumps on her skin and her shoulders and her cheeks and I know that they look like the galaxies on my hands because they were drawn by the same person and I know that it’s me because the tendrils of red swirling through our bruises are the same shade as my eyes and my blood and my veins and my tongue and I cannot bear to touch that part of her, any past of her, because I didn’t want this, I never wanted this, I wanted matching rings not matching night skies on our skin or matching broken hearts; I wanted us, I wanted her, I wanted her her her I wanted love, but God now I’ve messed it up, like with mom and my sisters and I’m sorry, because I have a sun hidden in my organs and so does she, so do they, but I’m jealous because theirs shine brighter, theirs always shine brighter, and they can’t shine brighter, and they don’t when they’re hidden in bruises and I’m hidden in scotch, but I can’t do it anymore because she shines so bright and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, because I love her, I love her, I love you please don’t cry when you find me because you know that I love you and I never meant to hurt you I promise I love you I promise I love you I promise goodbye.

Mint

Lauren Burrell The taste of fresh crisp mint gum in my mouth, At times reminds me of you.

Your darling green eyes, held the forest and it’s nature, while your hands destroy everything to become of it.

You never liked yourself, even though I said I loved you.

I loved enough for the both of us though.

You used to complain, saying your freckles were like chicken pocks that scarred your pale skin.

But every one of those dots, where they lay, what they looked like, I remembered it all.

I slowly chewed, Enjoying the bitter flavor of you, wondering why you did it.

Was I not enough?

Did I not satisfy you enough?

Did I not love you enough?

Questions were left unanswered and I never got to ask you.

When the wind blew, you drifted away too leaving a storm behind in your wake.

Now when it storms I have no meaning of shelter. When it rains my skin begins to peel off in layers Leaving me bare and exposed.

Your tiny fist had held something. A pebble, a dime, at the time I didn’t know.

You stepped into the bath water filled to the brim and yet I knew I couldn’t save you.

So I let you die, Let you take your life knowing their was nothing I could do to repair what we once had.

We were no longer loving in mint condition.

Portrait of an Umbrella Clarice Hague It stings, it stings the rain it always stings It always stings to flip yourself inside out; to collect all the pain before it has a chance to interact with anyone else, it always stings to never see the sunonly the storm clouds.

Plump raindrops whisk away, wash away, trickle simple down the sides Fill with sorrow, more sorrow the plump are the only with kind words to say, less sting in sprinkling.

Storms shout indecipherably sting, sting the sideways rain stings the limp drag along the sidewalk, trailing behind it stings sting, sting the bees they don’t sting me the birds they don’t sing to me I have no place in this world I am not where I belong I belong on your coat rack beside your door Though I am rarely placed here, Instead tossed in back seats of cars and left in places that to me are foreign Later scolded by the soaked for being too forgettable.

I belong open and free floating, fulfilling my purpose twirl me, let me dance take me out in the sun.

Patch my holes, shake me out softly;

Hang me somewhere warm.

I belong by martinis, no not mannequins, me I belong in sunsets and being taken out after the rainbow appears; even if I’m still teary eyed I can squint to see the colors and do you see colors as I do?

The world is much different from up here, beaten, blurry I see colors in a fog never vivid- I see colors as a vanishing point- I see blue skies as my vanishing point I see grey as my opportunity I hate my job, my job it stings but no one else can do my job quite as well as me My job is not rewarding I’ve never loved the rain, I’ve never loved folding in on myself and being forgotten.

I’ve never loved the sting but still all I ask is that you let me catch the downpour for you; let it spill over my sides let other walk beneath me the brushing of your thighs.

Let conversations brew under the shield, the safety I provide Smile at a stranger, Distract me from the sting Make me feel that I am worthy of being wrung out and used again

Nighthawks Eliza Hurwitz

He stared, tense and mesmerized, at Nighthawks. According to the dull silver plaque to the right of the painting, Edward Hopper’s colours were nostalgic, mysterious, warm, classic. To him, they were jarring. It looked like someone had squeezed out a bunch of those cheap Walmart paint tubes, yellow and blue and white and pinky orange and brown and green. They were all too bright and frantic and shiny. Real people aren’t like that. Nostalgic painted people shouldn’t even be like that – everyone all one colour and there’s no variation at all and no one moving so everyone’s just standing alone in their own pool of paint too bright too bright too bright. The light seemed fluorescent, and even though he knew fluorescent light bulbs were better for the environment he couldn’t stand them. They were too white, not warm and sunset-y enough. They made his room seem like a doctor’s office, clinical, the glaring white light chasing away all the shadows and nuances.

The more he stared, the more that picture hurt his eyes; all the colours were wrong. Even the background brick red building seemed too orangey, the color too solid and unchanging, too in his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. Nostalgia should be the color of old movies, black and white.

When he was little, he loved art museums, adored them. He would twirl around until the colours all blurred and spun. It was too bright but in the lovely, sunny way, not emergency bright like Nighthawks. He would fall on the floor and watch the ceiling spin around and around and the floor was always cold and clean like it should be, and he could see the paintings in his peripheral vision. When he jumped up he’d only wobble with dizziness a little, and he’d trace the sculptures’ silhouettes in the air with his hands. His cheeks were red from grinning.

But such behavior is “not appropriate for big boys” and “distracting to others”. So he learned how to walk quietly, keep his hands clenched tight behind his back, and move along like he was window shopping for masterpieces. Ridiculous. And he hated art museums. If he stayed too long just looking at a painting, they’d get impatient, and there were too many and he had to walk in a line like ants at a picnic and give his full attention to every single painting but not too much attention and it was exhausting and overwhelming and he just wanted to spin so the colours would blend and it would be peaceful and together again. Clenching his eyes closed, he turned away from Nighthawks. It was giving him a headache.

Wedding Wings Sofia Kwon

My mama tells me that when I was little, I used to wish that I had a wedding ring just like hers. Except I didn’t say ring. I said wing. “I want a wedding wing!” I used to cry and tug at her fingers till they turned blue and say, “I want a wedding wing!” My mama tried to take it off so that I’d stop my crying, except she couldn’t seem to take it off. It was like it was stuck on her finger.

These were the days before, before my lungs felt like they were collapsing unto themselves, before I felt like I was drowning in a sea of air.

It’s funny, before I meant rings but now I think I want wings. If a boy were ever to like me—which would be impossible, because my condition has made me so terribly ugly—but theoretically, if a boy were ever to like me, and if he were ever to propose, I’d sure like wings better than rings. I’d take wings over rings any day, truthfully, because if we grow tired of each other, and if we fight, then I can just take my stuff and fly away and never look back. Throwing away a ring doesn’t really get you anywhere. It just means you give him a lot of money, because that ring was probably not cheap.

