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Contents
Stop the Rollcall
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Invisimals, only the second 's' is a dollar sign, the team
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Anna’s Bananas
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The Edible Arrangements
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Suite Potatoes
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Netflix and Dill
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Dead Poets
56
Emotionally Distressed Oven
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Conspiracy Theories
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Popcornpocalypse
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The Mad Lips
92
Too Much Pressure
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Some Kind of Bird
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Gwen Bernick an excerpt from a longer poem “peel” i was thinking. the other day the air was so thick we could barely breathe, i was thinking about my mother and her hands and the green teapot in the kitchen. when i was nine, i convinced myself panic attacks were normal. i closed my eyes so tight i couldn’t see it-the whole world, i mean, right in front of me. god in all his selfish glory and the wide expanse of me. i think about the oceans. how each is so big it could drown everyone, or at least me and you. the whole thing is wild. how i imagined you on your knees at the altar and you imagined me showering your breath off my skin. how we loved the space between us, the lace and blood and saltine crackers after. i was too nauseous to eat anything else.
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Jada Byrd
Blank Has your mind ever completely gone blank? Maybe you’re bored, maybe you’re distracted, but for some reason you just can’t think. Your mind literally goes blank. When my mind completely goes blank, I tend to get very annoyed. I want to work, I want to focus, but for some reason I can’t. It’s frustrating and nerve-wracking. I look around and see people more focused than me. They’re working and not distracted at all. They know what they’re doing and how it will get done. Or do they? Maybe they’re just like me. They can’t really focus and are instead staring at a screen, not having a clue on what to write about. There really is no cure for this sort of problem. You can’t make your mind work faster. You can’t tell your brain to go into overdrive. You just have to deal with it and hope and idea will come to you soon. I wrote this for all students or for hardworking members of society. I know what’s it’s like to have a foggy mind and not have an idea come to.
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Juliana Castello da Costa
Cactus Point of View INT. KITCHEN – SUNSET The kitchen is quiet. MARGE, a cactus, sits on a shelf. GABRIEL, another cactus, sits on the counter below. Marge looks around and inhales softly. Gabriel looks up at the bottom of the shelf, longingly. He takes a breath. GABRIEL
Um. Marge hesitates.
MARGE
Hey.
GABRIEL ...Do youWOMAN walks in. She opens the fridge and takes out a Chinese food container. She walks over to the counter and reaches for something on the shelf where Marge is. The woman moves Marge, looking for chopsticks. She sets Marge on the counter next to Gabriel. Gabriel glances around. Marge opens her mouth to whisper. Woman brushes Gabriel away a couple of inches. Marge looks at the woman. Gabriel glances at Marge. The woman grabs a mug from a cabinet and sets it, with a tea bag, between Gabriel and Marge. She pours boiling into it, much to Gabriel and Marge's horror of being burned. The woman takes her mug. She grabs her Chinese food from the far end of the counter, accidentally knocking Gabriel very close to Marge. The woman leaves. Gabriel and Marge look at each other. Um, so... Do youYeah.
GABRIEL
MARGE (grins) FADE OUT
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Chloe Cattaneo Anorexia Girl In a ceramic bowl on the hall bench there are 3 beads, a quarter, house keys on a busted ring, 2 college pins. The profile said she didn’t graduate, but who knows what can be weeded out from those websites. My page says I can bench press, after all. Anorexia Girl calls from the shallow depths of her tiny master bedroom, asking me to hang my jacket and take off my shoes. I do. The apartment is flat, some giant force of effort and time has compressed the ceilings to meet the hardwood floors. It’s sunny, though, broken light shed on my anxious toes as they wade through the hall carpet. Looking around, I notice Anorexia Girl has a lot of books. The place is all smooth tan and pressed knots, very chic, very millennial. She emerges from her room in yoga pants that show the starved roadway of her leg bones, the whittled points of her hips, the sinews in her ankles like guitar strings to be plucked. She is not short, but made of bones and packing tape, stretched thin enough to disappear. Anorexia Girl hugs me. She is all angles. Her kitchen smells like food. That must kill her, but the steely look in her eyes, I can tell she likes to die. I have seen it before, determined girls encased in the cast iron of will-not-eat. It is likely that she cooked, not really for me, but to test her own willpower. We sit and dine. I eat chicken and salad, she sucks italian dressing off a toothpick. Her hair has been conditioned recently, I think, and that’s what I focus most of my attention on—the way her hair wound down her, over her, a glistening trail bent through the setting sun. But I don’t know. It is hard to tell these things with girls.
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Victoria Feng Strawberry Blonde The smell of burning turf bits, grass stains and sweaty basketball shorts became increasingly prevalent as I got closer to the quad. The rectangular field of grass at the center of Palo Alto High School is the hub for socializing. A white beach volleyball net stands in the middle of the battlefield and the cream stone benches with engraved legs are mostly occupied by girls in jean shorts with college lanyards dangling from their necks. Across the field on the senior deck, figures in camo cargo pants and aviators play loud R&B. Sculpted legs and soft ponytails sunbathe on vibrantly-colored towels spread sparsely around the court. Typically freshmen and sophomores exchange shy glances whenever passing the upperclassmen grounds but that day, occasionally one would plop a backpack down to use as a backrest while sulking in the chatter, laughter and spiky sensations of shriveled grass below their bums. I had chosen to sit on the quad that day for lunch, a calculated but risky decision nonetheless. The crumbling of plastic wrap and the sucking on empty smoothies eased me. This day as we basked in the wavering smells of prosciutto, oak trees and bath and body works perfume, I met peers of all sorts. I met a few peers who enjoyed to read Cosmo and only Cosmo, a few peers who tried to pitch stock options to me, a few peers who want to be the next James Franco, and a handful of peers who enjoy dipping their fries in an invented condiment created by mixing mayo and ketchup. The types of people I met that day had widespread hobbies and diverse conversation starters, but one particular type made me worried. Do you know the type of people in the world that sometimes make you worry because they almost seem too good for this world, too wholehearted for this world. That boy that always holds the door open for the next person and says excuse me when others bump into him. That teacher that is shorter than you, much shorter than you, has greying hair, a shy smile, constantly damp eyes because she knows that like other days, her students aren’t going to quiet down today either. That friend that you’re not super close with and has so much on their plate but never complains and always can make time for you. They’re the kinds of people that are never tired of listening to you. They’re the kinds of people that feel guilty after they tell you white lies but can’t stand the idea of seeing your eyes dim. If you’re meticulous, you’ll be able to find one of those people every once in awhile. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to befriend one of those people. Fall of 2016, I met one of those people. I met Gigi. Gigi was already a budding legend as a freshman who had transferred from an all-girls private school. People had already heard of her and recognized the familiar strawberry blonde waves from elementary school. She is one of those girls that everyone wants to be friends with but not because she’s magazine pretty or because she can afford to pay for your lunch. People want to be around her because she embodies the motto of genuinely, “living life to the fullest.” She’s the kind of girl that will be at all the parties, always on the dance floor and never seen on the side with the reflection of brightly lit screens. Already, two weeks into school she had made friends with the most well-liked bunch at our school. Her aura was magnetizing to prospective friends and lovers. I’d be lying if I said I remember the moment we initially met. Gigi and I knew of each other since Freshman Orientation, but in a sea of 2000 students, one can understand how ambitious and unrealistic it is to try and meet everyone. Besides, Gigi didn’t seem like the kind of person that wanted hundreds of acquaintances to have shallow conversations filled with gossip and materialistic possessions. You could tell by the way she carried herself and the way her apple cheeks would rise whenever she her laughed that she was not about that. Her distinguishable retro-relaxed style was much more humble than her friends that liked to pride themselves in boasting brand names. But who was I to assume anything about her, I barely knew her then. Some days in Palo Alto, you can see heat waves radiating above the concrete paths if you squat down. It was one of those days when Gigi and I struck up a particularly stand-out conversation after courageously choosing to sit on the quad. Our debate about what a healthy relationship looks like was cut short by the bell. Listo? said Gigi as she tilted her head and waited for me to pack up. What’s listo? Was there a list she needed? Did she say pistol or bismol or lips so… so… so what? I let these thoughts get lost in my head as if they were seagulls flying to the edges of the ocean. Our loyalty was as thick as the century-old sea turtle’s shell, and our secrets were clearer than the kind of salt water that stings paper cuts. I would have never known then that her strawberry blonde waves would become the anchor.
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Kate (Kyungmin) Lee Traveling, like ignorance, is bliss I clutch the threadbare strap of my backpack, playing with the buckles as the taxi rumbles on cobblestone roads. The city is dipped in a comforting but chilled umber, like cooling coffee. But as I climb out the car, the scent is the faint, spicy tingle of wind through mulch and sheltered hearts. As the cynical driver whizzes away, leaving me a gust of exhaust, an immense cathedral steps on my toes. I am face-to-face with towering windows that coax light, flirting with the sun to illuminate their own beauty. Glints of grand glass hit my eager pupils, and I follow my pumping heart into the door. Almost immediately, a cavernous silence resounds. Every click of my boot on stone audible, I tiptoe aimlessly into the pews. Sitting on the warm wood, I listen to the room echo with the shuffle of dust on bibles and the sigh of flickering flames. I sit painfully still, letting my hungry senses soak every breath in. Entranced. There are places where even holding your awe in your fist is hopeless, where bits of your desperate and lonely mind will float and live in the light. Where you lose yourself in the whispers of the walls. Where everything glows. But the loveliest gems hide in gutters. Glancing out the looming window, my eyes catch a litter of trash bags leaning against the curb. A steady drip of coffee falls from an abandoned cup. Cigarette butts like confetti. Two children skip on the street. One in auburn pigtails, the other a newsboy cap. They pause near me. For the cathedral or the trash cans I do not know. Looking closer, I can see the residue of playground dirt and wandering feet on their cheeks. Mischief written on their foreheads. I quickly find the object of their interest: a rusty bike at the end of the road. They whisper, pointing discreetly. The boy pushes the girl in front; she hesitates, her pink flats timid. He leans down and kisses her cheek. She blushes and walks to the bike, her small fingers shivering in the cold. Looking around once, her hands grasp the handlebars. “Come!” The boy mouths. Pulling along a bike not much shorter than her, she bites her lip, nervous. Impatient, the boy joins her, telling her to get on. Her feet barely reach the pedals, but he pushes and she spins her feet, laughing down the cobblestone streets. I watch them disappear, awaken from the trance of the cathedral. How good a wrong thing, how hard a simple heart. My eyes ask the wise stone steps as I walk out, ‘Do you know? So ethereal in your silence, can you tell me what I seek? What we all want here?” Only the rustle of leaves answer. Later, I watch the blazing sirens of a police car dance down the road. A homeless man holds my door at the hotel and I hand him my pocket change. A toothy smile in return. Looking out the balcony, I see a small bird chirp on the windowpane. Traveling in truth is not the escape I wanted. But as I wander, perhaps that is what I seek. A world beautiful and terrible, a reality glorious and harsh. This place does not glow, but here, I am at home.
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Brie Leftwich My Big Teen Crisis CAITLYN (to herself) So there I was eating my sandwich. I mean it wasn’t a real sandwich. It just had lettuce on it. Why? I told my friend, Rose, that I was vegan. I don’t know why I said that I don’t know what vegans eat! I was just so caught up in the moment that I… well you can infer what happened. Anyway it was senior year and all I wanted was for Jack Yader to ask me to Prom. ROSE Someone will ask you Cat. Don’t worry. CAITLYN I don’t know. JACK enters and walks over to ROSE and CAITLYN JACK Hey guys. ROSE Hi Jack. CAITLYN Yeah what’s up bro. JACK (a pause)Not much… Bro. CAITLYN (to herself) What! What’s up bro? Are you kidding me Caitlyn… JACK It’s Caitlyn right? CAITLYN Yep. Caitlyn. Cait-te-lyn. Cait-tel-lyn JACK (laughs) Your funny. CAITLYN (to herself) Wow I’m funny. He’s totally flirting.
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Kaydin Robertson
Dear Young Writers Workshop, I don’t know why I’m bullied so much. People make comments about how I’m obsessed with corn and they ask what is it about me that makes people want to leave the planet. It gets hurtful after a while. No one ever focuses on the good when it comes to me. For instance, A gallon of gas is now cheaper than a gallon of milk. I think that that is pretty swell. Also, I don’t know where you guys are getting the whole: people from ohio are stupid idea. In 2015, the intelligent community forum deemed columbus one of the smartest cities in the world. So I say: suck it. Please stop talking trash. I hope you children learn to respect your elders because this is ridiculous. What has happened to today’s youth? I am two-hundred and fourteen years old and I refuse to be treated this way. I would thank you to kindly keep my name out of your mouth. Sincerely, Ohio
Dear Ohio, With all due respect, we disagree with your existence, and hope you collapse. If Columbus was truly deemed one of the smartest cities, please explain to me why a man would feel like it was a smart idea to jump the fence at at the Columbus Zoo and aquarium to pet some cougars. Also, please explain why your most googled phrase is raccoon hunting. No state that is worth going to has raccoon hunting as their top google search. Why did Christmas eve in Ohio feel like spring break? Ew. Please stop suckinig Ohio. Sincerely, Young Writers Workshop
P.S. Cincinnati smells like ass
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Tylar Schmitt Superhero City INT. SUPERHEROES INCORPORATED – NIGHT CAPTAIN NORMAL, a superhero, 25, slides down a firefighter-like pole. He trudges toward his locker while an alarm sounds. He strips down from his outfit of a polo and khakis and puts on his official superhero uniform of a polo and khakis. VERONICA STAPLES, CEO of Superheroes Inc., 53, confronts him. VERONICA Now Spencer, do you remember what I said earlier? CAPTAIN NORMAL Uh-Yes. VERONICA And what exactly did I say? CAPTAIN NORMAL (sighs) ...That if I don't successfully complete my mission of saving movie star Penelope Forrest from her deranged stalker, then I can no longer work for Superheroes Incorporated. VERONICA Exactly. And don't make me regret sending you instead of The Incredible Stud. CAPTAIN NORMAL ...I won't. VERONICA And make sure you get a selfie with Gary, from the movie studio security. He's a big fan, and it will be good for publicity... Veronica pats Captain Normal on the shoulder and exits. Captain Normal sighs and exits in the opposite direction, off to save the day. INT. FILM DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT Captain Normal mopes in through the dressing room door. PENELOPE FORREST, a famous movie actress, 19, is sitting at a chair in front of a mirror, dabbing her makeup off with a wipe. CAPTAIN NORMAL Don't worry, Ms. Forrest. I'm here to, uh, save youPENELOPE Ugh, Superheroes Incorporated sent you? (a beat) I was hoping for The Incredible Stud...
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Camille Sensiba Lift I will let your hands Lift me, like a child Freeing his classroom’s Monarch butterflies, Until the sweat fills the sink Of your palms and I begin To drown in them. I will let your hands Lift me, let your fingers pretend To be the superheroes that I know You think they are, Until the sun begins to scream For attention and you must reach up To shield your eyes. I will let your hands Lift me, to give the contours of Your knuckles That jolt of God-like power that You always wish for when you blow out the candles, Thin as the matches that lit them and Crying spectrums of wax all over your Devil’s food birthday cake, Until your fingernails grow Too long, too sharp, And create a nest of discomfort. I will let your hands Lift me Until you feel tired Or bored And drop me. I will let your hands Lift me Until you let me Lift myself.
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Victoria Zhang Fresh Thyme Grocery List ● 1 gallon milk, $3.99. 10 5-ounce yogurts, $10 ○ My mother adamantly believes in the almighty calcium, because apparently calcium is the key to having tall children. And so, for years she’s forced milk and other dairy products down her children’s throats before bedtime. For half of fifth grade, she made me drink a glass of milk every single night, and I grew four inches. My mother claims that I grew due to the milk, not a growth spurt. I am not a fervent admirer of dairy—it’s too white, too dense and heavy, and I always think of chunky milk from the time my refrigerator broke — but I’ll eat yogurt for my mother. She always smiles when I remove the silver plastic lining from Fage Greek yogurt cartons, as if she’s imagining that day when I hit 5’4. ● 5 cartons of tofu, $5 ○ My dad has always been a strange man. Last year, Fresh Thyme had a buy-one-get-one sale on tofu, and my audacious dad bought all of the tofu the store had in stock—fiftyone cartons’ worth. My mother wrinkled her nose, as if the tofu stenched up our house. She hates these times when my family becomes too excited about food, at store grand openings and closings and Farmer’s Market. I hate these moments as well, but they’re always entertaining to watch. Her famous glare extended across her face, and she began yelling obscene Chinese expressions at my dad. She feared that we wouldn’t be able to eat it all before the expiration dates. Valerie, Valencia, and I watched amusingly, but we too worried about the copious amount of tofu our refrigerator now housed. Neither of us knew how to cook tofu, nor were we interested in learning how to or in eating it raw. “Don’t worry,” my dad assured us, “I’ll eat a carton with soy sauce for breakfast tomorrow.” We all shook our heads in mockery at him. As if eating a single carton in a disgusting way would make any difference. But I discovered how to bake tofu in occasionally delicious marinades, Valerie and Valencia learned to steal tofu from my lunches. And so, none of the tofu wasted. ● 2 dozen eggs, $5 ○ Fresh Thyme once had an egg-stravaganza sale, thirty-nine cents per dozen. My dad bought twelve dozen of these eggs. He tried to appease my mother’s wrath by salting ¾ of the eggs, a Chinese tradition. And so, my kitchen became home to five bins of salty water and eggs. A few hours later, I clumsily knocked over two of the bins when I saw a deer from my kitchen’s window. Luckily, I only crushed ten eggs, but 134 eggs still remained for consumption. At the end of the month, I found blue mold lily pads floating on the salty lakes. We immediately disposed of the bins and eggs, but the room smelled of moldy brine for a week. We don’t let my dad salt eggs anymore. ● 2 pounds of nuts, $13.98 ○ My family jokes about my mother’s nut consumption, how she can through a few ounces like they’re zero calories and zero fat. We can tell that my mother is stressed from how many nuts she eats. This year, during college decisions time, my mother ate all of the six ounces of peanuts we bought. In two days. The rest of us didn’t get to eat any, but that’s okay. Nowadays, whenever we buy nuts from Fresh Thyme, we have to hide them.