And if we stayed together long enough, kissing and loving each other until we became inseparable, glued to the hip perhaps, then I could fly us both somewhere. Europe, maybe. We could see the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum, the Parthenon. We could see everything. And then maybe I’d take us to China and we could walk the Great Wall of China, and then Egypt to see the pyramids, and Brazil to take a boat and go on the Amazon River. Maybe we’d see some of those majestic jaguars while on our romantic boat ride.

And after we went backpacking, we could invent something and become rich and famous.

My wings would give me incredible intelligence, and his wings (for I would give him wings, too, of course) would give him incredible intelligence, and together with both our brainpower we’d come up with something like a time machine or a teleportation device or a headband that lets you read minds.

We’d be so famous that we wrote memoirs about our journeys, until someday, we grew tired of the endless paparazzi and became reclusive. We’d stay away from the public eye to focus on ourselves spiritually. We’d become big Christians or Jews or Muslims or Hindus or Buddhists. Or maybe we’d become atheists or Scientologists. We might even make our own cult. Our wings would help persuade people to join our cult, because they’d be convinced that we were angels or holy beings and that our wings made us special. And the cult would eventually become so established that it’d be like a big mainstream religion.

Those are all the things I might be able to do if I had wedding wings.

Best of all, though, my wedding wings would cure me of my lungs, the lungs that the doctors can’t figure out, even with their fancy drugs and MRIs. They say, behind closed doors with whispers they think I can’t hear, as if my ears are damaged instead of my lungs, that they don’t think I’m gonna make it past three years. Honestly, I’m not too upset. The only thing is that my parents spent a lot of money for expensive drug trial medicines and tests and that they’re wringing their hands trying to get enough money, and their life has become about me, and now once I’m gone I don’t know what they’ll do. But they’ll manage. Everybody does.

Clare Lee SCENE 1 (GUINEVERE sits on the train station platform’s plastic bench with a small luggage by her side. She clutches her phone. She’s looking at the tracks, but there is no train. Enter CAESAR, skipping steps as he runs down the stairs.)

GUINEVERE You came back.

CAESAR So I did.

(GUINEVERE slaps him across the cheek.)

GUINEVERE I’m going to leave, you know. I’m not coming back.

(A pause. Caesar nods.)

CAESAR So you’re not.

GUINEVERE I left you some messages. More than one, actuallyCAESAR I got them.

GUINEVERE You didn’t help me, Caesar.

CAESAR I didn’t. I know that now.

GUINEVERE You promised. You promised me that day that we ran into each other at the coffee shop. Don’t you remember? You told me that no matter how many times I would roam the streets in the thick night, that you would help me. You would be my home. You would be the one roof over my head that wouldn’t trickle and leak. You promised me, Caesar.

(He sits down on the bench next to her, and looks at the tracks as well.) You were my home.

CAESAR I still am.

GUINEVERE Bullshit.

CAESAR I know that I still am just like I know that you’ll sit in that seat on that train for as long and as far as it runs, and you’ll abandon your bags in that last town because they’re too heavy with the memory of me. I know that you’ll still be thinking of me. You’ll be thinking of me, because I am your home.

You’ll be homesick, Guinevere, don’t you get it? You’ll want to come home but you can’t because if you lean too heavily onto a traveling vessel you’ll end up lost yourself. No matter how far you follow those tracks, you’ll always come back home.

GUINEVERE I don’t need you anymore.

CAESAR Yes you do.

GUINEVERE Well, then wish me safe travels.

Friday, June 26, 2015, 11:11 PM Athena G.S. Palmer

As you can see from the title, today is June 26. At 11:11 PM exactly, i found out that as of this morning the Supreme Court has made same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states of America. I wish I could explain how I feel, as a part of the LGBTQP+ community and an activist for equality and respect. When I found out about the court ruling this morning I was in the library, and I began to cry of happiness. Ignoring the looks I got, I started to write this immediately in order to capture my feelings on paper. It's harder than you would think. Knowing that there are people who couldn't get married a week ago that are getting their marriage license right now, sobbing on their partner as they fill it out and think about their life together now that they're finally legally aloud to be together and married. The woman somewhere who wasn't aloud to marry her boyfriend because she was wrapped in a blue blanket at 1 minute old and has never had a surgery in her life. All of the people who can be recognized. Thinking of the fact that maybe when i'm older if I find someone I love regardless of what gender or sex they are, we could get married. None of these feelings are describable. Although i know this wont end all of the hate directed towards the gay community, it's a huge step that i'm proud to have stood up for and been here to witness.

L’amour Lilli Schweitzer I It is when you wake in the morning When you look outside the window Where two birds lay Washing in the bath And you can’t help but watch Thinking about the couple Musing about their story Sighing along as you think Of their endless romance II It is when you find the last book The one you wanted for months But someone else advances Leaving you on eggshells Watching from afar Scared to approach Your stomach twists Your head insane with worry But you step up Leaving behind fear (?)And simply Ask for what you want(?)

III It is the wind in your hair Lyrics on your lips Spilling melody into the air As they laugh Love and affection Tumbling and mixing To create new music The kind that you never want to end It is the moment they dip you On the dance floor When you look into their eyes Seeing only hope and marvel Masking any previous lives It is the rouge lips Gently touching your check With a placid goodnight But never goodbye

IV It is pillows thrown about Broken glass scattered Flowers once held precious Destroyed for dust When you collapse on the couch To think What went wrong?

It is the sun up above Endlessly scorching the ground Heating everything in sight Leaving you to rot Melting under the warm pressure It is when you’d do anything Not to drown But someone has attached The weight of the world To your ankles You struggle and fight Yet you still sink No one offering any help V It is the rain after a drought The blissful moment You capture the first drop On your tongue Anxious for more And the rain just keeps falling Supplying your every need Lapping up all of your despairs It is the sound of bells after a war Echoes drifting through you Euphoria taking hold while Woe surrendering its crown Heaven taking back its reign VI Love is sweet And sour It is pain And peace It is everything And nothing All at once

Sarah’s Sirens

Empty Desks Renee Milligan

Spring flowers bloom, With their enveloping scents, As we walk down the path, Of a near-forgotten past.

Two desks sit side by side With tiny chairs attached.

Old wood stained gray, They stand straight-backed against stone pillars.

No leaves cover them, But vines encircle their legs.

You can almost see The children who used to sit there.

Wood scrapes across the floor.

Boys rocking their chairs, Unable to sit still.

The teacher calls for their attention, And I sit up straight.

A little girl, pretending to be a grown-up.

With paper and a pencil we work, Passing notes beneath desktops, Sticking used gum underneath.

A bell rings, and the desks are empty.

The sounds of laughter echo, Free to go home and play.

When we return, I find my place.

My tiny wooden chair, With pictures of little cats.

A product of rainbow crayons And childhood boredom.

Others scrawl messages on their desks.

And carve names into the chairs.

Memories that will be forgotten.

And when the children are gone for good, What purpose do the desks have?