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The Invisimal$, Only the Second ‘S’ Is a Dollar Sign, The Team
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Silas Chu
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Mathew Evans The Impression A small, stuffy room, occupied only by two chairs and the men sitting in them. In the taller of the two chairs is DR. HART - composed, confident, thoughtful – talking to STEVEN RUMMAGE, who slumps down in the other chair, clearly uncomfortable. DR. HART holds a small pad of paper, ready to take notes. STEVEN RUMMAGE I’ve had this…dream…about her lately. We’re meeting at a coffee shop…or maybe an ice cream parlor…and she’s just sitting there, leaning her head up against her hand, looking at me. The room is partly full, the tables around us are all occupied, (pause) sunshine floods in from a window behind her. There’s nothing at our table. (pause) She listens to me…I listen to her…we understand each other. Sometimes she nods, maybe, or laughs for a second. The feeling is nothing intense – not euphoria, not some emphatic love, just…contentment. And when I say “dream” I don’t mean this is some vision I have in the nightjust…an image, a thought that comes to me sometimes when I think about her, when I think about meeting with her. DR. HART I find this very interesting, Steven. Why do you believe this vision of her – STEVEN RUMMAGE (interrupting) Not a vision. Nothing so concrete. Just an…impression. DR. HART Alright. So why do you believe this impression that comes to you of her is so calm? Usually when my patients come to me about unrequited love, the feelings are usually much more…potent. They’ll describe these feelings of love as almost violent, self-destructive even – ripping into them, holding on to them. STEVEN RUMMAGE I mean – that’s still the case. I do feel constricted. It’s just the emotions themselves, the emotions I have about her, are nothing so fiery, so spirited, so zealous. But that doesn’t make them any less overpowering. DR. HART (jotting down a note) I see. I see. This says a lot about you, Steven. I feel as if we’re heading in a good direction. (pause, as he looks up from the pad) Are these impressions ever accompanied by specific conversations? STEVEN RUMMAGE Sometimes…maybe…I’m not really sure. I still don’t quite know how to describe how this dream comes to me – it’s as if another part of me, some part neither wholly conscious or unconscious, is experiencing this moment. As if its occurring on some separate plane than my own thought. Uhhh…im not really sure how to explain it. But I think there might be dialogue sometimes. If there is it would probably go something like this-
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Zachary Lo Chickens Yes, Mr. Andrews keeps chickens in his backyard. Kept chickens in his backyard. Four of them, I think. Cooped up inside a little wire fence, they would just sit there and walk around all day. There was at least one hen, because he would get fresh eggs. He liked to brag about that, you know — “Hey, Ron, how was your morning? I had some nice fresh eggs for breakfast.” He liked to brag about a lot of things. About the chickens? Well, they were noisy. They clucked all day long, and every morning when the sun came up. I don’t know how he ever got any sleep. I certainly couldn’t, let me tell you that. I didn’t. I could hear them through my bedroom window. Right at sunrise, every day. I didn’t — well, yes, I mean it bothered me a little, but — the man has chickens, that’s his god-given right. A man can do what he wants in this country. A man should be able to handle his own personal business. Bragging isn’t the right word. I shouldn’t have said that. It was more like — like this superiority he had all the time, walking around like he owned the place, like he owned the goddamn trailer park — always thought he was better than me. “How’s your kids doing, Ron? How’s your daughter doing, huh Ron, is she out of school yet, huh?” Even though I’m sure he knows my girls never come to visit, he keeps asking. “Do you have any plans tonight, Ron? You know what, Ron, if you ever want to come over, just let me know, my wife and I would be de-light-ed — no — if you ever want a good home-cooked meal, Ron, she makes a great meatloaf — I got these great fresh eggs.” No, I’m sorry. I got excited. He was perfectly respectable. I guess I just don’t like when another man interferes in my personal business. A man has a right to his privacy. It was a wolf. I told someone about this already, I don’t think I — yes, I — okay. It was a wolf, a big gray one. Probably came from the hills, sometimes they sneak down at night. You hear them if you’re up real late. Usually they don’t come down so low. I guess he was hungry. Well, first I heard the chickens making noise, but I didn’t pay much attention. Stupid chickens. Then everything went quiet, and I thought maybe something had happened, but I didn’t think to look until I heard this big crash. So I ran over to my window and looked, and I saw it, pacing in circles behind his stairs, with blood and feathers all over its snout. Not a trace left in the coop. Then it ran at the door again, a flimsy little screen door, you know how these trailers are built — not even real metal — anyway, it broke straight through, and I heard some growling, and a little scream, and then it was all over. Maybe it was full after it finished with the chickens. Maybe the man and his wife were just too loud for it, maybe they were bothering it. You know? I don’t know. It was a wild animal, these things happen. No. I didn’t even open my window. I didn’t want to get involved. A man should be able to handle his own personal business.
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Vincent Mangano Coping is about “I” I was driving when you stopped my breathing. I was very real, you are still fictitious. I reach for your shapes, your masses. I remember your misfortune, your tangles. I weep of exasperation, exhaustion. I drive away from this air here, because you were everything in a town of nothing. I am trying to think of all the things you did and the ways you did them, but you get in the way, you tell me: “I am not on your mind I am your mind. I was your mind.”
Translated into Persian and back into English I got into a car when I was breathing. I was really real, I'm still a fantasy I will return to your masses for your tears. I remember my misery. I'm misleading, tired. I drive this air here because everything in a city is nothing. I try to think of everything you think did the ways you did them but you are walking, tell me: "I'm not in my mind, I'm your mind I was your mind.”
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Jack Parker Dirty Laundry The laundromat was quiet, empty. Harris liked it that way. There was only the soft rumble of the washer next to him as the sweat and the tears and the worry and the vile self-pity of the previous week were washed away under suffocating amounts of store-bought detergent and sudsy water, foaming and frothing. He would make a new start. He would move out, maybe to another state. California, probably. He was liking the thought of California. The bell above the front door rang, and a man stepped in, frosty eyes scanning the rows upon rows of washers, dryers, and laundry baskets on marble countertops that stank of bleach and chemicals, all highlighted under the chilling white glare of the fluorescent lights above. His well-pressed suit shifted in the cool breeze of the air conditioning, revealing a tie the color of cold ocean water beneath. His eyes locked on Harris, who quickly dropped his gaze, hoping the stranger would move to another part of the laundromat or, better yet, realize this wasn’t the store he’d been looking for. Mere seconds later, however, the man walked up to the rumbling washer next to Harris and stopped. Harris could feel the man’s chilling glare on the back of his neck, cold and piercing. Casually, the man spoke, his voice rich as chocolate and thin as a knife. “Are you David Harris, former partner of Rachel Fischbach?” Harris whirled around and glared at the man. Softly, he whispered, “How do you know that?” “I’ll take that as a yes.” Harris flinched back. “What are you--?” “Four weeks ago, Ms. Fischbach found you hosting an illicit drug deal in the living room of the apartment you two shared. When she ordered your guests to leave, you slapped her across the face and shouted a string of obscenities at her. When she in turn ordered you to leave, you did so—and nailed a note to her door the next day. This note described over twenty different ways you would go about murdering Ms. Fischbach and/or her parents. Is this correct?” Harris’s voice began to tremble. “Look, buddy. I don’t know if she put you up to this or something, but you better drop it—“ “She sent you a letter apologizing for not realizing sooner your incredibly vast anger problems. In turn, you sent her a flaming bag of dog feces and a note promising that you would not let her betrayal go unpunished. Is this correct as well?” “Goddamnit, did she put you up to this?” “No. She fears for her own safety. She hired me.” Harris’s eyes grew wide as he realized what the man was insinuating towards. The stranger had arrived bare-handed; no clothes, no laundry basket, nothing. The man said, “Last night, she awoke from a fitful sleep to find you standing at her bedroom window and clutching a large meat cleaver in both hands. Seconds after you realized her awareness, you fled. Is that also correct?” “Hey, man, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but stay back!” “Okay, okay.” The man backed away a couple steps—and pulled out a tiny pistol from one of his sleeves. Harris turned and began to run. Gunshots pierced the silence of the laundromat. One, two, three. Seconds later, a lone figure exited through the front door, straightening his suit and tucking away the pistol. He retrieved a small flip phone from one pocket and dialed the number of Ms. Rachel Fischbach. “The job is done.”
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Ethan Virgil Familiarity Familiar faces fleeting I can’t see what I’m seeking I’m seeking a recognition and pull into Sweet Briar’s campus And see a young doe Anyone, show me a familiar place Matching our stares with naivety He doesn’t move He doesn’t blink
Deja vu, something I can’t identity with I don’t see who’s who weave through the campus to find a parking spot for our van Where’s where And once again see two deer But I look in the air and the sky’s still blue. One standing up in attention So I guess there is some acceptance. the other lazily sprawled across the grass covered earth
Some way to know I’m not alone as I turn my head pan across a world I don’t know I can't comprehend what I see because what I see is something beyond me They don’t seem afraid Something that's not what I expected, the opposite of deja vu something neglected Of what I saw, I travel the world my eyes gloss across Years of humans graciously granting the deer delicious gifts has presented them with a predisposition to us newcomers I look for something familiar but it’s already gone. They don’t seem afraid.
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Anna’s Bananas
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Peyton Allen Clovers The girl who picked Clovers in the dark felt she was unlucky– So unlucky the day she yelled Her words And her parents yelled back, The day her parents Screamed hate and threw up love On their daughter, Their only daughter– The girl who picked clovers In the dark, She waited for a light to point at Her luck and fell asleep Beneath the stars Too soon To find the clovers To find the luck, The girl who picked clovers never realized the sun brought luck when it rose, So she waited with the moon For eternity
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Alicia Argueta
The Bean Belly
The phones rang, doctors ran, nurses followed, blood needed, children crying, loudness, anxiousness and worries supplied the emergency room. My mother was neither of them; my mother was the woman who slowly walked in the emergency room that night without my father stressing out about the baby, without my father by her side. She was taken immediately to the delivery room in a wheelchair. But little did she know that she was coming back to the same place next year. “Señora puje mas por favor!” the doctor said as of the two nurses each hold one my mother’s hands. One of them seem weak, she looked like she had been on duty all day, her senses were low, her eyes were swollen and took deep breaths to control her tiredness, as she tried to rule the craving of her body for sleep. The narrow room was sweltering hot everyone was red hot, no sign of fresh air just boiling stuffy atmosphere. The hour hand pointed eight pm. The bean was out, the bean was born, the bean cried but not for long, the bean looked up took her right thumb to her mouth and decided to eat it. She looked adorable, confused but happy. She was the bean who was about to compose her life to a riddle, the one who was going to bring in too many troubles. The bean who was named Alicia and the bean who was about make her family honored.
22
Arden Jones
23
Kat Sorokin Bloodhound
1. It will be crucial that I am able to run in heels (Check) More than anything, this will be my lifeblood to escape the hounds The click-clack of my heels against the stone sidewalk will serve as a reminder that they could not catch the predatory fox in the concrete jungle 2. I’ll need something to be able to easily tear off (Check) A button down trench is probably the way to go Pale pink, sweet in the sunshine Portraying the image I have oh so carefully thought up 3. Pick a day that does not give off the air of “calm before the storm” (check) Do not underestimate the curtness in the air Do not let them tell you they have a “bad feeling” about the day Laugh and regroup when this happens. Laugh and regroup. Do not bring a thunderstorm when they are expecting a hurricane Susan wants to snap one last picture Something fantastic for the authorities to gaze upon. Susan is all about the show Susan is flirty and fun Susan tells me to flash the camera a carefree smile Susan is wicked. You would not expect Susan to orchestrate a tragedy no, Susan is the tragedy. She can’t wait to see the look on their faces She loves to be scrutinized She wants to shred her image She wants to erupt in a fashionable manner
tear it down
I do not care about the show I care about revenge I care about burning suburbia to flames I do not wish to burst into magnificent mist myself They will send the bloodhounds after us. We are not frightened we do not care They believe we are small tiny frail. But we are merely sharks on land Destined to bring blood to the water 4. Make sure they never know what the hell hit them.
24
Matti Stone Rose Prison I once asked the girl behind bars why she stayed there? In a quiet voice, she explained, “there’s a beauty in the fear of freedom.” I told the sunflower girl why. I don’t think she heard me. After all, she was dancing in fields full of sunflowers. While I was tiptoeing in a room full of red roses. Why would she want to listen? I asked to visit her. I’ve always loved roses, webs of blood-soaked stories told in each petal. “You’ll cut your feet,” her voice stone cold. The sunflower girl didn’t listen. “Why?” I whispered. “I wanted to know why you were afraid to leave.” “It hurts to leave.” “Well of course. If you leave, you’ll heal.” She held my hand, “come I’ll show you.” “Show me what?” I tug her hand pulling her towards the door. I run leaving her behind, just a few feet from the door. “You’re close, but the rest is up to you.” I take a step, the pain penetrating my skin. Her eyes urge me forward. I run, my feet stain red from roses or blood, from which, I’m not sure. Once I’m out I search for the sunflower girl. Neither to be found. I stand in the field, where the sunflower girl once danced. The sky looks timeless. Baby blue melting into lilacs, mauves, and wine red. Colors I thought to be make believe. I stand alone, feeling everything but loneliness. Only now, I realize she was nothing but a voice inside my head, and the prison being my own mind.
25
Ria Subramanian Oversteeped I find that most things can be generated with some formula, almost everything can or will soon be able to be replicated by computers. There are a few exceptions to this, of course, some traits that are exclusively human in nature. All of us have these traits in some form or another, and most of them, from the purely logical standpoint, are considered flaws. My particular vice of this sort is the wonderful art of procrastination, I consider myself a self-taught expert on the subject. Why, by any logic, should one procrastinate? Why waste precious time on meaningless endeavors when the task at hand could be finished so much earlier. I don’t know what it is that makes me want to wait until a breath away from the deadline, until Sunday midnights, or even Monday 7 O’clocks to finish that essay, that paper, that project, that presentation. It happens and I have no control, actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly what I’m doing, when I tell myself ‘just another hour’. That hour turns into two, three, five, and soon I have an hour forty-five minutes to finish two and a half pages of history essay. So, I grab my computer, crack all of my knuckles (twice, just in case), and make sure that in my hand is resting a cup of tea. The essay comes out good, it’s rare that anything in those handful of panicked minutes is bad. I come out on top again, because of desperation, because of the deadline, because of my tea. My absolutely disgusting tea. I nearly gagged the first time I had that tea, bitter tea. Bitter, the bitter that makes your toes curl, your tongue retreats into the base of your throat, you nearly spit it out the moment the lukewarm drink touches your tongue. Bitter tea, oversteeped, tea that had been sitting for at least twenty minutes with the leaves in. It horrible, a waste of a wonderful drink, it’s absolutely vile. It’s strangely addictive. I chug the last few centimeters of now-cold liquid once I type the last word into the computer, lips curling in distaste and satisfaction. What does bitter tea do? Maybe it’s just a routine I’ve built up, maybe it’s just an effect of tea in general having nothing to do with the bitterness of mine, maybe the bitter flavor helps convince me that tomorrow I won’t eat ice cream for breakfast and that I’m finally an adult. Either way, bitter tea still works, bitter tea is still disgusting, and bitter tea is definitely illogical. There is no proof that forcing myself to endure the horrible, cooling, liquid will help me at all, yet I still drink bitter tea. There is definitive proof (and even first-hand experience) that procrastination is a bad idea, yet I still procrastinate. I am not efficient, I am not straightforward, I am not perfectly logical. I procrastinate, yet I still will get the work done. I still chose to drink the bitter tea despite the knowledge that it tastes like hell, that it’s ruining a perfect drink, that it accomplishes nothing. I still drink my bitter tea.
26
Kate Waldron Stars Are Droplets of the Phlegethon spat out into the heavens The cursed she-bear with a broken vow of chastity immortalized through catasterism An elaborate game of connect-the-dots that even the adults are invited to Home to Astraea, the virgin goddess of purity and justice, who fled from the Earth’s corruption, First to the mountains, then to hide in her father’s domain as the Lady Virgo Fish that go by Pisces whose purpose is to remain an eternal symbol Of gratitude, their very existence an honour in its highest form granted by love herself A congregation of angel’s auras light-years away, divine protectors of hope Or cold fireballs slowly fading into the abyss by no fault of their own but rather humanity's greed Promises that there’s still light in the darkest hour if you can bring yourself to look for it Miniscule shimmering sheep, frolicking beside their sullen stone shepherd Contents of an overturned salt shaker upon night’s ink-saturated canvas Fireflies that lost their way and for better or worse can never return to this place Messy five-pointed figures drawn with yellow crayons in kindergarten classrooms Luminescent snowflakes frozen in space, dappling the ebony soil of the sky While on the cracked, wilting ground underneath Two lovers lay hand in hand on the imperfect hillside, Silently admiring the world above.
27
Sequoia Wyckoff playing tag on parker street
We were sitting in Ella Reitinger's backyard. Our thin bodies stretched into 6 wire chairs and a little plaid couch, bare feet dusting the ground, eyes wide. Half were inside. We could hear their laughs ringing and squeals seeping through the thick, safe walls of that brick house. But we were outside, in Ella Reitinger's backyard. The sun was going down, faster than we wanted it to. The air stretched itself inside out, thinning, chilling, so we pulled our wiry limbs towards our hearts, and we breathed out, our wide eyes on the fireflies creeping from the edges of shadows. A year ago we would have leapt up, would have reached our cold hands into the thinning darkness, we would have stolen those speckles of sunlight and kept them with us for what we would all call forever. But today we sat in Ella Reitinger’s backyard. It was summer, and this feeling was fleeting, we were grasping for this stillness the way we grasped for the sharp edged cups of ginger ale and coca cola, just past our fingertips’ reach. The sun was going down too fast. We were in Ella Reitinger’s backyard. It was a birthday party. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been invited to a birthday party. Ella had asked me at school if I thought it would be weird. I said no. I didn’t want it to be weird. I promised her I wouldn’t let it be weird, that under my watch, it couldn’t be weird. I promised her I had that kind of power. To save our fleeting safety. To keep the sun up. I looked around, as I pulled my wiry limbs to my fast beating heart that night. A girl, my best friend, whatever the hell that meant, was sitting to my right. A girl with a mind, a big one, she was across from me, her thoughts turning around themselves, about to burst. And to my left, a boy with a quiet smile. The loud kind of quiet. The sudden kind. The kind of quiet that reached out of that ever thinning summer air and twisted around my beating heart, silence that locked between his eyes and mine, as darkness crept through the slots of Ella Reitinger’s picket fence. I should have said something that night. Maybe the sun would never have set. I don’t quite remember why. Maybe the squeals, the ones seeping through the thick, safe walls of that little brick house, maybe they got too loud, too haunting. Maybe it was the dark, creeping through the slots of Ella Reitinger’s picket fence. Maybe it was the night, the unspoken end of an era. I don’t quite remember why, I don’t quite know why, but the girl with the mind leapt up that night. Let’s play tag, she whispered, and grins crept up our quiet faces. And I was racing down Parker Street, wind in my hair, sandals unraveling. My frantic feet halted, my face to the sky. Two seconds, engulfed in stars. And then I felt the boy’s hand on my shoulder, I shrieked and I smiled. Playing tag on Parker Street as the stars came out. We went inside, when Ella Reitinger’s mother told us it was too dark. Too dark for what, we asked. But we gathered ourselves in the living room, we spread our wiry limbs onto a fraying oriental rug. We had joined the other half, the half that was giggling, squealing. We looked at each other with our wide eyes, our silence intertwined. It was too dark now, too dark for playing tag on Parker Street as the stars came out. The sun had gone down too fast. That was the last birthday party I ever went to.
28
The Edible Arrangements
29
Ella Berg
30
Lindsey Davidson
The Pause Between Our Breaths I used to wait for you, I would stay behind, Till I felt your feet close to mine, Till I felt you exhale. Sending wind down the Curves of my body that You have yet to touch. I used to long for your hand in mine, For your words to come, And tremble through my mind. I used to love you, I used to need you. I thought our strings had been crossed, And our body's would meld together, Like a red wall splashing color into a boring world. Then I felt it, The pause between our breaths, You told me what I looked like didn’t matter, But as the scars started to form, The pauses kept getting longer, Until the silence was, Deafening. I would have stuck by you, But as my face started to deform, Our strings snapped. And you left my body, To wash away, signifying the end.
31
Makena Devereaux The Soul Speaks for the Soldier He squatted in the mud, holding his gun tightly to his chest, trying to make himself believe that it could save him. He was waiting, him and dozens of other soldiers, sat waiting. Waiting for the dreaded signal to jump from the trenches, to run and shoot and fall to the dirt like ragdolls. Dying a soldier, not a man. Dying not knowing why they were here, lying in the mud, choking on their own blood as fellow soldiers fought and fell over their body. He sat waiting for this moment, the moment that would be a portent of his body’s slow, impending decay. He was surrounded by a miasma of fear that made him gag more than the putrid smell that thickened in the trenches each waking day. His boots sunk deeper into a puddle that had become a toxic mixture of urine and rotting human flesh that begun to liquefy into grayness. Body parts littered the trenches, food for the rats and for the soldiers’ gruesome imaginations. The sky was as ashen and bare as the land below it. Gunpowder had become a part of the atmosphere, a part of the air the soldiers breathed and held their breath in. He could feel death touch the back of his neck and run a cold, bony finger down his rigid spine. He wondered if Lucy got his letter, love stained with desire for her to take good care of their child and not to worry about him. As he told her, he was sure to return. Sweat began to gather in the corners of his eyes and run down his cheeks like tears, parting the caked dirt that encrusted them. His eyes burned with the most unequivocal pain that gnawed at his ear drums, his shoulder blades, his whitish gums. He couldn't touch his eyes, he couldn't scratch the prickly feeling that started to grow in his upper calves, no, he kept still. He couldn't move as he sat listening and waiting, listening and waiting, listening and waiting… As time’s vice-like grip tightened, he noticed the brows of the soldiers huddled beside him furrow with deep introspection. How they too knew what was coming. How their cold fingers fumbled to the small bible in their coat pocket and whispered prayers that contorted and curled before falling to the ground from their chapped lips. Finally, they were called to stand ready. Hands that avoided guns now gripped unshakably, hands that gripped were now loosely holding. He leaned up against the side of the trench elbows first, gun pointed. He looked one last time at the sky, of which the sun never seemed to exist in its entirety. He could taste something on the tip of his tongue, something bitter, yet familiar. But he could not name it, not define this taste that was distinctive for a moment like this. Was it torment he thought. No, it was something only few had witnessed, had tasted, had lived; it was hell. A voice sounded as clear and absolute as a whistle in an empty room. The word it spoke tore at the chords of men's souls, straightened eyes, made tears fall, jaws clench, bowels loosen. The word was simple, but an omen for them all. It spoke, “Now!” He ran, up and over, almost slipping in the mud. Taking aim in the midst of sudden chaos that had burst open like a sugar skull struck by a hammer. Screams of soldiers echoed the firing of burning ammunition that tore through one with chilling destruction. He fell to his stomach, crawling on his elbows and knees around barbed wire and mutilated corpses. He suddenly felt incapacitated, immobile by what he saw. Arm being torn from shoulder, red and purple guts spilling from abdomen, neck crumpling like a can. He felt as though none of it was real, it couldn't be. Death couldn't look like this. God couldn't allow hell to exist on earth, consisting of men that didn't deserve a fate so gruesome. A fate no man deserved. Suddenly, he couldn't hear anything, smell, see, touch. His body sank deeper into the mud as the sky started to bleed.
32
Emma Durand
A poem I have to write This poem, is forced. I have to write it, Then it will be read, eventually, By over a hundred people. Great. I have no idea what to write about. I guess I’m not inspired, with deadlines and time limits. Maybe I’ll try saying something funny, if I can make them laugh, They’ll think it's better than it really is. Or maybe not… I don't really understand the teens today. I dont know whats funny. How much longer does this have to be? Five. Four. Three. Two… okay. I'm good. This is a poem, it counts… technically.
33
Stephanie Kasko It wouldn’t be long now It wouldn’t be long now. He let his gaze drift, looking out the window at the lands spread out below him. His lands. Lands he had tended by hand, had cared for, had built a home in. Lands that had taken everything from him. Kaleb. Lydia. Viv and Ellis. All of them gone, gone far too soon, sacrificed in the name of this land, gone because he hadn’t cared enough to step away from his duties, because he hadn’t put them above this duty he had never wanted. He could feel the poison working its way through his body, like ivy spreading through the desolation of a building. For Lyra, he would hold on a while longer. There was so much she still needed to learn, about being the Demon King, yes, but more so about herself. She was so scared, so afraid to be the person - the ruler - he knew she had the potential to be. All his life, he had failed to protect what mattered most. He wouldn’t fail Lyra. He would give her her best chance at being the Demon King he could see within her - and hope that she wouldn’t come to hate him for it. For Lyra, he would fight, but the truth was, he was tired. So incredibly tired - of fighting, of sacrificing, of watching the world pass by without him. He could feel the other side calling, beckoning, and he wanted nothing so much as to step through those gates. They would be waiting for him there, the best friend - the brother - who should have worn the crown. The wife and daughter he had loved beyond light and air and reason, the family his love hadn’t been enough to protect. It had been so long. He had had far too many years to dream of what he would say when he saw them again. Their faces and names had remained burned onto his heart even when his own name had been lost to the mists of time. His only regret was that he would not see Ellis again before he died. His son was lost to him, but not dead. He would not be waiting beyond those gates. It had been an eternity since he had seen his son, since he had spoken and laughed with him. It would have been nice to see him once more, to try and make right some small part of the wrongs that had ruined their relationship so many years ago. Kismet curled around his ankles, purring a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through his whole body. He rested a hand on the leopard’s head, turning away from the window and the lands that he loved and hated with such passion. It wouldn’t be long now.
34
Stefanie Kohler
35
Anna Lang The Last House I paint houses. Every morning, I choose my brushes: fat, flaking, thin, thick, sparse, sponge. I collect them from a towel in a sunny spot and place them in my toolbox. I struggle to load my ladder into the pickup truck. Last month, my hand-me-down truck was deemed too “unsightly” by my neighbors so I carry my ladder out behind the house now. My truck is rusting. I don’t think the moisture and decaying plant matter are good for it. I drive to work. Today work is a long and winding driveway, the pavement butter-smooth. I knock and I am careful not to smear any paint on the door. A woman in a crisp button down and dainty hoops greets me. “You must be the house painter! I hope you managed to receive our special paint order. I know you had to drive all the way into the city to pick it up. But especially considering how hard it was to find the perfect color for us, we thought it would be worth it.” She smiles sweetly, perfume of the same saccharine rolling off her person. “Of course! It’s all in the truck.” I wave to my pickup, and watch her eyes scrape the pockmarked sides. “Well! I should leave you to it then.” She rushes back into the house, fur slippers whispering on the shining wood. The door closes and I make my way back down the stairs. When it comes to painting houses, I like to imagine I am God. I am God, and God is spreading the oceans across a molten Earth with some proverbial paintbrush. Maybe God then decides to create life too: the limber brushstrokes of a human. I hum made up melodies because even God creates to music. But unlike God, I don’t have Sundays off. On Sundays I work on the nice houses. When it comes to painting houses, I like to slowly peel the blue tape away from the window frames. I don’t really need a half an hour to peel off tape, but I like to steal stories during my time at the seams between out and in. Today, I manage to steal a piece of a living room: a shiny-wet grand piano in the corner of a plush carpet and a glass bowl of peonies. With the suddenness of lightning, I see myself at that piano, laughing and playing while a man I do not know laughs lovingly along. I blink once, feverish. It all winks out like an old television, but in its absence is aching heat. I burn in intensity and reality. I burn in the desire that weighs at the pit of my every fruited thought. The fire uncovers every ugly utterance and I am moving, moving unapologetically with no bounds to manners or society because I deserve it. I deserve to be a part of the inside. I tremble dangerously at the top of my ladder. I lift the paintbrush above my head and hit the window pane, over and over. Pieces of glass groan and tumble. Soon, the hole is large enough and I climb through the jagged opening with sloshing buckets of paint in my hands. Every stroke on gilded wallpaper, every splatter on marble floors is a salvation, a right to a wrong. I dance with paintbrush in hand, the burning feeding a frenzy that is slick and colorful and hot to touch. Twirl! Jump! Spin! Dance across all of these damn houses. On the last pirouette that stops, breathless and beautiful, there is a bow but there is no applause. There is only silence, a silence made heavy by recent disaster. I look up, arms bleeding and blood dripping into the paint puddled at my feet while the woman in the crisp shirt and earrings quivers in shock. There is a smear of paint on her cheek. I leave without any words. This is the last house.
36
Juliane Purves Ode to the Cat’s Eye O beautiful beholder of light, You stir emotion in the most profound of ways as You hover above frozen fields, You hide in the sound of falling snow and winter winds blowing through the trees. You are silent, like the black panther lurking within You about to kill its prey. You are thirsty for blood, not the dirtied water polluted with sin from which You are now sober, as You drape Your glowing emerald cloak over Your skin to hide the crystals of ice laced within Your veins. You yearn for warmth, yet You are cold. You are a creature of the darkness, yet You have befriended the shining star of Hope in these skies that urge You to wander from one land to the next, as You try to find the parables that You seek: You are made of the heavens and the earth. You did not choose to be born. You have just as much right to be here as Anybody Else. You are wholly enough, and You are Loved because if You put Your faith in Love, it will always come back to You.
37
Suite Potatoes
38
Lauren Burrell
Her mother told her that when entering a store, she must never place her hands in her pockets, because you always appear to be stealing. Doesn't matter if you just stepped through those doors or if the pockets are way too small to hold anything other than a tiny girl's hands. Nevertheless the girl listened and kept her hands clenched in tight fists on both sides of her frail body as a reminder. Her mother also warned that she should not ever conceal her head with a hoodie, because others may feel threatened by your presence. “But I'm cold,” the girl whispered between tightly closed lips. And she shivered as the air became brisk as they neared the frozen food section of the store. The mother wrapped a tight fist around the girl’s bicep gripping it, while the girl released a soft whimper. “They won’t care if you’re cold, or that hairs upon your arm stand up, or if goosebumps pebble your skin. Skin from African American, you're automatically a suspect.”
39
Kate Cauvel Close Your Eyes Just close your eyes You’re safe tonight Dream big Reach for the skies Just close, close, close your eyes Just close your eyes Be safe Be wise Watch out Don’t die Just close,close, close your eyes Just close your eyes Ignore the cries In here It’s alright Just close, close, close your eyes Scat/Improv Just close your eyes You deserve this It’s fine Dream a little dream of me Then finally you will see Just close, close, close your eyes Just close your eyes Never let them tell you lies Focus on the prize Just close, close, close your eyes Just close your eyes You can drop the guise Don’t scream at the surprise Just close, close, close, close, close, close Wait Open your eyes
40
Elizabeth DeVido Yorick, Confessions of a Skull I was quickly forgotten after they buried me, which is the greatest insult one could give a man such as me. Not because forgetting someone is despicably rude, but because I had thrived off an occupation that demanded I be memorable. So as per tradition since the beginning of time, I as the dead must right the wrongs of the living. First and foremost, my name is not even close to Yorick. It is Archibald Helmholtz. “Yorick” came to be my stage name when in a drunken stupor, I was dancing with a lady and noticed a boil on her arm. Believing she was ill, I said to her “You are sick,” but the liquor flopped my tongue to say “Yorick.” Hence from then on, I was and would forever be Yorick. I was born by the seashore, wherein one of my first decrees as a new living being was that I was, in fact, a mermaid, as demonstrated by the plethora of seashells I had adorned my infant clothes with. I never liked my home, or the people in it. My parents and siblings, twelve in all, or twelve and a half if you count little baby Orsino who died in infancy, were a breed of people grown and harvested from the color grey. As soon as I was old enough, I left that dreadful place and the dead walking in it. Old King Hamlet discovered me when he found me by the shore, my head fully submerged in the sand, my feet pointed proudly to the heavens. “You wish to make a fool of yourself?” the old king said. “Make a fool of myself?” I said, as two guards plucked me by my ankles from the sand like a daisy. “Sir, I cannot make of myself what I`ve always been!” With that, the king invited me to his court to be his royal fool. They dressed me in the most splendid colors, none of which matched in the most exquisite way. My first performance ever was at the young prince Hamlet`s second birthday. The little prince sat bouncing on his mother`s knee, milk dripping from his chubby royal chin, the first hints of dark hair curling about his scalp. Queen Gertrude herself sat by her husband`s side, tickling the blob of flesh that was baby Hamlet`s tummy. I sang a song of Zeus seducing a female cow, bells twinkling at my ankles. I ended it with a loud “Moo!” and the court rumbled with applause. The young prince giggled and clapped with meaty little hands. And I have skipped on the titter of that laughter ever since. The boy was not quite a son to me, but not just a spectator. I sang him to sleep in the pale moonlight, sitting by his royal cradle, listening to his princely coos. When he was seventeen, I gave him advice when he came to me with the stunning revelation that Polonius`s daughter Ophelia, the blue-eyed girl he`d tormented and teased in his boyhood, was now heartbreakingly beautiful to him. He told me his fears, his desires, his dread of the future, his ever-lingering love affair with death and what it meant. I waved him goodbye as he sailed off to study afar, two weeks before I would find myself face down below a blade for insulting the king`s taste in wine. I was bored in the grave, with only two jolly gravediggers for company. From what I heard from them, the old king was dead and his brother Claudius took his place as Gertrude`s groom. I never liked the king`s brother, he was a vulture-shaped man with a nose that displeased me. One day, as the gravediggers sorted through the repertoire of bones, a hand lifted my skull, now snapped from my spine. It was Hamlet! My noble patron! But the little boy was gone now. His black hair had grown into swirls of inky waves, his once chubby chin now sharp and sprinkled with youthful new hair. His grey eyes stared at me, then he said my name. “Alas, poor Yorick.” I would have smiled at him, if I could, if my jaw hadn`t been locked in place and my golden teeth stuck. I felt a warmth that would`ve spread through my ribcage, a tremble that would`ve been my heartbeat. He remembered. I knew my melancholy prince would not forget me.