What happens to our little desks and tiny chairs, When we grow up and move on?

They are too small for us now.

Lying in the shadows Of old brick buildings And trees, gnarled with age.

Years have passed, Since students last sat in these chairs, And the empty desks, Sitting between whispering trees, Remembering what used to be, Continue to grow old.

Come Autumn, the leaves will fall, Drifting down onto empty seats, With no children to make them complete.

UP

Mattie Sloan I remember believing that grown ups couldn’t cry and that i would never get older The lime green bed sheets crinkled in my ear as my mom lifted them First her butt, then the quick sliding of her feet to submerge them in the avalanche of blankets stuffed with feathers I took daddy’s spot that night Alcohol and sweat filled my nose My figure lying still Only the top of my head and eyes were visible I sent a concerning glare towards her She didn’t notice Her breathing held steady and sharp Tangled red hair hung over her forehead I slowly moved my hand frigidly placing it on hers clenching tight, with warm interference Her eyes met mine, dry and morose Quickly flowing into a helpless wetness I thought i would never grow up but on that still and treacherous night time never stopped getting faster

An Excerpt from Delilah Olivia Levin “Oh, the eyes,” she breathed, her very first words upon seeing her daughter. “There’s magic in them.”

Doctor Brown did not know what that meant, or what she was referring to. Neither did the midwife, or any of the other doctors or nurses. But they agreed that there was something enchanting, almost otherworldly, about this baby.

Nobody knew what that was. But Sarah knew. And she was always laughing, always smiling, in her quiet, knowing way, for her daughter was as she had once been, and as she still was. Her daughter could see the magic.

Sarah had the gift too. She saw magic everywhere, always had. And she had prayed for a daughter to share it with. Now, after fifteen years of hoping, her wish had been granted, and that for Sarah, that was the most magical thing of all.

Little Delilah grew, and she blossomed into a healthy, smiling four-year-old, Sarah’s second self. Sarah loved her boys, Michael and James and Henry and Liam all, even as they grew into gangly adolescents, prone to unpredictable bouts of boyish rowdiness and requiring even more of her laundry and grocery services than when they were young; she loved them with a ferocity to match their own. Yet she guarded Delilah, kept her close, in the protection of her mother’s calm, watchful eye, for this little girl was precious. She - and her gift - they were special, so incredibly beautiful, and they needed to be cherished and preserved, and given room to blossom.

As Delilah grew, and transformed into a kind-hearted, joyful little girl, her beauty grew as well. Her hair tumbled in long golden curls down her back; her features were elegantly pointed, the slope of her nose defined. Her face retained its peachy glow, and her eyes - those clear cerulean eyes - sparkled with a tranquil wonder that never dimmed. It was the magic that made her so beautiful, said her mother.

And Sarah taught her little girl. They would take walks together, just Sarah and Delilah, in the woods beside their house, and Sarah would point out everything, a butterfly delicately alighting on a leaf, an intricate cobweb, the particular slant of sunbeams through the trees.

“Can you see it?” she would ask, searching her daughter’s face. “Can you see the magic, Delilah?”

And Delilah would look. And she would listen. And she would feel. Because she understood that when her mother said seeing, she meant so much more than just looking with her eyes.

“What does it feel like, Mama?”

Sarah smiled, and her eyes were far away, and Delilah knew she was feeling it right then. “It’s a sort of fluttering, a soft twinkling everywhere you look. There’s a certain golden quality about it, like the sun in autumn, but you can feel its warmth inside you.”

Delilah repeated those words to herself. She liked the way they sounded. She looked around, at the whispering leaves on the trees, the scurry of tiny creatures, and felt the delicate warmth of the sun on her skin. She could feel it. It was just as her mother described - a gentle, fluttering warmth, a golden gleaming. With that sensation came the utter stillness inside of her, and the overwhelming conviction that all was as it should be. She knew this with an assurance that stemmed from an otherworldly force, and she felt light, light as a leaf dancing on a breeze. “I see it, Mama. It’s lovely.”

And Delilah saw the joy that lit her mother’s eyes.

Sweet College Campus Ally Donberger

The walls weathered and cracked By the feet and aspirations of youth.

Upon each and every red brick is tacked, Remembrance of its continued use.

But hidden within each antique wall, A darkness, or light, waits for release.

Footsteps trace familiar paths down the halls, Walked by joyful souls that are now ceased.

The wisdom seeps into each individual’s core, Filling the mind with a sense of belonging.

The whispers of the past become a gentle roar, But faded against the new legacies dawning.

Each new triumph, failure, or smile, Becomes intertwined within the hallowed wall’s style.

Inner Solitude Gabby Curran

There is a forest in my mind Quiet, secluded, reflected solitude That I can run to when afraid A place where safety and serenity reign There, dawn rises, and mist descends Bleakish gray and humid The cool embrace of dewdrops on my skin It comforts me.

There, I walk alone.

I prefer it this way.

The silence surrounding me allows my thoughts To flow freely through my mind Unobstructed by the jabbing judgmental looks of others.

There are no norms I need worry about.

I am the lone wolf that wanders by twilight Its coat twinkling with silvery drops of moonlight I can follow the fireflies Even if they lead me off the path For there is no one to discourage me.

I am at peace So long as I can find this place Whether exposed in a busy street Or ensconced in my room I am at peace Wherever I find Inner solitude

Valerie Zhang Sometimes Nina slides her hands up and down her face, trying to feel for already existing wrinkles and for newly created signs of aging– a chin that sags perhaps slightly more than before, cheeks that seem almost brittle to the touch– in the hopes of convincing herself that perhaps time truly is progressing even after her death. In the hopes of proving that the lack of a pulse doesn't mean that she'll forever be stuck in the same moment, in a sterile, immutable classroom that seems more like a cage than a resting place for a fading adult.

Nina keeps her eyes closed. She knows from the past few months that the only furnishings in the room consist of the rows of chair-desk hybrids, which are mechanical but not as mechanical as her human-like frame. Human-like because Nina has realized that being dead gives her body a crawling, uncomfortable feeling unlike the sensation of being human and alive. She wonders for a fleeting moment if a machine feels this way, lonely and uncomfortable from being weighed down by an unbending rigidity that translates to aching joints.

Since Nina first found herself in the classroom, she still hasn't gotten used to feeling like her skin is coated in sand, as if her memories from when she was alive sifted out of her mind and onto her skin, the dense gold grit of times forgotten weighting down on her. Sometimes she sprawls on the desks, the cold surface a harsh reminder of being caged but a lighter alternative to feeling her lead bones weighing her down. Yet sometimes Nina's body is a weight she carries; wearing her face can be a lighter load than the new anonymity a cold desk can grant.

Sometimes she wishes to carry the entire burden of the past rather than the snippets of memories she has – an uneaten birthday cake with seven candles, a first gray hair, baby shoes that were never worn. Perhaps the throbbing at the side of her head will go away then, having been replaced by the pain of remembering a life no more.