41
Tiantian Fang Burned
I ran, my slippers clumping along the gravel walk. The brisk, rhythmic sound squeezed into a restless buzz of cicadas uttering louder cries than ever. Soon my feet were halted by my grandfather. “Flapping sounds will alert the snakes,� he whispered. I began to walk more carefully. My eyes fell upon a breeze passing by the cornfields: straws bowed and some broke off. They used to bear heavy fruit before farmers snatched those golden kernels in mid-autumn. It would be a total lie for me to say that I marveled at such a common view of the countryside. Needless to say, a cozy Sunday afternoon like this should have been spent windowshopping, video gaming, singing karaoke, and simply celebrating a city's liveliness; but I was stuck in the countryside where people would rather embrace their plain, motionless lives. I sat down with my grandpa on the front stairs of his cottage, which faced the cornfields. I did not have a very close relationship with my grandpa, perhaps because I rarely paid visits to the countryside and he rarely came to the city. An awkward silence stretched the distance between us. As time slowly elapsed, lethargy started to creep in. The cicadas' buzzing gradually faded, or the afternoon drowsiness came to trick my senses. More possibly, the noisy bugs submerged in an even louder cacophony. It sounded like plastic wrappers being crumbed into wrinkled pieces. Higher pitches supplemented lower ones, gradually filling my ears and giving me an uncomfortable sensation. The sound slowly amplified. A bundle of thick black smoke fumed in the same direction as where the sound came from. My instinct told me that something was on fire. I panicked slightly. I would have called the police if this was the city, but a fire wasn't an uncommon thing in the countryside, where people usually burned coals in their backyards to cook. But I couldn't help wondering. What if it really is a fire? Should I just neglect it? Though I had a vague uneasy feeling, I decided not to worry about it around the same time my grandpa brought me some peanuts for a snack. Having something to chew on gave my brain a break. But the worst scenario happened. I watched the wind swirl over the cornfields. I smelled a pungent odor that spread and deepened at my nasal cavity. I heard the sound of crumbing plastic wrappers became even more frantic than before. I saw the smoke pile up, forming into enormous black-colored clouds. An overwhelming darkness had extruded the clear blue sky. Burned. At least one third of the cornfields were on fire. Guilty of my indifference, horrified like never before - I sprung up from the stairs, desperately looking into the distance. "What is going on over there? A fire?" I asked, my voice trembling, obviously knew the answer. "Over there? They are burning the fields." "They? Burn the fields? What for?" "It makes space for next year's planting, and ashes help keep the soil fertile." The golden ocean drained in seconds. Charred roots of straws were exposed in the air, like riffs and rocks revealed above the sea surface. Nothing else was left. All was burned—into ashes. "This time every year," my grandpa complained, "they just keep burning the ground like that." He lit up the cigarette between his fingers, his head turned towards me, his tone uninterested, "Country life is so boring, isn't it?"
42
Abby Hamilton Snapshots of a Car Crash The first thing I remembered was the sensation of twisting, how this sudden G-Force whipped my head back and forth until I could no longer feel my neck. It was as if I had become a part of my car, my body now beaten back and forth like the gear shift. Then, there was the worst sound that I will ever hear: the roof of my car as it screeched against the pavement, worse than nails on a chalkboard, worse than a fork scratched against a plate. I could hear my bones crunch and crumble, in sync with the now obliterated windows. Blood and adrenaline clogged my throat, and in a single, intense sweep of pain, more powerful than an ocean undertow, I welcomed blackness. You snap your head back to the road for the seventh time, though you know you will shortly end up gazing out your car window again. A carnal mess of smoking wreckage glistened with innards to your left, just beyond the rumble strips. And you have a sudden urge to veer your own car off the road and into the trees, watch the airbags activate, relish the snap of your neck. But that is wrong, that is horrible, you are alive unlike that gnarled body beyond the rumble strips. What they say about car crashes is true, you think. Once you catch a glimpse, you cannot look away. So many people rush to car accidents, whether on purpose or from the sheer coincidence of there being a wreck along someone’s commute. Everyone is connected: the EMT who held the charred woman as she died will hug his wife tighter now whenever they touch. That woman who passed will never hug her wife again, or cuddle her Persian cat, which will run off into the storm drains when his owner does not come home. The car company will receive backlash for the gas tank that exploded, and they will do a sweeping recall, a few refunds, a new commercial. Each innocent intact vehicle that passes the subdued flames will wonder what happened, who died, did they ever see her once at the bank. Everyone is connected. Susan Clearwater was only supposed to be out for milk, but as soon as she grabbed the the keys to her silvered minivan, her fate was sealed. There were tufts of snow on the road from a freak microburst of winter earlier that week; Susan never liked it when this happened, for March and April were supposed to be months for crocuses, not crunchy bags of rock salt. Her minivan purred along, Musak turned down low on the radio. The 24-hour Mart was in sight when Susan thought she glimpsed a squirrel dart into her path, and she swerved to the right into a massive oak tree that had grown next to the roadway guardrail its whole life until Susan barreled through its trunk. All Susan thought of while she died was how her oven was on, replete with lasagna; her husband wasn’t home yet; the plants had to be watered, and she needed to get this goddamn milk. An explosive car crash detonated off a secluded country road last evening. A caravan of cars, four families who tried to trek to a vacation together, all collided in one big metal flapjack pile, fresh and steaming. No one survived. There were a few still alive and tortured when a cacophony of sirens arrived, but they flitted off to the Great Unknown before the Jaws of Life or jazzed-up defibrillators stepped in. The luggage was picked over, some outfits deemed intact enough to donate to Goodwill. This story would be on the 11 o’clock news, pictures of each family washed out in the T.V. studio. It would be the last moment anyone cared.
43
CG Marinelli Barbie Dolls and Mini Raisinettes The room underneath the stairs made us feel like Harry Potter. It was sizeable for a cupboard, but the slanted ceiling was barely tall enough for me, a child, Only three feet tall, But the height of the ceiling didn’t matter-Not when all my barbie dolls laid scattered, Mini raisinettes stuck in their once perfect bleach blonde hair. This was my safe space My Valhalla Where my mother told me to go if someone broke in, or if there was ever a terrible storm This was my happy place, Where my sister and I could laugh and play for hour and hours upon end, The pounding of our parents footsteps Pacing up and down the stairs above us Transforming into the rhythmic reverberations of a waltz, Perfect for pretend coronations and royal balls. In the corner of a room we kept a secret box full of our most prized possessions: Hair--none our own--but rather the barbies’ that we cut ourselves, A mixture of chocolate milk and lemonade in an Ozarka bottle That always left the air smelling slightly sour, And the pictures we took when we stole our mothers old polaroid. We spent our first seven years in this cupboard, Until I was too tall to stand, Until the house was sold Learning all about the joys of cavities and crushes and cutting our own hair, The room underneath the stairs no longer ours.
44
Emma Reilly
Ivy trails up the side of the little blue house on the corner of the street. Rain wears away the siding and wind erodes the shingles down to nubs; the neighborhood is quiet. Potholes dot the cracked asphalt, filled with rain and mud and ashes from cigarettes tossed carelessly out of car windows. The town rots from the inside out as nature reclaims it, buildings caving in on themselves and roofs ripping apart from the thick branches of indigenous oak trees. Fall comes and goes and comes again, leaves blowing across the deserted roads and sweeping past empty houses; winter brings ice that tears cracks into sidewalks like gashes in the concrete. Spring arrives with a plague of dandelions and wild grasses that invade every inch of the old town until it’s warped, unrecognizable -- until the infested town is something else. A young girl runs through the tick-infested brush, weeds tickling the soft brown skin of her thighs, and gets lost in the ruins. Two lovers run into a meadow that once was made of gravel and potholes, and forget who they are. Something prowls in the wood and wanders into the faded blue house on the corner of the street; it doesn’t leave.
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Nori Stone Thief “You’re fired.” No one likes hearing those words. They are the epitome of what you do not want to hear, especially when you are new to the workforce at a young age. So, imagine my shock and disappointment when my boss called me in one Saturday to say just that. “C- can I ask why?” I said, dread pooling into my stomach. “One of your fellow employees revealed that you have been stealing art supplies from the store.” Mr. Jones shook his head, his normally kind eyes filled with disappointment. “I was told that you don’t have enough money to get art supplies for the big art contest we’re hosting, so you decided to steal.” I choked out a laugh and ran a hand through my long, red hair. “I have never stolen anything in my life! Who told you that? I don’t need money, I’ve already bought all my supplies.” My arms were shaking, probably from all the emotions but possibly from the amount of caffeine I had had that morning. “I have given the employee permission to remain anonymous.” Mr. Jones continued looking at me with pity. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed money, Sadie? I would have deducted it from your next paycheck if you had asked.” “I’m telling you, I didn’t steal anything! What proof do you have?” “A security footage of a redhead in a plaid shirt and paint-splattered jeans shoving paint in her shirt with one hand, while drinking a can of soda with the other. Because of this, I also cannot allow you to participate in the art contest.” My world shattered. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Rage? Depressed? Like curling up on the couch watching whatever’s on Netflix and drowning my feelings in a Hershey’s chocolate bar? I walked out of there on autopilot, like a zombie. I wallowed in self-pity at my house, before having a revelation. I knew that I didn’t steal anything. I will find whoever did this to me and I will make them pay.
46
Lizzie Svach INT. CAR-DAY. DECEMBER 23RD. BEN, A FRESHMAN IN COLLEGE AND THE ELDEST BROTHER, IS BACK FOR WINTER BREAK. JAMES IS A FRESHMAN IN HIGH SCHOOL. THEY ARE RETURNING FROM GROCERY SHOPPING TO PREPARE FOR CHRISTMAS DINNER, DRIVING DOWN AN ALREADY SNOWY, WOODED ROAD AS IT STARTS TO SNOW AGAIN. BEN, THE DRIVER, LOOKS SERENE, WHILE JAMES FIDGETS IN HIS SEAT, A LUMPY DUFFLE BAG AT HIS FEET. BEN: (distracted) Doesn't driving through snow just kinda, I dunno, make you feel really safe? Like, protected? JAMES: I always feel trapped. Or like I’m about to be trapped. Hence the provisions. BEN:(teasing) Right, but the thing is, James, it doesn't quite make sense to bring provisions in the car if we're already going to the grocery store to get food. JAMES: We could've been stranded on the way there. That's the thing. BEN: That's right. And then there we'd be, half way to Jewel with a box of granola bars, a shovel, and 3 water bottles between us, saved. JAMES: And all in the emergency preparedness bag. So it's convenient. BEN: Yes, because convenience is leaving 10 minutes later than necessary and sporting a bulky duffle bag. JAMES: Well... all I know is that we're safe right now because we haven't been stranded, and if we did get stranded, we would still be safe. BEN: W-... (thinks for a second) actually, you know what? That's a fair point. You win this one. JAMES:(proudly) Thanks. BEN: But I still like driving in snow. JAMES: And I still think you're weird. BEN: Hey! It's actually very intellectual, very Robert Frost-esque… Have you read him yet? JAMES: He's the road less traveled guy, right? BEN: Yes, he's “the road less traveled by guy" I guess. JAMES: Only that one, I think. Maybe some others in school? I'm not sure. (pause) Sooo, speaking of school, how's college? Is it everything you dreamed it would be? Are you the big man on campus? BEN: Big man on campus? Really? (beat) No, it's cool, you know? It's nice to feel... like I'm my own person, you know?... Like I finally have some, some control. (shakes head) I dunno. It's alright. I guess I might still be adjusting... I miss you guys, though. JAMES:(nods) ...Mom and dad miss you too. They try not to make it too obvious, though, you know? They don’t want you to feel guilty about leaving. (Ben looks ahead at the road, nodding slowly) And... I guess I kinda miss you too. BEN:(breaks mood with teasing voice) Who, little old me? JAMES:(defensive/panicked) Shut up. No I don't. (looks out window) Maybe. Only on Wednesdays. BEN:(smiles) No, uh, that means a lot to me. Really. I'm, I'm glad to be home. JAMES:(smiles out window). END SCENE
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Lydia Wilkie Thoughts
I often think of you. I think of how I should’ve thought of you, when you were not sick. I think of you sat in your rocking chair, thinking of if I thought of you. I think of what I should've thought. But maybe you thought of the things I forgot. I think if I thought more of you, it would be easier to not think about what I should've thought.
48
…and Dill
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Ailis Brown EXT - STREET – MORNING A woman, NATALIE, walks up the street and to a small shop. She unlocks the door and goes in. A few cars go past, breaking the silence. INT - STORE - MOMENTS LATER Natalie flips the lights on and heads to the back of the store. Candy dispensers line the walls and the metal ice cream containers are empty. Natalie emerges from the back with an apron on and starts replacing the empty containers with filled ones. She starts to clean the tables when the bell above the door rings. A WOMAN and CHILD walk in and the boy runs to observe the ice cream flavors while the woman types on her phone. Natalie moves behind the register and glances at the clock. It's only 10:00 a.m. NATALIE Welcome! WOMAN One scoop. Chocolate. The woman's voice is cold and unfriendly. NATALIE Oh...okay... BOY "No! Not chocolate! The woman looks up from her phone in exasperation. WOMAN What then. BOY Um......oh! Rainbow! WOMAN Fine. The woman briefly makes eye contact with Natalie. WOMAN (CONT’D) One scoop. Rainbow. Natalie attempts to scoop the ice cream, but it's too firm. While she runs the scooper under hot water, she hears the woman's foot tap impatiently, although she says nothing. WOMAN (CONT’D) How much. Natalie hands the ice cream to the boy. BOY Thank you! The woman hands Natalie the exact amount and leaves, her son struggling to keep up with her long strides. The bell rings and Natalie stands at the counter, looking at the doorway. She rubs her eyes and goes back to cleaning the tables once more.
50
Jocelyn Chin Words I like Words pretty nature friends contentment Sparkling sky blue fading time passing Sunset brilliant pink and purple voices murmuring Prickly grass green tickling dirt crumbling Observation friends awe aspire shyly wanting to try Happy shouts friendly teasing Ugh boys okay fine I can do it I can do it too Smooth bark gray and brown Hoist Climb Struggle Tips advice boost grasp pull help please thank you Sitting on the tall branches leaves fan breeze blows joy flows Legs swinging fingers gripping Friends laughing careful perching beautiful view field fence sky rapture Parents love calling home Stuck oops laugh realization panic tremble friends urge rush Stuck behind me I was in the way (not words I like) ground far away Vision swirling heart beating eardrum pounding loud blood rushing Breathe in don’t think just do Jump Land Impact Triumph survival sweet earth slightly dramatic recovery exhilaration Everyone immediate no hesitation landing standing walking gone Friends laugh clap wave see you tomorrow good night Passing time fading blue sky sparkling Contentment friends nature pretty words
51
Caroline Danielski Untitled I joke sometimes that I can never hold a grudge. It’s true. my bad memories are wraiths, slipping through locked doors into shadowed cells, and I refuse to peak inside. It’s a lie. There is one grudge. A young girl, tall for her age, woven of sad specters, too sad to be locked in. She sits in a dark corner and murmurs honey-sweet. She hasn’t consumed my vinegar. Tells me of those days when even books were no solace. No world available to her aching heart. She speaks like cotton and it’s easy to ignore. Until I clear my mind to think of you. And suddenly I hear her sobs. And I remember. I don’t need ghostly visions to know the grief of being left by everyone. I could never forgive anyone, tell anyone, say anything. Instead I let it stew, and spice it with regret.