When the tickling in the back of her throat starts, Nina passes it off for old age, like how she did when the backs of her legs started to burn from standing and when her feet sometimes seemed glued to the cold, slimy tiles of the abandoned classroom. She knows that old age is probably just a placeholder reason, that she probably is burying the truth under years and layers of half-truths.

Maybe it's coarse grains of sand that are caught in her throat, or maybe she's just imagining the sensation of gritty grains traveling up to the tip of her tongue and returning to the back of her throat, where the amount of sand building up in her mouth seems to be enough to build a castle.

She wonders if she ever built a sand castle when she was alive, if she ever took pleasure in building a structure doomed to fall apart, doomed to be ruined, forgotten, and never necessary to anyone.

She imagines that in her first life she had gotten used to not feeling necessary, gotten used to the creaks and murmurs of her bones remembering a past life steeped in the chilled grace of youth.

Nina wonders if she ever felt trapped in her first body the way she feels trapped within the bare walls of a classroom fading into fiction. But it's not until she opens her eyes and finds the floors coated in sand that she feels for the first time an urgency to death, some pulsing thing that makes it unflappably alive.

The tickling has become a tingling throbbing now. Nina places her hand into mouth, touching her worn-down molars as she reaches back and grabs, feeling for the source of her nuisance-turned-pain. It's not loose sand she finds lodged in the back of her throat but feathers, tufts of soft gray fluff that resemble the down-like hairs covering her arms, legs and neck. She feels the shock coursing through her body as the taste of copper blood hits her tongue, feels the quills poking through her throat as the feathers grow back faster and bristlier.

Lost

Meredith Aristone These memories don’t taste like home They taste like stale cherry coke and goodbyes Your arms no longer feel like home So i don’t know why I see galaxies when your voice whispers to me from the sky I washed your name out of my mouth Like a word I should never say I hopped on a train and headed south Because nothing’s real.. nothing’s real if you’re far away Two am, on somebody’s bunk bed Trapped in my head, but I’m thinking of nothing Sleep is nonexistent And so are you Five thirty am, The fields are existing in numb tranquility We swallow the vodka again, oh god where’s my humility Your lips taste like a bittersweet truth

Wasted months Wasted youth Wasted Summer Ugly truth I only want to be with you Run away after what we’ve been through Fragile bodies Fragile minds Slowly we escapade through time Beating hearts Intoxicated laughs We burn our wrinkled notebooks, erasing traces of the past Quickening heartbeat Quickening breath All my doubts about you Being quickly put to rest Run away with me in a fit of delirium creating fantasies, its ironic hysteria

An excerpt from 10 Maia Brown

It was that year that my life had definition. I was defined by the circumstances of my family.

My mother and father weren't a unit anymore. There was my mother. And there was my father. There was no happy ending.

Happy ending. In any other sentence, they seem so pure, so innocent. By themselves, words are just words. Everyone knows that.

But together like that, following one behind the other, they are the bitterness locked tightly in the corners of my heart.

Together they are the venom that entered my life and tainted it to the point of no return. They are the words that ripped my family in half, and my young heart in the process. They are the words of the idiotic idea that brought my mother to this very state of being.

I had heard the words plenty of times before. At the end of the storybooks we read in class. At my aunt's wedding. In any of the movies I'd ever seen.

But now I could see them taunting my father as he picked us up for his allotted week.

I could see them confusing my sister to the point of tears. I could see them in my mother’s hollow, depressed eyes.

I had heard them in the back of my own mind. Repeating themselves over and over as I sat in my room at night like the chorus of a song.

But I learned to control my own emotions.

I learned to wear a mask.

I learned to be indifferent.

My friends did not understand. They had no clue what happened behind closed doors. Why could I never hang out anymore? What happened to the girl they used to know? Is she coming back?

No. No she is not.

sideburns

Darius Purnell Fade in: hallway of a high school. Maggie and Jim are stand in front of a line of lockers talking.

Maggie is upset and Jim is nervous.

JIM Im sorry for hurting your feelings and not listening to how you feel. I didnt mean what I said and that's definitely not how I see you.

MAGGIE You really hurt me.

JIM I know. It hurts me knowing that I hurt you.

MAGGIE Yeah well you really hurt me...

(Jim stares)

You really hurt. me?

(Maggie stares back at Jim with her arms open in confusion) JIM I said I’m sorry.

MAGGIE I know you did and you hurt me! I don't know how you are going to make it up to me but you going to have to figure out something (Jim digs in his wallet and aggressively throws all the bills at maggie) JIM The hell do you want from me! I said I’m sorry. You want money? There you go!

(Jim digs in his bag and pulls out his lunch bag and throws each item at her) You want food? There you go.

(Maggie picks up everything in haste and looks at Jim embarrassed) I cant believe you. I said I’m sorry and I become vulnerable because I felt guilty and you just use it for your own dirty pleasure. Fuck you. We were best friends, at least that's what I thought.

(Jim storms away)

(Waves)

MAGGIE Love you too Jim... see you tomorrow!

JIM (sighs) Yeah. Whatever....

(to himself)

I’m such a pushover, can't say no to that girl...

Ryan Carroll FADE IN: INT. WAITING ROOM OF PSYCHIATRIST’S OFFICE - DAY A single MAN sits inside the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office, his hands clasped together and his eyes glued to the floor. He TAPS HIS FOOT absently, contemplatively. A disembodied VOICE begins to SPEAK, a voice which, one would assume, belongs to the man himself--but which, in fact, does not.

VOICE (V.O.) You know what I hate most about this place?

VOICE (V.O., CONT.) The wallpaper.

THE CAMERA TIGHTENS ON THE MAN’S PENSIVE FACE. VOICE (V/O) Disgusting green-beige. Supposed to be soothing. Reminds me of vomit.

Just uncomfortable. Typical of this place. Discomfort, dressed up as serenity.

VOICE (V/O) But you and I know the truth.

The man turns his head to the side. to answer the question.

MEDIUM SHOT OF MAN SITTING IN PROFILE. THE CAMERA TILTS LATERALLY, revealing a line of five HALLUCINATORY FIGURES that weren’t there before: : FISCHER, a tall, detective-esquef igure sitting to the man’s immediate left; a person in amassive dog mascot costume (referred to as DOG); CRAY, a gangly, Steve Buscemi-type man clad in an emerald green suit, his pale skin spotted with snakelike scales; ANNA, an apathetic-looking teenage girl; and ENENRA, a 35-or-so-year-old Japanese woman dressed like a martial artist from an old movie. Each occupies one of the waiting room’s chairs, and all stare at the man. Fischer is, in reality, the owner of the disembodied voice.

FISCHER Isn’t that right, Phil?

Phil blinks at him, not registering the event as abnormal.