52
Eliza Griggs Jay Jay The first time she walked out of the tiny elevator onto the second floor of our town house on east 93rd street, I have to admit, my four year old self was a little frightened. I have never been very open to meeting new people. To be honest, I don’t have a great history with babysitters: I spit on Esperanza and Lucia, and punched Iodelie in the stomach. To be fair I was 3: careless and unaware and demonic. She carried a scent; always the same one. It was artificial, from what was probably one of calvin klein's strawberry scents. Little did I know, I would soon fall in love with that scent, in all of its strawberry glory. She was a very large african american women; she called herself a teddy bear. She was never ashamed of her looks, rather she was proud. She loved being a teddy bear. She started working for my family around the time my little brother, Sam, was born, and stayed with us until our move to houston five years later. She was in her late twenties, but I always thought she was a teenager because of her immature charisma. She claimed to be 5’9 but she was closer to 5’7. She always wore shorts that came down to her knees and a loose polyester shirt that was usually purple or blue, or both. For the first few years she worked for us, she wore a straight wig, which I discovered when I attempted to pull her hair and her hairline began receding quickly. She liked to keep things to herself. I used to ask her about her boyfriend, as any young girl would, and she would proceed to tell me to stay out of her “beezwax”. One day, I finally got his name, but I never did get a picture. Just two years ago, my mom told me that Jay Jay was married and apparently she had been for a few years. I felt betrayed that such a huge milestone had happened in her life and she hadn’t cared to share it with me. As a kid, I would tell her about every insignificant event that happened in my life: every crush, every laugh, every cry. I asked my mother if her new spouse was Taj, the only boyfriend I ever got a word about, because I just assumed he was the only man in her life. On the contrary, her husband turned out to be some man whose name has yet to be disclosed to me. Regardless, I love her. Janelle St. Rose, who, because of the nickname my brother gave her when he was nine, is now known by everyone close to her as Jay Jay, was my friend and babysitter for five years. I know it is unusual to consider the person who is supposed to be taking care of you as a friend, but she was my friend, and she would never admit this, but I was her’s. She wasn’t merely a friend, but she was also somewhat of a secondary mother figure. She would braid my hair every morning before school into two blond pigtails, streaks of sun kissed highlights exposed through the braids, tied off with small pink bows. My mom was never capable of braiding my beautiful blond locks. My brothers and I still see Jay Jay about every other year because we occasionally have her babysit us when we are in new york, ignoring the fact that we are too old to need a babysitter as an excuse to spend time with her. She and I also exchange texts every once in awhile. I fear the inevitable day that we will no longer associate; my only connection to her will be the memories. She is and always will be my teddy bear. I will always remember her as providing familiarity, comfort, a hug, and on an unrelated note, a refreshing stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum.
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Alexandra LaTrenta A Recipe of Disaster Eight cups of flour, Four teaspoons of baking powder, One teaspoon of salt. No longer a majestic escape, But clouds of soot thundering around me, trapped. Measurements frantically tossed around, Tablespoons, teaspoons, cups Dump themselves unquantifiably into my brain, their forgotten numbers skimming through like a dull knife over the butter I reach to slice. Milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla―names flap and flutter by, dancing butterflies in packs of thousands, fleeing and shouldering their homes with them. After whipping and whisking and stirring and beating, I slip the product into the airless oven, a ferocious mouth devouring the tray in one savage chomp. As harrowing seconds thump by, a lone polar bear roams through a frigid wasteland, moaning and groaning for one satisfactory meal. “Baking is chemistry,” my mother often lectured, expecting me to mutate into the cooking world’s next prodigy. My barren stomach moan, the polar bear’s cry rumbling through my throat wildly spouting out my mouth, a bursting sewage pipe spilling putrid contents over the white marble floor. “Just follow the recipe faithfully, and even the Queen of England will appreciate your work.” But did she account for my trembling hands, tremors of anxiety, stumbling over every simple task? What about the sweltering heat of the oven, searing and scorching and torching every morsel to dust? The fire has ruthlessly destroyed my cookies, now blackened, charred, and inedible. I guess the polar bear will have to starve.
54
Megan Riley Nights In We have been doing these a lot lately. My sister and I that is. If we aren’t out with friends or we are tired from a seemingly never ending day, we have nights in. “Oatmeal or chocolate?” she asks me with sparkling icy blue eyes. “OATMEAL AND CHOCOLATE!” we both shout in unison. We have been baking cookies a lot lately as well. It is sort of becoming a weekly tradition I guess. As I am assembling the ingredients, she navigates through Itunes in search for the perfect playlist, my sister that is. We begin to pop lime flavored popcorn, Our favorite. Now to most it may sound unappetizing, but trust me, it’s delicious. While the cookies calmly turn from dough into a crispy golden masterpiece, I watch each kernel pop one by one on the stove. They remind me of tiny landmines, just waiting to be set off so they can burst into a huge explosion. The sweet scent of crisping cookies and melting chocolate seeps its way out of the oven and into my nose. With each inhale, it becomes more and more apparent, until my sense of scent has adjusted and the smell has disappeared. The scent has become a symbol for me, a symbol of comfort, relaxation, and reliability. Like family, I come back to this scent every week. The startling chorus of one of Taylor Swift’s many breakup ballads tugs me back into reality and out of my wondering stance. Seconds after, the timer goes off. I peer into the oven and immediately feel a hot gust of air rush to my face. Perfect. The cookies are a stunning golden-brown, crispy on the edges but the perfect chewy texture in the middle. If I have learned anything from our nights in, it’s how to make a perfect cookie. We pull them out and lay them on a tray, impatiently awaiting the moment they aren’t hot enough to scorch our tastebuds. Taylor’s song slowy fades to silence as the repeating chorus gets quieter. Now I am left with my sister’s sparkling eyes and the occasional pop of kernels. A new song starts to play, and from the first couple of chords my sister and I are already singing and dancing across the kitchen floor. The sun is now setting, just barely peeking above the edge of the earth. As if it is longing to be a part of our night in. The clouds above it create an image with strong hues of champagne pink and cotton candy blue. Intertwining with one another to create a lavender tornado in the center of the sky. By this point, we are screaming the national teen-girl anthem, Party in the U.S.A. at the top of our lungs. We are so compelled under Miley Cyrus’ iconic lyrics, we don’t even notice the popcorn begin to burn. These are the nights I live for. Nights consumed by chick flicks and sugary sweets. Nights lacking real thoughts or emotions other than pure, innocent, bliss. Nights containing neverending dance parties and out of tune singing. The nights where everything seems so simple. As we delusionally gaze towards the tv screen, we watch the credits for Clueless pass by. My sister has been swept off into a sweet slumber. In my fuzzy state of sleep deprivation, I am contemplating one thing in my mind. I wonder when we will do this again, when we will have another night in.
55
Dead Poets
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Mary Katherine Baker The Ache of the Real World My head is throbbing so hard it feels like my brain is going to explode. I’m reminded of that British officer in 1812 who told an American, “Surrender or I’ll blow your brains out!” So modern for the early 1800’s. I wonder what soldiers were like. What if our society had been composed of only soldiers, or their internal culture--how would it have moved things forward or backwards, how would it have rattled things? Oh no, rattled is the wrong word. God, I need to get clear, why are the lights so bright. I could die right now this is killing me. I hope my lipstick isn’t in my teeth--I hate how gold is in, always and forever... I wonder if Mom’ll be pissed I’ve bailed on her tea party thing with Sharon and her neighbours. God, her stupid, droll block mates. God, my sister. Always so pristine and perfect. Maybe ‘perfect’ is my perfect, is that so wrong? She likes to cover up, and I like to see the skin through the eyes of the fish, I’ve always liked fishnets and she’s always hated them. I like the ocean dark and stormy, if I’m gonna wear them, and she can’t stand the ocean if it doesn’t reflect the world. A bright and sunny world, always... Why do people run red lights? How do you not stop to think someone else is coming? Someone else is in your way and the two of you are going to collide like ships, worse than ships. “Hey, sweetheart, where ya been, I been waiting half an hour!” “I’ve been sleepin’ it off. What time is it?” “12:30,” he shows me his iPhone. Jesus, it’s Wednesday--yesterday couldn’t have been Tuesday, no. No way. Why do his teeth have to shimmer like that--lord, the sun is reflecting off his teeth but they’re glowing on his phone, and I can’t take the shine and I just need to sleep. Oh yeah, my eyeshadow matches the gold, too, makes us both pop, I guess. He gives me the bag with the phone, that’s smart, like le Carre-spy good. Nice. Nice, nice… Crap, what about the cops? They see us glittering like El Dorado from two miles away and they’ll fire from that far away too ‘cause we look like their shooting-range targets--shadows, figures-, won’t even wait to see the one white part of us--the eyes before the pop. Oh god, I feel sick; I just want to bail--where did I put the cash? Jesus, Sharon, give me a break why do gotta text me now. Lord help me I’m in the middle of something, always in the middle of something. Who said that thing, that quote, “Be yourself everyone else is taken?” Oh did I said that aloud? Oops. “Oscar Wilde, sweetheart. But my boy Shakes did it better: ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to no man.’”
57
Madison Gagne
Lilac I was wondering if you’d like to go to the beach with me, just the two of us. Like when we were children, but instead of juice boxes we can drink something harder, something we can drown ourselves in. We can bury our toes, counting constellations even though we know none and celebrating our survival in this complicated world. I was hoping you’d join me to go back to our simplicity. The sunset the other day was that shade of lilac you like. I thought of you as we watched it on the street, cars driving into it and out of it, faces covered with the glow. I can so clearly remember sitting out on the sand, watching the sun dip into the water and the colors smear across the sky. I can so clearly remember how much you liked the lilac whereas I liked the orange, the orange that looked like the sweet juice we drank when the sun rose. I can so clearly remember the way you danced on the sand to bathe yourself in the shade, twirling until your knees fell, collapsing into the beach, and stretching your arms out to feel each grain. And I can so clearly remember the way we loved each other. I really hope you’ll come to the beach with me.
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Mackenzie Glenn Three words or less PHOEBE enters the house. PHOEBE Hello who’s here? PHOEBE’s mouth is soon covered by ROWAN. Rowan takes her into the broom closet. Rowan closes the door. Slowly locks it ROWAN Someone’s here. PHOEBE Who is here? ROWAN I don’t know. PHOEBE Oh my God. ROWAN They broke in. PHOEBE How do youROWAN Whisper! PHOEBE Know? ROWAN I heard them. PHOEBE Speak? ROWAN Yes! PHOEBE Call the police! ROWAN Can’t! PHOEBE Why not?
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Aliza Haskal a body is a body i. yesterday you were sleeping on the red rug behind the couch just before dinner. gillian was calling us upstairs, so i guess i took it upon myself to wake you up-- you were curled into yourself with your head on a pink beanbag, and i couldn’t find it in myself to break the silence. the curvature of your waist was rising and lengthening, disguising white ribs and a spaghetti sauce heart and two lungs like great balloons. you were wearing this blue plaid flannel that struck against the clean 6 oclock glow of your flying buttress cheekbones; your overarching eyebrows, like gothic domes, hug the fullness of your skin. I hold you in the palm of my hand, a porcelain figure that would shatter into dust if i let you slip between my fingers. ii. your hands were nestled into each other like little birds that move when you talk, and your knees were bent as if you knew even in sleep, to protect your vital organs. anyway, i think you had forgotten that your own heart was beating but i could see it thrumming just then-- like a canned tomato that God breathed stop-motion animation into. at that moment, there was this great clear wall between you and me and the harshness of waking. i didn’t want to be the one to remind you that your heart was still beating, and frankly i didn’t think i could. you were benjamin button cradled in the womb, nestled in a cavity of fluid, an amniotic sac of alone. the warmth from your skin was so visible just like a thermograph-- and for a second, it was clear to me that a body is a body is just a thing filled with other things.
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Eliza Noecker XANDER Y'know, sometimes I wishEVERYONE (in varying degrees of panic) No! JANET God, kid, are you suicidal? XANDER It's a phrase! That's all! If you ask me, we shouldn't be so afraid of saying it! LUCA Why? We all have good reason to be. XANDER (muttering; bitter) No, you have good reason to be. SONYA Can we please just go? I can literally feel my skin burning off. Even as some take a few steps forward, it's evident that Xander isn't moving. Janet leans against the hood and lights another cigarette. XANDER Say we stop caring. Say the rumors spread. What's the worst that could happen? LUCA C'mon man, let's go. You can have shotgun. XANDER That's just like you, Luca- more concerned with survival than growing a spine. I mean, why confront anything when you can run away? Luca turns around, posture rigid. In a blink, he's vanished and reappeared in front of Xander, the toes of their sneakers nearly touching. Luca glares up at him, the definition of a coiled spring.
61
Ava O’Malley
The Universe Came to Visit Us I dislike my hometown. But, ten minutes to the east, just outside my suburban cage of Avon Lake, is another small town called Bay Village. Unlike my town, where all the trees have been cleared for the construction of strip malls and hospitals, thousands of trees reach high into the clouds and shelter the community. A lot of the ground is sanctioned off for the use of the Cleveland metro parks. People walk their dogs instead of jog. Children bike everywhere. You see teenagers walking with their friends, heads thrown back in laughter. The town is smaller than mine, with no fast food restaurants, no four lane streets, no ugly industrial parkways. The homes here were not built by the same building company in the early 90’s, but have accumulated over time, all in their own quaint and eclectic style. It’s a town that screams “Any Town, USA,” with annual fourth of July carnivals and an abundance of fireflies once June arrives. Bay is also about as close to a beach town that you can get to in Ohio. It sits directly on the lake front, it’s beaches sprawling out across the entire length of the township. This beach, Huntington Beach, has long jagged break walls that have dates and names shallowly carved into the tops, fuzzy lime green algae clinging to the sides, slick from the crashing tide. Seagulls flock on the beaches during the day, but keep a polite and respectable distance away from the bodies that pack the sand during the day. The air can smell like fresh water or fish or barbecue or sweet, crackling campfires— it varies. I find myself here almost everyday in the summer, the sun baking down onto me. My friends and I perch ourselves on the vacant lifeguard stands and gaze out at the glowing skyline of Cleveland miles out, and then towards the setting sun in the west, tan sand sticking to our feet. We find ourselves in awe of our big little city, feeling a small swell of pride in our chests for the town that doesn’t mean much to the rest of the world. I remember one night in particular, when Michael, Sydney, and I were driving aimlessly around, conversation slipping into the deep and unknown the longer we stayed out. We drove to the empty beach at 11 pm. The waters were a rich, voidful navy, and the waves lapped softly against the break wall. We sat against this majestic oak tree that sat deserted in the middle of the beach and ignored the glittering skyline for once. The three of us looked up into the darkness and watched as the grey smokey clouds parted to reveal the jewelry box of stars that was the night sky. There was no moon that night. The air was warm even in the pitch black, and I felt the small breeze ruffle my hair. Sydney and Michael, the only two souls I think I truly know in this great expanse, were smiling and laughing, and I watched in awe and appreciation and love for them. On the cliffs that border the beach, the tall trees were wavering in the wind, their leaves swishing together in a reverent symphony. We sat there and passed the conversation between the three of us, asking one another what we thought about God and death and the future and the afterlife and college and how we felt right now, in that very moment, laying beneath the Universe’s face.
62
Ruby Titus
63
Adrienne Zhang Benjamin Benjamin’s mother was the most beautiful woman Benjamin had ever seen and she had not seen sunlight in fourteen years. She was a house spirit, an elegant, mournful wraith, haunting their small home. She roused herself to cook three meals and cleaned with a vengeance, but with the rest of her considerable time, she lay in bed, shivering under thick quilts. Sometimes she gathered enough energy to settle on the overstuffed sofa in the living room, where she draped her limbs in a lethargic and effortless display of elegance. She never found the will to make her way back to the bed, and Benjamin’s father would gather her slender form in his arms like some coltish animal and deposit her on the ruffled sheets of their bedroom. Even half unconscious, she looked like some artful specimen, her dark hair billowing from her gaunt face like the tentacles of a spectre, her gaunt skin as white as the bedsheets. In all her past lives, she was beautiful. When she was Benjamin’s age, she had the charisma and ego of a young Shirley Temple. Then pigtails became ballerina buns and tutus became godets and her spaghetti sauce freckles faded. Did she regret her perpetual beauty? Did she wish she had experienced some of her life chubby cheeked and bright eyed? Shirley Temple grew into Snow White (fourteen years old and a dark rose, no thorns.) Snow White became Hedy Lamarr (sensual, classy, airbrushed.) Sometime between her halfhearted teenage years and when she met Benjamin’s father, his mother underwent another metamorphosis. This time, there was no earthly comparison, no Disney princess or movie star Benjamin could point to and say, she looks like my mother. No, this version of the woman was fey and unworldly. Her beauty was like a banshee’s cry, rising from the dusk and darkness, reverberating through cloud and sky. As if to preserve and hoard this beauty, Benjamin’s father entertained no guests, and his mother lived in isolation.
64
EMOTIONALLY DISTRESSED OVEN
65
Olivia Brooks
The Boundaries of Script
Are there things that art cannot capture? It would seem not. Infinite possibilities and infinite combinations But then think about those emotionsThe burning anguish and harrowing fear and regretful sorrow. Can art claim those as well? Can it wrap up all of those intense emotions Emotions that, by definition, are almost too intense for the brain to bottle, Let alone a sheet of blank paper? Can we really take that passionRed hot, ruby red, frothing and oozing, boiling molten bubbles That sear the skin red and scalding, And attach characters, Attach a setting, Attach brushstrokes and colors? Can we streamline fearDarkness curdling and cutting like a slash of silver knife through dark night Splatters of scarlet blood and high pitched screams and goosebumps And siphon it out through a Wooden writing utensil with a stick of graphite down the middle? Through keys clacking and Comic Sans swirling down a screen? Can we do it? Can we bear it?