PHIL (Quietly, almost resigned) Yeah.

Angel Wings Alex Tanner

My Cole Haan wingtips are different than your shoes. A pattern is imprinted into their navy body; a galaxy painted on their white, sneakerlike sole. The left shoe has a discreet grey scuff on it. I’ve worn them to Christmas parties and Coachella; from ShangHai to Greensboro. They remember the destinations far better than I. The dirt from central park is lodged in the crevices of their soles.

Water from sledding in New York has soaked and settled into their leather. Manhattan’s dirty air is lodged in their pores. A potentially fatal encounter with sidewalk chewing gum was avoided with surgery at my hands.

I’d like to read their blog. They have no capacity to forget. My wingtips live through the residue on their unwashed bodies. I’ve never kept a travel journal: I relive my moments of exploration through memory, leaving more behind with each following adventure. The shoes would remember it all; riding yaks and rainy days alike. The heat and cold flexing the rigidity of their leather.

They make the best travellers, as to never complain about conditions or whereabouts. My wingtips are ready for any adventure I’m willing to take them.

Travel Blog Entry (from the perspective of the shoes): Zakopane An avalanche of tourists poured through the town of Zakopane. We had repeatedly gone out of our way to avoid such a miserable sight. The streets were insulated with vendors of smoked cheese and log carvings; they meant to look local, but were most likely shipped from halfway across Poland, or even the world. I didn’t want any part in this designed experience; I wanted authentic exploration.

Our Poland 2002 guidebook was outdated by a longshot: I’d envisioned a quaint village as a basecamp for exploration into the mountains. Instead, with each step, my sneakerbottomed body nearly landed on the flipflops of the tourists in front of me. The Russians and Eastern Europeans now had the discretionary income to come and ruin our trip! The hiking trails wouldn’t be taken up

by Louis Vuitton bagcarriers though, would they?

We crept at a mile an hour through the village to the trails, refusing to step near the shops or vendors. Upon arrival, a flock of humans about two wide, as far as the eye could see trotted merrily up the path. With each step I sighed through my porous soles. I decided to wander around and see if there was a “less touristy” route up into the mountains. Shop to shop, nobody spoke enough English to know what my party ment. My human took out his phone to try and do the translate function from the commercials, but of course it didn’t work in real life; the vendors just laughed at him. I saw the purple bags of tiredness grow under my human’s eyes. Google maps ended up the answer, I would push myself against the pedal in search of something better.

Where We Were Going Ryan Bulliet

I was cold and she was hot and we were somewhere along I90 in the Black Hills. It’s cool up there in the summer and there isn’t a whole lot to see outside Rapid City. That was ok though because Rapid City was not our final destination. I was cold because the AC was turned up in our ’02 Jetta and the AC in our ’02 Jetta was turned up because, like I said, she was hot. The American sun was beating down on her in some way I would never know, but we work around these sort of things for the ones we love because to us they are good people and deserve to be accommodated for.

She laid out in her seat, which she had leaned back. She was tired. Frankly I couldn’t blame her. We’d been driving hours now, bound from Seattle to Norfolk. I tried to stop us back in Kadoka.

There was a lovely motel there with blue doors and a white sign. They called it the Rushmore Inn. I remember that now. She wouldn’t have it though. She wanted to keep going, because she said we were racing the planes and we had to get there first. I hope she knew how wrong she was. I hoped it was a joke.

I didn’t much like driving, even out there on the highway. I knew I was just coasting along, and us being where we were I knew I would run into only a few other cars, but I still didn’t like it.

Driving brought this uneasiness to me, but mostly it was that someone else is in the car. It was probably because I was now responsible for this other person, this person whom I not only loved but this person whom I adored.

I was heading to Norfolk because I loved her. I was heading to Norfolk because that was where her parents were from and that’s where she was from and we still hadn’t told them we were engaged. We hadn’t told them we were engaged yet because she had always wanted to tell her mother in person. This made it somewhat clear to me she never planned to leave Norfolk, and that worried me. Maybe I was overthinking things though. I did that a lot back then.

But our Jetta was speeding along and we were happy. She grabbed my hand and held it close to her chest while I drove along. God, that scared the shit out of me. With one hand on the wheel I kept us going, shakily but surely down the straight road toward Pierre. I didn’t look forward much to going through Pierre, but I knew that every mile passed brought us closer to Norfolk, which made her happy. It was her happiness that I craved really, but not because I was some slave to her whim.

It was because I loved her, and in some form that, to me, was what love was about. At least that’s what it happened to be about when I was twenty-two and engaged.

She turned towards me and pulled my hand in closer to her. Fuck. I swerved the car and she opened her eyes. She told me to watch my goddamn driving and I told her to watch my goddamn hand. She returned my hand after that and shifted in way that she was facing the window. I could see a reflection of her face in the glass and I smiled at her. She smiled back. It was one of those big toothy grins you’d only ever show if you were actually happy. She was, and I was too. We both knew it. We were happy together and on this adventure out east. Back then, before it all, we were always hoping for more adventures.

When she finally fell asleep, we were passing through Pierre. I watched city buildings and car lights scan across the windshield and it was nice. I even opened up the skylight to let the stars come in. She was sleeping though, so she’d never know. We’d pass a Motel Six about twenty minutes later, but I didn’t have the heart to stop. She wouldn’t stop. She wanted to keep going. I knew she did. So we went onward, into the black with the universe above us. As likeminded dreamers we sat in silence. We didn’t know what was coming, but we knew it was somewhere along the way.

She is Raven Eyes White Elk Gabe Kahan

she is Raven Eyes White Elk a medicine woman of the native people a divine traveler manifested by Father Sky but she is no follower she is Raven Eyes White Elk a teacher of the shadows within the forest she knows more than we can see and sees more than we can allow to be seen she cannot hear fear when it bellows up from her stomach she is Raven Eyes White Elk on her waist hangs many powers sun rays and buffalo fur leathered love and the wolf claw when she sings the trees stop whispering and the grass stands still she is Raven Eyes White Elk and her eyes fuel the flames her tongue boils water she cannot abide by your desires but she can taste the salty tears of a child her hands are thick with wisdom and she can tell a lie by the way you blink she is Raven Eyes White Elk and when she howls some say the mountains bow to her grace when she dances the moon speaks poetry and the coyotes come out to play but when she stands in silence the wind stops and the Earth's heart beats ever faster she is Raven Eyes White Elk and she is outside your door waiting for when you need her waiting for when you want to run away

Describing Just the Setting Paul Xu

The waves gently probed the edges of the fishing boat, rocking it back in forth akin to how a mother rocks her child to sleep. The salty air was quiet apart from the waves that rose up, warriors in their eyes, and crashed down onto the surface of the water. In the distance, icebergs rose up like pillars, carved so elegantly that no human craftsman could replicate. They were illuminated by neon lights dancing across the sky, flashing like lightning in their multicolored brilliance before disappearing in dazzling pops.