66
Felicity Browning
It happened again. I have made a mess for myself again. Why does this keep happening to me? I don’t know when it started. I can’t give you a specific time or place. I just remember it suddenly enveloping me and forcing me to feel unwelcome in my own home. I just remember the moment my ears first started to feel the heat against them, but I don’t think that was the beginning. Or maybe I just don’t want that to be. I feel like it started much earlier. Either way, it’s something I’ve grown to live with. That doesn’t make it any more pleasant. I decide I want to go by train. No, bus. No, train. Fine, I’ll take the bus. At least I can sit in a seat by myself. I decide I want to go by bus. Where i'm going seems less important than the journey there; the journey is always so stressful. I wait at the bus stop. It’s raining. I feel like it’s always raining when I go out. Almost as if some higher power desperately wants to extinguish me. I understand. It never works, but I appreciate their effort. The bus arrives. I hop on, handing the driver whatever fee he needs. I can see in his eyes that he wants to tell me to get off for safety reasons but he doesn’t. Maybe he thinks he’s imagining it. I walk through the rows, careful to not touch anyone or anything other than my fingertips to the gray seats. I finally sit the farthest away I can from the others. The ones unlike me. The normal ones. “Uh, ‘scuse me, miss,” says a young child, her eyes glowing while looking at me. “Why is your hair on fire?”
67
Kenna Geary I sit down on my bed and I hang my head into my hands and close my eyes. The aching in my chest is real, it hasn’t gone away. Maybe it’s because I haven't allowed myself to miss them until now. I guess because I thought it would make me weak, to weak to do the “training”. Or maybe I thought that if I made myself think about London or Samantha that maybe then Lyle would be able to realize how weak I am without them. I am weak without them. They give me strength in the darkest of times, I really need their strength now. But I don’t want them here, here isn’t safe, they are safe. That’s all I want for them, safety, I want Samantha to have a normal life and I want London to have a regular childhood.I hate that this whole war is about her. But she’s been so strong about it. Every time she falls, she’s always the one to pick herself back up even before I get there to help her up. I’ve never seen a stronger person than London. But I guess it’s taught her something, that even when everything has been snatched from you, you’ve gotta keep pushing forward. You’ve gotta show them that just because your entire life was destroyed, that doesn't stop you from living. “I’m sorry London.” I whisper, “I promised you better.” I squeeze my eyes, I can feel the tears threatening to pour over my face. Then London’s words hit me. They hit me from out of nowhere. There so random that it takes me a second to figure when I heard her say them. “I guess, it’s because even though I lost everything that I thought was worth living for, I’ve realized that there’s more to living.” When did she say those words to me? What if London didn’t say those words to me? No, it was her voice I heard. No one else's. Why did I just remember them now? I’ve already lost London and Samantha, their worth living for. But, I’m getting back to them. So that I can be with my family. Because they are worth living for.
68
Alice Hockstader
The pudgy man sat in a Burger King, waiting for his Steakhouse King. It was only 9 am but the restaurant was already packed. It smelled of sweat, grease, puke and cigarettes. He had been in the restaurant 20 minutes already but the food still hadn’t come. So much for fast food. The man had woken up at 8 that morning (a rare occurrence, he was usually up at 11) with a terrible longing for a burger. He had tried eating some bacon and chips in his apartment but his usual breakfast had only made the longing more urgent. Everyone else but him had their various deep fried or greasy brunch. He sighed. He always seemed to be waiting for something.
69
Katya Little
70
Elisabeth Snyder
but i can’t give you a spring to drink from to quench your thirst, or a crystal pond in the middle of the scorching desert, but i can give you a remedy for the thirst you might not recognize: the dehydration from loneliness and lacking love, the thirst for someone to listen when you need them to, the thirst for a person to echo back your thoughts like a conch shell buried in the sand. i’m replete with water, but not just the 60% swimming inside my body, filling the crannies between bones and organs. i have buckets of water in my heart. more buckets than the volume formula perceives, and i’ll pour it all on you if you burn up in flames. i’ll be the fire extinguisher, just a quick phone call away. i’ll share my water with you if you ask, or even if you don’t. i’m drenched in water abundant as the ocean, all for you.
i’m covered in water i’m covered in water, but not the kind that soaks through your skin and makes your hair hang in limp, ugly clusters that stick to your sandy neck. i’m covered in water, but not the kind that evaporates from your cup in the summer heat or falls from the sky in a thunderstorm. i’m covered in the water that gives us love, the water we drink to survive. it isn’t made up of two hydrogens and one oxygen. it’s more necessary than that and it can’t be created from any element of the periodic table. it makes us feel like we belong, like we have a purpose, like we don’t need chemical water and we just need the water from each other. i’m filled to the brim with this water,
71
Conspiracy Theories
72
Annette Kim Golf for the Shy As far back as anyone can remember, golf has always been a social sport. Maybe even the social sport. My father once told me, “It’s the best sport for businesspeople of any kind. Think about it. Four to six hours of uninterrupted face-time in which one can convince others to buy a product or service. You need to golf more...meet new people, make some more friends.” I am a golfer. But I am not a social person, nor will I ever be. I am the classic introvert. During the summer, while others meet up at the mall, or downtown, I remain secluded. A typical conversation: “Hey! D’you wanna come hang out at the mall next Saturday?” “No, sorry. I’ve been really busy and I’m kinda pooped. Maybe next time.” Of course, we all know there will be no next time. At home, in my room, by myself, I am free. Sitting by my computer, surrounded by haphazard stacks of books and papers is where I belong. I am not lonely; I do not wish for more social activity; I prefer to be this way. Without the constraints of school forcing me to interact with others, I become a recluse. Even my friends, who are known for being antisocial themselves, jokingly call me “the hermit of Naperville.” When I was younger, I was not only introverted; I was also shy. Many people make the mistake of believing that introversion and shyness are one and the same. This is not the case. Being introverted is knowing that socializing is safe, and choosing not to; it is preferring to be alone. Shyness is fear of people, of judgement. It is that crippling moment of anxiety when the situation calls for conversation, with sweat pooling on the back of the neck and on the nose. I no longer have excessive fear of judgement. Some dread lingers, as it does in everyone. Even the most outgoing of extroverts care somewhat about what others think of them, no matter how little. I no longer have a great fear of socialization; I merely choose not to. And yet, I love golf. Golf, which forces me to make conversation with others, and spend four to six hours with nothing to do but talk. At first, the social aspect was daunting, but the wonders of golf were irresistible. The sweet feeling of hitting a ball perfectly after hours of work and watching it fly in a beautiful ark. The fact that we are expected to run away from the ball if it comes at us. The lush green grass and trees. Of course, most importantly, the cute, fluffy animals (notably ducks). As soon as I started, I was hooked. Beginning competitive golf thrust me into a world where I would meet three new girls two or three times a week, and I improved my social skills. Slowly. In the beginning, I would become too nervous. It was not uncommon to hear me garble up language, complimenting the perfect putt with a, “Nice drive!” or finishing the round with a polite, “It was nice to playing with you.” Sometimes, I would try to speak, but fail miserably. Instead, some foreign and chaotic mixture of languages would come bubbling off of my tongue. I quickly became more outgoing; obviously still not social by any means, but I no longer fear initiating conversation or feel insecure about my status as a semi-social introvert. I know and accept who I am, and learn to balance it with fitting into the community around me. I simply prefer the company of my books, computer, notebooks. I love silence, interrupted only by my short music breaks and the occasional loud laughter of my family below. Golf is a social sport. It helps businessmen make deals, friends spend time together, but most importantly, it gives the shy the time and experience they need to overcome their fears.
73
Jena Manning “Ambition” [VERSE 1] I’m exhausted, I’m tired I’m sick of being sick My mind became a mess They had caused all my stress It feels like I’m drowning And they’re holding me down What the hell am I ‘sposed to do When I want to reach the clouds? [CHORUS] They will try to lock me up How dare they think that’s enough? And I, I’m done I’ll rise [VERSE 2] It seems mindless and timeless I’m holding my breath How long is it going to take, Until this pain finally ends? I’m slowly dying They said they’d help, but they’re lying I don’t see anybody Who would assist me [CHORUS] They will try to lock me up How dare they think that’s enough? And I, I’m done I’ll rise [BRIDGE → ending] Cause I need to escape I won’t let them take change my fate I need to be brave Now before it’s too late
74
Charlotte Perine I slammed my fist against the bulky white door to the apartment. Not hearing anything inside that gave the impression of movement, I tried once more. This time, there was an enraged shout of “IT IS THREE IN THE GODDAMN MORNING, THIS BETTER BE FUCKING GOOD!” Success! Heavy footsteps approached the entrance and I heard the slide of metal on metal as the chain was unlatched. The handle turned and the door was whipped open, revealing a man that could simply not be described as anything other than “huge”. Actually, I suppose there was more to him than just his size, but that was definitely the thing one would first notice. The top of his head was cut off from my view by the doorway, which was about six feet tall. He looked like the boxers my dad used to watch on TV: bulging muscles, short, buzzed hair, chiseled jaw. But there was a certain weight to the bags under his eyes and an unnatural hollowness in his cheeks that implied a struggle with existence. His eyes were a piercing shade of green, and were currently fixed on mine with a ferocity normally associated with a feral animal about to attack. Jaw clenched so tightly I wondered if he’d pull a muscle, he growled, “Who the hell are you and what do you want?” I had to think on that for a second; my memory was faulty at best, and the excitement of being faced with an angry giant did nothing to help. Thankfully, it came to me. “I want to talk to God.” I flashed my sweetest smile, hoping he would overlook the late (or early) hour and help me out. But he just stared at me. Perhaps I had come to the wrong door? But this was definitely apartment 317. “Are you high, kid?” Quickly I shook my head. “My cousin Matt, well, I told him about how I have all these worries about death and stuff, ‘cause, like, they were keeping me up at night and I love sleeping so that wasn’t fun, and he, uh, he said he knew a guy who deals this drug that would make you, um, see all sorts of crazy stuff, and he said he, like, talked to God or maybe it was just an angel, he wasn’t sure, uh, but he gave me your address and --” “Ok, geez, I get it.” He massaged his temples, still glaring at me. I fidgeted, feeling oddly exposed after talking so much. After what appeared to be a long mental argument with himself, he sighed in a long-suffering kind of way. “Do you have money, kid?” he asked, and I nodded. He motioned for me to hand it over, so I dug through my pockets and produced a handful of bills, dumping them into his hand. After leveling an unimpressed stare at me, he counted out the money. Shoving it into his pocket, he beckoned for me to come inside. I wasn’t completely clueless. Obviously, I knew it was a bad idea to go into some random drug dealer’s apartment by myself, with no way to defend myself other than my wits and my fists that had never thrown a punch before, and no one knowing that I was even gone. Of course it was stupid. I had never been very good at making smart decisions, I mused, as I stepped through the doorway and heard the thunk of the door closing behind me.
75
Diana Revilla Sonder: The realization that every passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own I have been waiting in line for thirty-seven minutes when I see the second worst tattoo I have seen in my life on a young man with curly dark hair that he has flat-ironed straight. The top prize still goes to a detailed, full-back portrayal of Kylie Jenner I have the horror of witnessing at Miami Beach last Thanksgiving, but this one is a close number two. This particular tattoo-bearing man is just behind my family in line for the London Eye, and overhyped ride with an under-appreciated view that I would definitely recommend to any tourists who don’t have ferris wheels at home. I watch my mom notice the man and grimace vaguely before pulling my little brother closer to her. She has some strong opinions on both tattoos and long hair on men. I personally like tattoos. As someone who requires an internal battle and a minimum of three outside opinions just to choose an ice cream flavour, that level of commitment terrifies me, but I like seeing them on others. I think I like them because I want to know what a person could feel so strongly about that they would want it to become a part of them. Or maybe it already is a part of them, and they want to manifest that externally. Or maybe Kylie Jenner is a symbol of hope? I don’t know, I guess there are some questions that un-inked individuals may never know. The line continues winding through the fraying blue line separations and all around me people talk in a dull buzz of various languages and accents. I do not notice that the tattoo man will not be riding with us until my glass capsule door closes, separating my family and the other riders from the crowd. The ride begins and I can feel that, even as my body is being raised, I am somehow still on the ground. I am one of a crowd filled with the tattoo man and languages and I am trying to pick out pieces of the incoherent rumble of voices because each of these voices is coming from a mouth. Each person below my rising feet has a mind filled with questions and fears. They have stories and tragedies and guilt nagging at their minds and opinions on tattoos that I will never know. I can no longer see the people below me as my view is replaced by the glow of London, but even up here I do not see the skyline. In every building, I instead see lives. There are people everywhere who are living lives that are glorious and terrible and complicated. This is just an instant. A single memory that I am sharing with the people in the line who will never know me. I look into the glass capsule below me where the man with the tattoo is taking pictures on one of those expensive cameras, and as I lose sight of him I realize that he will never wonder if the girl in front of him judged the incorrect Spanish grammar in his tattoo that read “la vida solo”.
76
Sofia Rosenbaum Just Your Average Lunatic Am I a lunatic? Yes. This much I know Nobody else can tell me so
Desperate to be accepted Yet sure she's on the road to Hell To have a human being Love anything about me I'd be disgustingly glad
But even though I'm unabashedly unique I've got an unbearable need to seek Any sort of raw, sweet human connection A tentatively brief taste of affection
But right here, Now as I peer At the unimpressed company gathered here My prospects seem simply sad
I'm afraid I've lost perspective And my mind has gone defective Not at all in control, Far removed from the pilot's seat As my jet plane trembles, cracks apart I numbly accept defeat
Any type of love, Simple sign from above I'm not sure, I don't care, Just please vanquish my despair! Boost my spirits to the sky So there's no excuse to cry! And maybe when I die, I'll have been loved And not brutishly shoved amok But at this moment, I'm sordidly stuck
My mind's not whole Afraid that I'm incapable Loneliness suddenly feels Inescapable Neurotic, over-sensitive A madly anxious mess No human being can touch My fanatical finesse
At least offer a half-smile So I'll be kept warm for a while Firmly I'll stand Here and demand To have someone with a beating heart At least start To give me the slightest bite of Love
Because I'm just your average lunatic Dead-fixed in the present But never truly there as well Just your average lunatic
77
Audrey Safir
78
Marie Sykes In Case I Die I’m not a spy, just putting that out there. It was an accident, finding out my older brother’s secret. It didn’t take long for me to notice that my phone was gone that morning, and it wasn’t much longer until I realized that my younger brother, Braden, had taken it, leaving his usual little note, like always. He enjoyed these kinds of games but if no one ever realized how smart he was, or clever, he failed at his job. I didn’t find any of his jokes funny, or clever, I just found them annoying. From the moment I started searching, I knew that the longer it took me to find this phone, the more he would be in trouble. With quick deduction, I figured out that it was somewhere in Will’s room, my older brother. He probably thought it was clever to hide it in there, then wait for Will to find me in his room, looking for my phone. Will was so secretive these days, I wasn’t sure if the door would even open for me when I tried his room. The clock ticked on, and on, and on, as I looked and I knew that if I didn’t end up finding my phone and just telling our parents instead, then Braden would just try something else. I was not planning on spending my summer chasing after him and his practical jokes. It wasn’t my phone that I found first, however. Braden, I don’t think, ever realized the consequences that this little joke would have on what would happen next between Will and I. I got down on my hands and my knees and checked under Will’s bed, the obvious yet clever hiding spot. Carefully, I slid the box that my phone rested upon out from under the bed, confused at the lettering. Sarah, it said. Why would Will keep a box with my name on it? Curious, I opened the box that revealed the small, futuristic disc I hold inside my hands now. Will had found me soon after, which is why I still think about whether or not I should press the button. He could easily figure out what I took anyway. “What are you doing in here?” he had asked me but I easily explained that Braden had hid my phone in his room. He let me go with a look. With a deep breath now, I press the button. A hologram of Will appears above the disc and I drop it in surprise. “I can imagine that this, in the first place, has massively freaked you out,” my brother takes a breath. “Especially after the events that must have just happened. My death.”