As the waves continued to rock the boat, a figure stirred in it. He rubbed his eyes to clear the sting from the salt and sat up. His unkempt hair and thick beard were so out of place among the serene waters. It was the beast against the beauty of the ocean.

The beast made his move. “I will survive!� He bellowed. His battle cry rang out into the distance, echoing off the icebergs, before the waves drowned him out.

The man then took the oar laid out in the fishing boat, and began ferociously paddling. His arms were strong from years of reeling in catch, and his determination fueled him. Slowly, but surely, the boat began moving its way through the ocean, powered by a man who refused to die.

MURDEROUS INTENT Screenplay Excerpt by Kevin Vo

ACT ONE FADE IN: INT. BOMB SHELTER - NIGHT A stone room, with a musty smell. There are two wooden TABLES on either side; stacks of TOOLS and WEAPONS lie on one table, and a static RADIO lies on the other. In the corner is a SHELF containing CANS of nonperishable food and stacks of moldy BOOKS. One light bulb FLICKERS above.

A BOY, no older than 18, enters the shelter from a LADDER. Sweat stains are on his shirt, and ash cakes his face. He scrambles to the table with weapons: knives, handguns, pistols, grenades...

He contemplates for a moment which weapon he will choose.

After a moment of rumination, he chooses a sleek silver KNIFE. Before he can sheath the blade, someone swiftly locks onto his wrist.

A girl around his age: MADELEINE CROSS. Narrow face, piercing eyes, and sleek hair. Skin and clothes as clean as can be. Her voice is melodious and tender, almost eerie.

MADELEINE You don't have to do this.

BOY You're not gonna stop me, Madeleine.

MADELEINE She isn't mentally stable; you know that. She needs help, not this.

Still gripping his wrist, MADELEINE gestures at the blade.

MADELEINE (cont’d) Plus, you'll be in a lot of trouble if this doesn't go the way you want it to. She'll know something's wrong.

Euphoria Drew Davis

Entering the morning of June 17th, I had lived in Nashville my entire life and had never been to a major concert. I had inevitably seen a plethora of live entertainers trying to make a break in the music industry, but never had I experienced the performance of an established rockstar. My first taste of this pleasure came on the night of June 17th, when I had the privilege of attending a Rolling Stones concert.

The first thirty minutes of their presence were the most electrifying. The opening act included names such as Brad Paisley and Joe Walsh, singer for the Eagles. Their production alone could have sufficed as exceptional entertainment, but with no offense to them, the Rolling Stones came on stage and immediately raised the crowd to their feet. Seeing Mick Jagger at seventy years old running on stage with zest and passion enthused me to do the same from my spot in the right corner of LP field (home of the feared and respected Tennessee Titans, football powerhouse). They opened with “Jumpin’ Jack Flash�. I tried to take everything in. With Mick Jagger, Keith Richard, Ronnie Wood and Charlie Watts just yards away from me, I could not comprehend the significance of such a circumstance. I observed the people around me, scanning the thousands of people and inspecting their personalities. Many looked straight out of the 70s, wearing the stereotypical tie-dye shirts while sporting any sort of long hairstyle. The music and the crowd created a dynamic setting that I will never forget, and that I will rarely experience ever again.

The concert ran about 4 hours, but the opening 30 minutes of the main event has been one of the most dreamlike environments in which I have ever been. The excitement reminds and inspires me to buy tickets to many more concerts in the future.

Lil Jons

Mother Goose Wesley Harper

INT. GYM-NIGHT MOTHER GOOSE is lifting weights. With the threat of rising sea levels, she needs to be in the best physical condition she can be.

MOTHER GOOSE This is too much. I am a mother; I have children I could be looking over right now. But noooo, I have to be an amazing swimmer now. I have to help my family make it through the water, cause those lazy asses are freaking awful swimmers. I knew I shouldn’t have sheltered them so much.

I am just so frustrated at this point. PETA’s flipping shit about the polar bears and I’m over here like, I have to swim too. I have people hunting me, but I’m not majestic and rare. I’m road kill to some of these people. I can’t even remember how many people before have asked me “How’s the Amish life treating you?” And I’m like “It’s a fucking bonnet, I look good in it. It meets my aesthetic priorities.”

Gym Manager, JIMMY, walks into the room and walks up to MOTHER GOOSE while holding a take out box.

JIMMY Hey lady, we’re closing in ten minutes. So you need to like finish up.

MOTHER GOOSE Have I been here for that long? Thank yMOTHER GOOSE pauses and looks at what JIMMY is eating.

MOTHER GOOSE Is that fucking duck. You freaking disgust me.

JIMMY They were sold out of pork.

MOTHER GOOSE (screaming) I will have you know that you have now lost me as a loyal customer. I was so supportive and even made donations.

MOTHER GOOSE storms out of the gym mumbling under her breath. She crosses the street, not bothering to look both ways as her anger has taken control of her. A TRUCKDRIVER speeds down the street without his headlights on. TRUCKDRIVER hits MOTHERGOOSE and kills her instantly. TRUCKDRIVER gets out of the car and smiles when he sees what happened. JIMMY rushes out and his eyes widen.

TRUCKDRIVER Hey man, wanna have dinner with me? I just got some.

Fun & Games David Liang

The number in the email is 298-382-4358, almost exactly like the local pizzeria. I stroke my cat’s head as I dial the numbers, and stare idly out the window. There has been nothing to do here for days. Even Whiskers, my cat, has become lethargic, spending his days basking in the sun, the mice forgotten.

There is a hiss of static as someone on the other end of the line picks up.

“This is Bowie, how can I help you today?”

“I’d like to place a hit on someone, good sir.” There is a pause at the other end of the phone, and then : “I’m listening.” Excellent. At least this one wasn’t a police informant. Or a wuss. Like the other guy.

I twiddle my fingers, as I decide how to describe the hitman’s target. “Alright,” I say, “You’re gonna look for a guy at…” I glance up at the TV, where a news agent is blabbing about an endangered worm about to be wiped out at the local Park. “... Grand Park.”

There is a slight scratching sound on the other end of the line. “Ok, Gotcha. What’s this guy wearing?”

Another pause. What should the hit be wearing? I shrug.

“Uh, he’ll be wearing…” I glance at the T.V again. “Blue jeans, a uh… red baseball cap, and a black jacket that says… ‘KILLER’ on it, in big red letters.”

The voice at the other end chuckles. “Ironic, that.”

I laugh. “You have no idea.”

The hitman is silent for a few more seconds, and then: “Payment?”

I nod, and give him the relevant information.

“Alright,” the man continues, “When you want this to go down?”

I glance at the clock. “Thirty minutes or so, I don’t really give a damn.”