79
Madison Tunnicliff I couldn’t stop staring at it. The large lens showed my concerned, fish eyed gaze. The compulsion was the strongest it’s been in a long time. Of all things, it had to be this $700 camera. I fiddled with the rubber band on my wrist while trying to divert my attention back to my friend who joined me on my random adventure to the mall. He had stopped talking to after realizing I was lost in thought. The thoughts wouldn’t stop flooding my brain. On top of that, the thought, “but what about the lesbian farmers?” kept recurring through my brain. The sleek black camera filled my head with beckoning words that couldn’t be stopped by some stupid ass rubber band. I walked over to Tommy. “Happening again, huh?” He raised his eyebrows. I couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to me or the hot pink, wireless speaker he held in his hands. I lowered my head and mumbled, “Yeah..” “Ok, then let’s just go-” Tommy began to say, but I was already gone. “Shit.” I slowly shuffled back to the camera. I was the only one on the aisle. I looked for the security cameras, checking again to make sure they were in the same places as always, then began acting like I was reading the info displayed for the camera. So far so good. It helps my hair is one giant mess, one a giant gingery mop blocking out my features. They weren’t that great anyways. “Cody!” Tommy whispered angrily down the aisle. I shot him a look and hushed him. He mouthed ‘fine,’ and began walking out of the store. I checked once more if it was indeed a working camera on display. I don’t even know why I checked, I don’t like photography. Whatever floats the boat. I ripped the cord off that was attached to it to prevent the exact thing I’d happened to be doing. The alarm sounded, my heart was about to explode. The thoughts were already starting to disappear. Not good enough. I made a mad dash out of the store. In a quick glance I saw Tommy waiting outside for me. “Cody, you asshat!” Once he noticed me. Confusion started to set in. I heard the guard’s scrambling, people gasping as I ran by camera in hand. I don’t remember how, but I ended up in the parking lot running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I’ve done this too many times, yet I still wonder how I know what exact routes through it to take to make it a hell of a lot easier for me and a hell of a lot harder for the guards to find me. Can’t prevent it, but is pretty helpful. I took my shirt off and stuck it inside out in my back pocket. I stuffed the camera into my pants pocket. It helped it wasn’t that big and that I wore baggy clothes. I heard the guards again and hid under a car. I blanked as they ran by, hearing their frustrated voices and seeing their feet rush by. I looked for an escape and then realized Tommy’s car was two spaces over. I’d notice that rusted pile of shit anywhere. I slid myself across the pavement, earning a multitude of cuts and scrapes on my chest. I began to army crawl across the hot pavement and made my way out from under the car. A voice boomed across the parking lot. “Over there!” I didn’t know where the voice came from, so I darted between the lines of cars to Tommy’s. I heard the footsteps and yelling behind me. They were only a few yards away when I reached the car. I ripped the door open to find Tommy glaring up at me. After letting the guards get a few steps closer, he whipped the old Pinto out of the parking lot and sped off to his house, making sure Ivan Moody was screaming loud enough to drown out my excuses. When we got back to his house, he just sat across the bedroom giving me a death stare, After a few minutes, he spoke up. “You stole a $700 camera, and you’re just gonna sit there and play fucking Mariokart?” “Fuck off man, you know what it’s like for me-” “You just stole a camera, that was $700. And you’re fucking playing MARIOKART. Do you even feel bad in the slightest way?” “Dude, I’ve told you already. Everytime I do it it makes me feel like shit. But I have to.”
80
Lily Wallis The Resistance Scaling the rusting machinery, Ray laid back against the cold metal. The hooks near her head are used for stability, and she braced herself against the train before it commenced motion again. The tunnel above served as a distraction, a station lasting only moments before the next one was to be reached. Unclear of an end. The lights flickered dimly beneath her and in one swift movement she was dangling from the back of the structure, face whipped by the wind, inches away from the wheels. Extending her fingers to skim the track, Ray shuddered as the train emerged into the night. The wheels slowed now and she descended carefully to the ground, crouching down to be concealed against the reflective ensemble. To be seen was to die. At a crouch, the mechanics were clearer; each part fit in turn and force grounded the train to a halt. It was not a time to falter. The guards above bantered loudly between themselves. Three intoxicated voices slurred on top of each other, their bodies stumbling as the compartment rattled. Ray could feel her breath catch in her throat as their words echoed out through the open window. Tucked into the jacket’s front pouch were her favorite contraptions. Without hesitation, she swung herself over. Two men leaned with their arms slung around each other for support, while another was collapsed against the wall with a bottle in hand. Together the duo staggered around the room. “You’re not supposed to be here,” one of the tottering men said, hiccuping loudly afterward. “Where’s Wren?” “Who?” “Stop pretending. Which compartment is she in?” Ray’s words turned sharp.
81
Shuhan Wei You can hear the dropping sound of the leaves. Without hesitation, they fall on the ground and become part of the earth. Clearly and melodiously. A firefly blinks its light innocently in the air; you want to touch them with your bare hands. You can never reach them. Sitting here under the firmament, you write down these words. There is difference between typing on the computer and writing on the paper. The sense of heaviness when the pen travels across the paper is tangible. The dancing of your fingers on a keyboard can never replace it. Though this is the case, the bouncing keys make you feel tranquil as well while you face the bright screen. The streetlight stands there, far away, silently. It needs no attention, as it needs no thought. Things pass by day after day, you told yourself; it is just a streetlight. It is more than a streetlight. If you pay more attention, you might feel its thought. It cries when the sky cries, it smiles when the night smiles. You have to hear the night. There is no complete darkness, but you have to listen what is going on around you. When you listen carefully enough, you can hear the wind talking to the tree. The wind comes from the beginning of the world, and disappears in the end of it. How honoured and pleased you feel, when it comes to you. You hear the bugs; they are around you. You hate them in the daytime, when you can see their different shapes. It is surprising that how some kind of bugs can exist at the same time without killing each other - unlike human beings, you think. Right now you cannot judge their body shape; you can only hear them. The night covers your sight, every bug becomes the same to you. You still don’t like the buzzing sound, but there’s nothing you can do. If they continue to fly, they might crush into someone’s dream. You sit there, and continue to write. You can hear the stars, the moon, the grass, the flowers, but not the people. People don’t make the sound that nature makes. Maybe you can hear yourself, maybe not. It doesn’t matter; you can write whatever you want. Eventually, everything becomes silence.
82
Popcornpocalypse
83
Valini Goorha Untitled Dave was the type of boy that wrung your brain out, squeezing every ounce of self-approbation out of you like a soggy rag and making you feel ashamed that you had produced a bucketful of water. He hung your mind out to dry so that it could neglect its last few drops of amiability with the least amount of decency humanly possible. Ella was just one of many people driven to insanity by Dave’s merciless words and enigmatic actions. That’s what he did: purloined other’s complacency and mopped it up with his own wizened mind. Self-justification was something he acquired by knocking people down, transforming them into a parched and desolate soul. Now, when Ella looked towards the open expanse of water in front of her she could almost taste the saltiness that swam within it and feel the smooth folds of threaded liquid. It said something about her character that she had wanted to do it here. Perhaps she just wanted one last piece of ironic symbolism in her life. At least Ella would exit this life with the satisfaction that whatever substance Dave had twisted out of her would be replenished by the ocean’s waves. Lest her body be overlooked as missing Ella took out her phone and texted a quick goodbye to her one and only friend Alex. As soon as the message had been sent a lump formed in the hollow of her throat. Hard and heavy it rested in the back of her throat like a constant reminder of her decision. Waves crashed at her ankles, ensnaring them in rings of moisture. They begged her to enter their solitude, for they yearned to have a body to devour into their depths. She tiptoed further into the water. “Ella!” Alex’s voice punctured the quiet night. Ella whipped around, strands of plaited hair slapping her face sharply. “What are you doing here?” Ella demanded of him. Alex sighed and trudged down the beach, his feet kicking up flourishes of sand. “Are you trying to kill yourself again?” He stopped in front of Ella and adopted the manner of an army sergeant: hands placed firmly on his hips, tight scowl pulling the tips of his mouth outwards. “I’m depressed,” Ella said. “I can’t live any longer.” “That’s what you said one week ago. Why are you always so dramatic? You build things up in your head and however small they may be you always seem to end up here,” he motioned around him, “on this very beach.” Ella looked back at the welcoming water. “It’s not like that this time,” she mumbled but there was no conviction in her voice. “Yes it is!” Alex yelled and the sudden rise in his voice made Ella shuffle backwards in the water. A spray of water flicked upwards at Alex’s face in result of this. “You always do this. You think it’s a game, but it’s not. Your life is not something you can toy around with, because one of these days when you text me that fucking goodbye and expect me to come running to your side with tears in my eyes I won’t.” Ella stared at him. Shock and the numb beginnings of panic were spreading through her limbs, raising the hairs on her skin. “You won’t what?” “I won’t come. I’ll let you die and then you’ll see what it’s really like to say goodbye.” A red flush had spread across Alex’s face and it was slowly creeping towards his neckline. One eerie moment of silence passed in which Alex stared determinately at a spot three inches right from Ella’s face. “So you wouldn’t care if I died?” Ella whispered, her voice cracking on the last syllable. When Alex spoke he spoke to the spot three inches away from her face and when he voiced his words he spoke them to the spot and not to the girl who had been his one reliable companion all his life. “I don’t care. Do what you want, just don’t make me feel guilty.” With those last words Alex turned and traipsed out of the water, up the darkened sand and out of Ella’s life.
84
Natalie Lorens Hidden in the Clouds
First: I thought I was loved Cold nights, surrounded by friendly faces Lonely nights, always someone to call Late nights, somewhere to spend them with They looks up and saw Second: I thought I was happy Grinning thought the day Plastering on fake glee I fooled everyone, including myself They looked up and saw Third: I thought I was forever I imagined the perfect life, one that never ends Until it came down like rain Pouring through the cracks They looked up and saw Fourth: I thought they couldn't see But then they glanced to the sky Where all my secrets were hidden, there among the clouds They peered into my soul They looked up and saw
85
Isabelle Mathewes Peach Girl Yellow Flower
I wish you realized how wonderful you are you think you are a small blade of grass to be trampled and forgotten in reality, you are a small bright flower a buttercup in a rainbow meadow of blooms there are many flowers standing tall and shining roses screaming look at me look at me look at me in every shade of red, pink, white, and yellow sunflowers that are taller than trees that twist and turn to look at the sun and soak in the golden light and trapping it in their petals little delicate daisies scattered all around that little girls tie together into crowns as if they were made of gold there are so many flowers so many candy bright petals vying for attention each one a beautiful thing in a garden full of beautiful things and you are one of them
86
Rebecca May
My Bad “—Later that day, I stood in line to meet my favorite celebrity and I look to my left and I see those two girls, grinning as they gave their idols the biggest hug,” you say, looking out the window. Your best bro-friend drove next to you, insisting that he was the best driver, though he was so tall he almost had to nod his head down in order to fit into the backseat, your best gal-pal (and older sister) was thinking of a story to tell. “Okay, so last year-“ she was suddenly cut off by a sudden impact hitting the back of the car, jerking you forward and back again as the airbag presses you against the seat. Amongst the initial crunch of metal and screams from the terrified girl in the back were four loud snapping sounds, almost like the sound of bone striking against bone in a terrifying attempt to light one like a match with one bone acting as match, one as matchbox. One of these you knew without a doubt was your arm, two that you heard from behind you, and the last remained unidentified, though loud and close. You were in too much pain to scream from your arm’s agony, and too shocked to scream from your fear. The car was at a stop and your eyes were shut tight from fear and pain, you wouldn’t dare to take a peek at the no-doubt destroyed black Camry around you, and you especially wouldn’t dare to try to move until you knew you were safe. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting for your sister to say something and for your best friend in the world to comfort you, you opened your eyes, your breathing already shaky as you look to your left, then you let a blood-curling scream pass your lips as you gaze upon the pale face of your friend, his eyes wide open. Though you had never seen one, you knew that the image was comparable of that to a ghost. You unbuckle your seatbelt with your remaining good arm and try to pry open the door, though the metal had bent into almost a trap. Instead, you climb out through the broken window, careful for your arm, as blood drips down your forehead, bending around your eye and flowing down your cheek. Maybe the glass had cut you, but you didn’t feel it. You look at the Camry one last time and see blood all across the remainder of the back window, not letting any image through, though you didn’t see your sister. Perhaps she had become the stain on the road quite a couple meters back, maybe she was still in there, maybe both were true, but you didn’t want to know. The truck behind you only had a fucked-up grill, and a driver who seemed completely unscathed, in fact, he was on a call with an intact phone. You look at him and he meets your eyes, only covering the speaker to say: “Um… my bad…”
87
Sequoia McCabe
88
Myleigh Modun
89
Becca Pitcairn
Untitled i wasted more years than I care to admit made out of clay, a weak, wretched substance, as i starved and suffered to form something delicate. in that way, my femininity was a prison, of golden bars gilded with lies and false promises of perfect. being a girl was something to overcome, not rejoice in. i still remember clearly every boy who reduced each failure to a fault of my gender, who saw me as less than, something to hold but not cherish, arguing “catcalls can be compliments�, why object to being objectified when at least you’re being noticed. i learned to choke down every impulse of defiance, and my ruin was not an emotion but a lack of any. feelings swelled too large beneath the skin to tolerate, no growing could be allowed here. what i was never told is that womanhood bleeds, a raw, aching red. it runs where it wants to, it refuses to be dismissed or diminished, no matter how you are taught to shame and suppress it. in that way, my femininity is something sacred, breaking and remaking the mold, fired into something stronger.
90
Eva Reeves
Back From the Dead
She isn’t dead, oh no, she is alive and well, everyone, alive and well! She was gone for long, so long, but she’s back. She sees with her eyes closed and hears everything, my friends, watch your words. She marches through the night and sees everything. Watch your back; you never know where she’ll turn up next. Here she comes now; look, do you see her there? You want to know why she’s so pale? It’s because she used to be dead. Does that frighten you? Probably; it frightens most. Not me, though. I love her, dead or alive. You want to know more, you say? Okay, fine by me. Her name is Rose. She is seventeen, or at least she was seventeen before she died. Oh - you want to know how she died. Of course you do. They hung her. They said she was a witch. Was she? I don’t know. No one knows. No one but Rose, that is. They said Rose had close ties with Satan. They said she spoke to him. I think they’re crazy. Rose didn’t do anything. And now, she’s frightened. Frightened to go out, frightened to speak, frightened to breathe. She hides in her bedroom, sewing, killing off the hours until her father returns home. I think her father beats her. Maybe that’s why she’s so afraid. She’s like a frightened kitten; skittish, jumpy. She is a puppet. She is a slave to her fear.
91
The Mad Lips
92
Kiran Baez When I first scaled Le Manoir, the woman I had been staying with, Beatriz, a chunky Castilian in her late 50’s, had told me to go get some fruit for panna cotta, a yogurt and citrus custard. But for me, it was more than that, as an outsider, I was the only one who had never broken in. This felt like it was a part of the assimilation process to the tiny beautiful Spanish hamlet. However, the first time was certainly not the last. As the untamed beauty, history, and the sense of mystery captivated me. My curiosity forced my… day-by-day, continual exploration of the abandoned home. It became my sanctuary or more accurately, my obsession. Oddly enough, this place held a new secret each and every time I entered; a new room, wine cellar, a different way to the top. I found trapdoors leading to hidden libraries, and once, even a holding cell. The first trapdoor I found was hidden under a faded Persian carpet, in the dining hall. I remember coughing and gasping for air as the dust exploded when I pulled up the carpet. But below it, was a hatch, no more than a meter in size, only sparking my curiosity ever more. Having opened the door, the sour scent of vinegar wafted to my position. All I could see was a vast abyss of darkness, the windows in the room above were too high to reflect any light into the mystery. I left the door as is, and returned to it the next morning with Beatriz’ son, Álvaro; a stocky boy with a high stature. I befriended him when he started attending my school in Los Angeles. He was a native to Orriols, with a bright mind and weak English. Álvaro had experience with breaking into Le Château, but even he recognized my obsession with the small mansion. The descent into the hole was filled with uncertainty. It felt like I was delving into another layer of history, one untouched for centuries. The acidic smell burned our throats, like a hot poker on raw tissue. We tested the ladder below us, though it went down so far, even our flashlight could not reach the end. The allure kept us motivated as we traveled into the earth, the stench of acid only growing stronger. Below; an expansive room shaped like a tunnel, brick arches, shelves, and the smell of stale air mixed with vinegar and mold. The wine cellar was huge, but most importantly, untouched. Everything was intact; the bricks unmolested, the wine unopened, and the shelves straight. The cellar was endless, enough wine to satisfy a king and his armies for multiple fortnights. This explained the vinegar. I remember the oaken floorboards creaking under each step, feeling like I was suffocating under the smell of acid and mold.
93
Brian Choi For the first time in years, I will write something happy,
Let’s go back to when I was a child,
But I can’t promise you that it will not be sappy.
The stories of my past aren’t that wild.
A great weight has been lifted off of my chest,
The fun I had then, the fun I have now,
For what I read now is one of my best.
I have sweat completely covering my brow.
It’s safe to calm down, this poem isn’t sad,
And the stories, I have, the tales I’ve read,
But I can only hope that it won’t be bad.
Once a day, before I went to bed.
And as I read it now, please don’t be mad,
And please remember, I mean what I said
For the pressure has lifted, for once I feel glad.
Nothing is wrong now, the sky is blue overhead.
I’ve spent little time, writing this down, It flowed right out of me, as I lay around.
We can all have fun, we will have great time, Hopefully more so than me when I thought of this rhyme.
My friends, my family, I’ve been supported by many
My story has ended, we can move on,
But sadness, and guilt, I don’t feel any.