The hitman’s line rustles again, and I wonder why there’s so much noise on his end. “Got it,” he says. “Thirty minutes. Grand Park. Red cap, ‘KILLER’ jacket, blue jeans. Anything else?”

I pause for a moment, and consider.

“No sniper shit. I want this to be personal.”

A sigh, and then Bowie speaks again.

“Is there some reason you’re after this guy?”

I shake my head, watching the figures move about on the T.V screen. “I’m just bored is all. Need something to do; call a hitman, I suppose.”

“Alrighty then. Watch the news. Thanks for hiring me. I’ll be wearing a green gloves, so you know it's me on the news report. I want the rest of the five thousand when you see the job done, okay?”

I consent, and Bowie hangs up..

Sighing, I get up off the chair, and stretch.

Sliding on a red baseball cap and a pair of blue Jeans, I fumble around on the floor until I find my ‘KILLER’ jacket.

Stretching, I tuck the nine old nine-mil pistol into my pants pocket, slide a few extra rounds in, and pet my cat a few times, before I leave.

The GPS says It’ll take me around 20 to get there.

Five thousand dollars isn’t so bad a price to pay for setting up an exciting play date. If all goes well, I’ll be back in time to give Whiskers his dinner, and I’ll have a new pair of green gloves..

Delivery

Zachary Huang Bread really was one of mankind’s greatest achievements. The smell of it right out of the oven-ahhhh--so fresh, that lemony tang exciting my taste buds into an uncontrollable frenzy. The smooth, firm shell of a crust contained a fluffy layer that resembled a sea of whitish material that was packed with thousands of bubbles of air. As soon as you take a bite of this heavenly substance, its signature tang that slightly resembles vinegar explodes in your mouth. This was the pinnacle of human development, the height of our society--and it could be found at the grocery store right at the end of Browning street, where I lived.

Finally retreating from my frequent bread yearnings, I drank in the pleasant scent of the morning grass and my flowers in full bloom, and took a sip from the the mug of black coffee that sat on the rusting porch railing, propped up by my suntanned hand. Despite the early hour, the neighborhood was bustling with activity, with people conducting whatever business they needed to except for work, since it was Sunday morning. I watched the clouds--that one looked like a whale, that one kinda resembled a lemon, and that one kinda looked like a loaf of bread...fine! I couldn’t resist the urges anymore. I needed that delicious, that mouthwatering, that succulent bread!

The floorboards of the once-red porch creaked as I stepped down onto the stone path that led straight to the sidewalk, passing all the plants that I trimmed every two weeks. At this time of year, they glowed with health and colors, red and yellow and blue and more. They differed from the greenery that my neighbors had selected for their houses, with many instead choosing palm trees and various types of bushes. I stepped onto the well-maintained sidewalk, starting on the twenty minute trek to the grocery store where I could find my coveted bread. I passed three houses, all of different color and design, with one literally covered in vines, before encountering the mailman, on his daily journey through our neighborhood. He was pushing a pile of envelopes into Benny’s mailbox, the owner of the vined house. He wore his post office uniform of a polo shirt and a cap that broadcasted U.S. Postal Service. I greeted him with a smile on my face.

“Good morning.” I said, having stopped right beside him. He flicked the red marker on the side of the mailbox up, then turned to face me.

White Nothing Christopher James

The white nothing is many things An anti-world filled with nothing but white space And unimaginable loneliness I was taken to the white nothing Where the senses are made useless I remember your face when you said goodnight Who knew it would be the last time?

When I awoke the world had disappeared You and everyone and everything else gone Only blank space remains I prayed to you Begging you to take me out of here But you never came Nor did anyone else Now I sit here, mangled and broken Forever alone

society

Eli Kern

EXT- Beach- Day Dr. Acula is reclining in a full body black lab coat, he is wearing sunglasses. He is also the only one not enjoying the sun. All around are people in swimsuits running around or lying down in the sand bathing in the hot sun.

Dracula: Greetings, my name is Dr. Acula. What exactly is my field of study you ask? Why, hairdressing of course. I have spent many years of my eternagh, I mean, life studying the various techniques of hairdressers across the globe. It is actually quite fascinating to see how each artist folds, cuts, and shampoos each person’s hair differently. Once they get their hands on the silky hair barely touching the customers’ soft, delicate, neck. (We see that Dr. Acula is for some reason drooling a bit) Oh echem, I am sorry about that, I have also worked with several dermatologists before and I can get a bit excitable when it comes to the human body. Where was I? Oh yes, the reason that I am here at the beach today is that many people like to show off their styles and colors it is quite interesting to see so many different hairstyles in one place. Many people actually like to have their hair cut short or pinned up revealing much of their tender soft skin just waiting to….. Oh why fight it!

Cut to a shot of Dr. Acula now with some dark stains on his lab coat, but we can’t really tell what the stains are.

Dr. Acula: Oh uhhhh, that is all for now goodbye and they thank you for watching!

Dr. Acula waves us goodbye with a wide smile some of his teeth are stained red for some reason as we fade to black

Arkaj Chavan Alonza Alberto loved his name. He also loved his family, his wife, and his two children. He wasn’t sure what else he loved. Alonza had a simple job. He ran a small open door convenience store where he sold many things, but the over the counter medicine was the most bought, though he didn’t make much money, no one in Cuba needed much money. He was an ordinary man, plump and dark, with short black hair that was the norm. He lived an ordinary life, and held mostly ordinary views on the world, but he was aware that most foreigners saw Cuba as unordinary, backwards, and poor. He never felt poor, certainly not backwards; all of these judgements came from the one dirty word in the minds of the West, communism. He spent most of his days in his shop, which meant he spent most of his days underneath a sign for Che Guevara. No one loved Che, and everyone loved Che, just like no one loved Cuba and everyone loved Cuba. Che had been a revolutionary; everyone in South America knew his name, a soldier, and author, and a guerrilla leader. Che and Castro, they were why Cuba was communist. A doctor and a lawyer. Many people thought Che was a hero. Che fought for what he believed to be right, for equality, and for communism. Che had fought for Cuba, when he believed the United States had exploited the third world, he rebelled and fought. He was killed by firing squad, his last words were the stuff of legend, “Shoot, coward, you only kill a man.”

Alonza also loved his words “We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.” Some people compared Che Guevara to Hitler, Alonza wasn’t sure either way.

Alonza knew that Hitler’s animal rights policies were amazingly radical, protecting animals. It was a shame about his human right policies. Alonza’s entire life was defined by indecisiveness. He had made only two real decisions in his life, to open a store and to get married.

A Feeling That I Regret Cross Ziegler

Feelings of glee bubbled up in my chest and threatened to burst out of my ribcage every time I saw.

My skin felt ready to jettison itself from my bones when my eyes flickered in your direction, never mind challenging yours in a friendly but tension-filled stare. The organ lying within the left part of my chest was always on the cusp of self-termination, prepared to burst apart when I was in the room with you. Oh, how I wished that my fourteenth and fifteenth years alive could have been filled with more of your docile smiles and gossamer stares.

Even with the pushes from my father and friends, I never thought I would have fallen in love.

Unfortunately, the past me was damn wrong, and I wish I could traverse the time stream to warn him of his heart’s oncoming demise. The passion-filled apocalypse that would butcher his soul. The final days he would ever truly look on the subject of love with fond and delicate eyes rather than piercing and vindictive ones. My bruised soul would scratch at the sides of the rejected and abandoned, only to be cursed to descend further in to the mire of his depression and melancholy.

My view towards you started off as a blank canvas, one that would have a plethora of emotions splattered on its white, virgin landscape. These paint splatters would only stain even more of the drawing board as the year went on, drenching through its various layers and bleeding into its very spirit and core. The blank sheet it started out as possessed minor indifference, but a pale corner containing a splotch of orange remained. The gathering of this curiosity was unusual. Why was I so interested in someone who I almost never saw in the hallways, never talked to at lunch despite the distance only being seven feet, and only shared two classes with? Nevertheless, my interest in you never wavered and was nurtured by the onslaught of time and interactions we had with each Yellow.

It embodies both happiness and fear. The joy that sprung from my very being when you were nearby never ceased to amaze me. Only two months max had passed and I was already falling into a jovial mood when you entered the room. However, how could I interact with you? I was the outsider; the shy spark in a thundercloud of booming and deafening glorious bolts of lightning.

Approaching you was difficult, and every day I fretted about being in the way of your warm and consoling gaze, but I always anticipated and looked towards this transaction with eager eyes and sweating palms.

I love you

Michael Hernandez I am helplessly in love. I spend hours talking with her. Thinking of her. Skyping her. All my time is hers. When we shower together, she stands on her tip-toes and kisses me on the cheek, or lets me hold her as the water pours over us. In bed, she giggles as my beard brushes her neck and nose and mouth. At dinner, I forget that I am even eating, I’m entranced by her smile, delicate nose, flawless complexion, and enticing eyes. She smiles when I tell her I love her. When I tell her that she means everything to me. When I tell her that I cannot wait till I can spend all my time with her.

Most couples have cute stories about the first time they met, or how they started dating. We do not, but it does not change a thing. While she lies on my chest, I know she is the one. The girl who I cannot wait to show off to my parents; the girl who makes my sisters smile in approval. But, she is so much more than an object to show off and feel good about.

We have been dating for twelve days now. This seems like a small amount of time. However, I have never felt so sure about a statement. She always asks me if I mean it; if when I say I love her that I am not just saying what she wants to hear. Therefore, I use it sparingly, only when those are really the only words that my mouth can produce. I know I should say it more, but I do not want the word to lose its value.

As time progresses, and words are used, like any object, they will become worn and useless. A hair tie that snaps from being stuffed too many times with brittle hair, and tugged at too hard by relentless fingers. People have a tendency to overuse words, rendering them useless and making the user seek a replacement. However, “I love you� cannot be replaced. There is no substitute, or alternative ingredient in expressing the intense emotion of caring for someone too such an extent that life without them seems trivial.

September 30th, 1937 Tom Pollard

The streets in Stuttgart were corridors in a slaughterhouse, but knowing this did not increase your chances of avoiding the butchers. When we came with our beating clubs, no place was safe. It made no difference that the grey, smoking city was the pigs’ home. When I walked the streets, they had no home. They were nobody. They were meat. They clung to the cobblestones as their lives spun out of control, lines of blood connecting generations snapped, my club beat down, harder and harder. I was a champion, I was a conqueror, and yet in the back of my mind, a hesitation existed, but it was not definite, not lasting, and insecurity kept me swinging.

A pig died on the streets with a six-pointed paper star pinned to his shirt. His jaw was dislocated his tongue hung out, tasting the dirt. His teeth, like a row of tombstones, warped from his thin lips. His squat fingers—scarred by the fires of bread ovens—had been splintered under the heel of a Knobelbecher boot. The pig had been born in Stuttgart, the capital of the southwestern German state of Baden-Wurttemberg in the summer of 1889. He was born in a house on the corner of a street, next to a bakery where his father and grandfather had worked. He fought for his country in The Great War, but he wasn’t a fighter. He was a man of god, a man of books, and a parent. This pig, this man, was my father.

My father was dead, and I was happy.

Francisco Nodarse My socks landed in a dirty heap, coming to rest on a fortress of rock protruding out of the tumbling stream. I followed my cousin as he gingerly stepped onto a rotting log bridging the gap between us and the world beyond. Like a craggy minefield in the wake of a war, shards of stony shrapnel submerged themselves in the creek, creating a staircase suitable for giants. We leapt from rock to rock, sailing across chasms of frothing water that jumped upwards and licked our legs as we flew overhead.

Toes drifting into the silent current, curling against olive-colored moss that adorned the granite like stubborn snow on the boughs of a tree, we contemplated the cloudless sky as our sandwiches melted into crumbs. They floated off in tiny rivulets, streaking over the waterfall’s edge and flying into the abyss below. We chattered politely, lacking the energy to hold a meaningful conversation but pleased to talk nonetheless. His words, lethargic and overcome with gravity, began to fade as they spilled from his mouth incoherently.

She interrupted our banter with soft splashes. I turned and saw her approach, feet slicing into the crystal brook inches from the edge of our world, unafraid perhaps, or simply stupid. Sensing my stunned look, she glanced over the cascade. “Dead, not forgotten”, she whispered, slowly at first, then louder and faster until she spat out the phrase violently and fell silent. Sitting on a piece of rock in the middle of a stream tumbling over a cliff in the heart of the North Carolinian forest, I stared at her worn face, not comprehending. She was old and weathered, but oddly young and alive, her soul somehow feeding the rest of her defeated body with life. She squinted her eyes, the pale blue irises nearly disappearing, and looked off into the distance for a while. I followed her gaze, knowing there was nothing to see but searching nonetheless, desperate for a sign, yet not knowing what that sign was, and not knowing if I would know when I saw it. I watched as she spoke, lips convulsing in response to an unseen tremor. No sound came out. I searched again, eyes penetrating the depths of every rocky crevice and watery valley. When I turned back to her, she jumped.

In shock, I watched as the stream, the rocks, and the forest blended together. My vision lost focus as it was overcome with bolts of colorless energy that bounced between objects I could no longer identify. Exploding soundlessly into blackness, the world materialized once more, and I stared into my cousin’s eyes as he spoke. They were the epicenters of an earthquake that radiated outward, pulling matter into place as it went. He was screaming, telling me to wake up, slapping my numb face and shaking me furiously. I opened my eyes, screaming. He simply stared at me in disbelief. His tears fell slowly, landing between my lips, and they tasted like salt.