But as long as I’m remembered, I won’t truly be gone.
For the pressure has lifted, for once I feel glad, But now I feel empty, now I feel sad. But the fun I’ve had, hasn’t ended yet, If you disagree, let’s make a bet.
My poem hasn’t ended, my story goes on, Hopefully long after I am gone. For what I’ve left behind, I hope it can help, After all, the stories of past, are more useful than kelp.
And I’ll continue writing, if it’s not too bad, But unlike this one, I won’t make it too sad For the things I could do, all I can say, I’ll do it all if I had it my way.
94
Tuck Cronin
To Preston Jeremiah Longstreet, Kagoshima was city of chaos. Almost dystopian in nature. Amongst the iron smelting plants and warehouses loaded with imported machines, cotton and soon to be exported tea down by the docks, you had the traditional wooden buildings of Japanese design, some of which had remained undisturbed for centuries. In their isolation, the Japanese had turned architecture into nothing short of an art. But, in 1853, American warships changed everything; Japan was reopened to trade after two hundred years and its old ways of life under the Tokugawa Shogunate were dying as a result. Shimazu Hisamitsu, Daimyo of Satsuma, had seen this and he was now one of the foremost players in the bid to restore the divine rule of the Emperor. Longstreet walked towards a tea house to meet with his compatriots, a military captain by the name of Takeda Shimada escorted him. “Might I ask, why does Lord Shimazu hate the Shogunate?” Longstreet asked, “You may be a gaijin, but perhaps you should know, it is a conflict that stretches back several centuries,” Takeda began “At the battle of Sekigahara, the western clans of Mori, Chosokabe and Shimazu fought with the Tokugawa to prevent their ascension,” he said. “They left that day, in defeat, and rather than be killed, the Chosokabe and Mori Daimyos were stripped of their titles, while Lord Shimazu’s ancestor Shimazu Yoshihiro was forced to pay tribute to the new Tokugawa Shogunate, they were completely dishonored for not dying there at Sekigahara.” Longstreet huffed at the very mention of honor, how his allies had put their honor over running the damn war, holding duels on the days of decisive battles and trying to die fighting rather than making a tactical retreat to save their troops lives. “You were part of the rebellion in your own land were you not?” Takeda asked, “And you failed, yet your enemies did not execute you nor your leaders have you commit seppuku,” he said, “How shameful,” he said almost with remorse towards the former confederate. “Our peoples understand the virtue of mercy,” Longstreet said. Longstreet thought back to Shimazu Hisamitsu, his blue general’s uniform and his contemplating scowl, the man burned with hatred for something that happened two-hundred years ago. Preston couldn’t help but worry: Would the effects of his war cast a shadow of contempt over his descendents in two hundred years?
95
Clayton Mather Large luscious willow trees, light shining through their emerald-green leaves. A daring Army of carpenter ants makes their way up the trunk, they crawl into nooks of rotting wood, ready to establish their new home. The shrill screech of summer cicadas crescendos, its banshee-like wail overpowers the song of the woodlands. The roots of the willow tree are filled with similar cicadas, they feed on water for 18 years, until they burst through the soft soil, and begin their time above ground. Humans are similar, sucking on the tit of their parents during their child life, only to emerge as new people, yet the same as everyone else. Once cicadas have gone through their cycle of mating above ground, they die, leaving behind only the shells they had recently discarded. Their fragile bodies turn to dust in the summer wind, while leaving behind a ghostly reminder of what used to be. We too emerge from the solace of childhood, only to go on a sporadic sex spree to pass our genes onto the next generation. Our time comes and goes, and we too turn to dust in the summer wind.
96
Conor Nacarrato
In the Confines of my Mother’s House
You’ll find: Laughter with aural quality so rich it niches its way into interstices lining the living room and remains for days. Slacked vowels after a glass of wine— freely reverting to the non-rhotic speech I didn’t stay home long enough to acquire. Cuts in her mouth from biting her tongue for the sake of diplomacy. The primal strength of a single mother. Inspiration. Callouses on the insides of her temples from not sleeping; from praying that my life turns out better than hers. Thick arms in which she wraps her son. The heat of love baking in a broken microwave she can’t afford to replace.
97
98
Olivia Cordle
Dial Tones Sun gleams on glistening silver-lined booths, Shining like an accusatory flashlight Held by a policeman in the depth of night, Reflecting people passing Uninterested in the average antisocial activities. Metal hits metal, Dividing smoke stained air into prisms of privacy Payphone buttons clacking in each separate sector. Voices stretch through thin wire Grabbing at others only close enough to hear By ways of copper thread and modern magic Blind to perked ears mere feet away. Cold phones meet impatient ears, whispering “hold on a moment�s Humming when distant devices refuse response.
99
Gabrielle Drinkwine
Sometimes I write on paper, with a black pilot gel pen, because it’s the most natural. Sometimes I type out the words on my computer, because I can never make up my mind (about what I want to say). Either way, I change words, move sentences and the piece is ever-changing. I rewrite it a thousand times over, typing, writing, typing and writing. I write late at night, sitting on my bed when all that can be heard are insects buzzing outside my window and my furious typing. My legs fidget often, and I can never stay in the same position for long, because I move as my writing moves. I write while under pressure, and when I’m anxious or nervous. I write when I have thoughts and ideas spinning through my head, and I need to let them out. But then, I spill some ice cream or hot chocolate on my computer, and I stop to clean it up. That’s when I stop, because by the time I’m done, the idea has flown out of my head, and I can’t seem to write anymore. I am surrounded by unfinished stories and ideas, things I could have elaborated on, if only I had stayed focused. I always write a first chapter, and a second if I am lucky, but then I move on, because I have other things to write.
100
Maeve Florence-Smith
101
Avery Fountain
102
Iyana Gilreath
103
Annie Goorha
She's wearing a slick black dress accessorized with a gold belt and a thick fur waistcoat. I'm wearing plain black pants, a white top, and an unbuttoned red plaid shirt. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, serious ponytail. Mine is twisted into a limp braid. Her elegant heels add another few inches to her already tall figure. My dull converse cower in comparison. Elegant Girl flicks the end of her eyelashes with a long mascara brush. She leans closer to the mirror. "Always have trouble with the left lashes." I turn on the tap and run my hands under the cool water. Elegant Girl moves the brush from her right eye to her left. I clear my throat and say in my most convincing voice, "I do too. I always end up poking myself in the eye." No response. A toilet behind me flushes and the bathroom stall clicks open. A girl with shoulder length, straight blond hair joins us at the sinks. She lathers her hands in soap. Her nails are painted light pink. My nails aren't even painted. I grab a handful of paper towels as both girls take out a tube of lipstick. Standing in between them, I look infinitely small. Clutching my Chapstick while they purse their lipsticked lips, makes me feel even smaller. They look at me oddly as I start to layer my lips with the Chapstick. An unspoken accordance unites the two girls. They link arms and stroll out the bathroom door. Do they even know each other? Maybe it doesn't matter if they both have the same motive: getting away from the me. I hear whispered voices mutter as the door slams shut. Who is she?
104
Kylee Hendrie
Milk Expired
He falls asleep in shivering darkness, his obsolete body tossed, Somewhere, another alone, veiny handed, milk expired One waited too long for hills to grow to mountains staying in his rusty home until he retired Somewhere one ingests a house of cards, guiltless unknowing her ruptured gut bleeds rolls of barbed wire Another walked thin lines reaching left and right, leaking ink, leaving her tea cups in her sink, mismatching her moral compass to her attire One throws her head back as her throat convulses in disagreement choking on her own insides, a charcoal heart she now desired Another faces walls and huddles down in her bubble, Her arms shaking with a bruised mind, done and tired Somewhere, blades slice the delicate skin of a porcelain doll marking untouched territory, her love now gone and expired.
105
Maryn Hiscott Live Forever The full moon gleamed overhead, its luminescent fingers brushing the bodies that littered the yellow-grass field. Its fingers were gentle, so light like silk sheets against smooth skin. Within the briefest moment, a split second of contact, any life left was drained from the bodies, and they became broken corpses dressed in the moon’s gauzy nightgown. It didn’t necessarily enjoy this process, but it was the way it had to be. Beside the remains of humanity lay weapons nearly as ruined as they were. Bowstrings beginning for wax, arrow splintered into halves, swords as dull as the Grey Man skulking, axes with blades broken off. Some swords, ones that’d come into contact with the metal-skinned, were bent out of shape, into C’s and S’s. One person remained, a man with waist-length, close-to-sentient silver hair that swayed side to side in swift movements in time with his body. His eyes rested shut so the decals inked on his eyelids were prominent. They were curses inscribed in Leish runes, made by the hands long, long ago, by the hands of an angry monk. The bodies littered around the field, ripe and fresh and stunk of iron, an inevitable sensory attack on any average human’s nose. But the man had long since learned how to stop smelling, just as he had learned to stop seeing and hearing and tasting. He remained connected with the world by the single thread of touch. The weak blades bending beneath the pads of his fingers, grass tickling his bare ankles. The sorrowful wind scraped his skin like a scalpel: digging in and hooking on. He tried his best to ignore the dead surrounding him, but he could feel their souls leaking from their bodies, encircling him with the cries of, “Why didn’t you do anything to stop this? You sat and did nothing. You always do nothing!” He felt their grief and the grief their family would soon feel. And even though he no longer saw, he knew his ankles were stained red from the blood that seeped into the dirt into a dying concoction. There was never a time when his ankles weren’t red. For every battle in history that caused night horrors, every battle where both sides lose, every battle that reminds humanity how evil, how truly corrupt they were, he was there. He had no control over where he went, when he went. He sat and waited, waited until the blood crusted on his legs and could feel the air around him change as he moved to somewhere new. Years ago--he didn’t know how many--there was a war so great that no one dared to utter its name lest the word kill them, too. Everyone fought: women, children, men. No matter your gender or your social class, you went to war or you were branded a coward. There was no draft, no roundup of the able-bodied population, but something sent a message into people’s hearts. This is important, this matters. Care. And they died, wave after wave of people met others and killed and lost their lives for something they believed in. But the man was afraid. Though death was inevitable, he hadn’t wanted to confront at that moment in time. To feel death’s vise-like grip wrap around his neck, to feel its sulfur hot breath cloud his face was a petrifying idea. The monk came in after that, and shamed him, taunted him, told him that if he was so afraid of death, he would never die.
106
Jessica Janiszewski
107
Some Kind of Bird
108
Liam Ferris
109
Andrew Franks
Innocence Like any ignorant fifth grader excitedly anticipating the first day of school, I rushed out and promptly made my way to school. On my way to school, I endeavored along Riverside Park: where falling leaves tumbled down like confetti from thickly interlocked branches above. And the trees, they were skirted by pools of golden leaves that became animated in the wind. They danced—some waltzing, others more frivolous in movement—to their orchestral rustling. But when the wind died, all the dancers formed different pools. Pools that looked identical to the ones in which they resided before their frolicking. And it was on this first day of fifth grade that I saw this security guard. He stands the same way every morning: leaning against the school’s glass entrance, he has one foot against the wall and one holding up his thin frame. I suppose he is sturdy, but he always looks on the verge of loosing balance—as if waiting for a gust of wind to topple him over. But, his hands were the only redeeming quality about him. Well, not exactly his hands, his gloves. They mesmerized me: those large, fluffy gloves. The fist pumps he gave with the gloves were easily the best. They were soft. Everyone, toddlers to eight graders, talked about the security officer with the fist pumps. To others, he was a celebrity. To me, he was mystical, magical even. I took any chance to learn more about him. Honestly, everyday when I approach him at the front door of school, I have the same debate: am I going to give him a fist pump back this time? Hopefully he forgot about last time. Or worse, what if he remembers? Remembers how I eluded his proposed bump yesterday? What if he ignores me and leaves me hanging? One morning in March, I reached out to give him a pump, but his hands were in his pockets this time. And when he pulled them out, I saw his hands: his naked hands and barren fingers. But my eyes were immediately drawn to a box that had fallen out of his pocket. As he nonchalantly reached for it, I memorized the combination of letters—desperate to learn more about him. And like that, the fantasy died. Cigarettes. That is what there were called, according to Google. I understood why my mother cried, the name etched in the marble. My friend’s father wasn’t dreaming: it was something darker. And leaves tumbling down in the park? They didn’t dance; the leaves were mingling, whispering. No, they are gossiping. Just like that, I realized what I was—what I had been. The very act of realizing it had destroyed it. The gloved man was there for the rest of the year every morning giving fist pumps. Even that same Friday morning I last saw my wavy-haired friend’s father drop him off. I remember their hug: it was brief where it should have been long, rigid instead of soft, and ended just as it began. It had all the soothing characteristic as Roz—that female slug from Monsters Inc. Duty fulfilled, hug performed. I think it was my mom who said that this friend’s father didn’t wake up the following morning. Uproars surged from her throat in a silent scream, beads of water chasing each other down her cheek. I wasn’t sure why she was sad; I liked to sleep. I liked to dream. The last time I had ever seen her cry was earlier that year. The date was September 11th. We visited the ten-year anniversary memorial of an unclear event that had taken place downtown. With one hand placed on her chest and one on the name etched in the marble, my mother cried. And beneath our fingertips, water rushed from the edges into the center of the structure.
110
Max Kim Pets I sit alone in a padded room, no birds, no sky, just the constant droning of the fluorescent lights. The jacket is rather uncomfortable, but I suppose that one gets accustomed to its tight embrace. I used to move around the room to amuse myself, but not anymore. I have my pets to talk to. Just to clarify, I am not insane. My pets are innumerable, uncountable, each with their own voice, color, and shape. Man’s best friend pales in comparison. I dance with them, I play with them, we frolic through the golden fields. But sometimes I get headaches, my pets go into hiding, each throb a crash of thunder, rolling inside my head. Those are the saddest times. When I am let out, I ask the guard whether he has pets as well. He gives a confused, pitying look. Sometimes I think I am the only one who sees them. As the years pass, pets come and go, mostly going nowadays. My tears stain the floor because I can’t remember their names. I am alone, but not insane. I now sit in the cell as an old man, the lights still droning above me. As the years continue to pass, I can feel the cracks spreading like a spider web across my being. I laugh when they mock me. I know they are jealous, for I have lived a fuller life than any of them. I smile as I shatter, blissfully waiting to join my pets again in a much happier place. My body is burning. It hurts, but the pain is worth it. The jacket that bound me is washed once then assigned to someone else. He enters and slumps gloomily against a corner. I can hear his pets, they bark and wail, begging to be let out of their cages. I suppose it’s only a matter of time. To reiterate, I am not insane. I am the twinkling star, a shining beacon in an ocean of darkness. You, my friends, are the darkness.
111
Alexander Marvel
Tie Your Laces
Tie your laces by the door, put on your shoes We aren’t welcome any more, it’s time for us to go Lift your head up and pull your coat on We aren’t welcome any more, it’s time for us to go It’s time for us to go It’s time for us to go Tug your hat over your ears, it’s cold outside Pay no attention to your fears, I am here my dear Lift your head and take a deep breath We aren’t welcome any more, it’s time for us to go It’s time for us to go It’s time for us to go This room is far too small I open the walls But still I’m enthralled by you The pavement outside, it calls For me to follow But I’m enthralled by you Wrap your scarf around your neck, it is snowing I am here, I’ll be your friend, but now it’s time to leave Lift your head up, and close your eyes We aren’t welcome any more, it’s time for us to go This room is far too small I open the walls But still I’m enthralled by you The pavement outside, it calls For me to follow But I’m enthralled by you
112
William Sullivan
Jason sat in his shitty apartment, windowless and dull, and he clutched a bottle of whiskey around his chest. He drank straight from the bottle, and thought about his old house in Beverly Hills, that suited his lifestyle. He proceeded to drink as he slowly dragged himself to the computer in the office, a good three feet from both his kitchen and his bedroom. The headline remained the same, featuring a sex scandal he didn;t participate in, for she was just one of his many clients at the talent agency. He had watched the company rise from nothing, and as it rose the he was pushed out forcefully ruining his marriage, family, and whole life. He took a generous swig from the bottle, and stood up looking for his loafers, and he slipped them on after a minute of fumbling. He hopped in his last piece of wealth, the BMW. He was half blind at best when he took control of the car, and headed towards Beverly Hills. He used to drive with the top down on his silver BMW with a smile and a pleasurable laugh, but today he rode in silence, while concentrating on the road coming at him stopping to look at no one. As he rolled up to his house, he noticed nobody home. Both cars were gone, and Carly never opened the garage unless it was hail. Jason grabbed the remainder of his whiskey, and took a final swig, escalating himself to blackout drunk, and he stuffed a rag through the bottle of whiskey until it reached the bottom. He fumbled to open the glove compartment, but he grabbed his lighter, and watched as the towel began to catch a flame. He heaved the bottle from his arm through the glass of the living room window, and he watched as flames arose inside the house. He still wanted his ex wife as he watched the house became engulfed by flames, and smoke rise from the roof and windows. Jason was too drunk to control his thoughts, and the liquor took over his mind.
113
Cole Williamson
Morning Routine
1.
Wake up to the buzzing of my alarm clock 6:45 A.M. In the midst of a dream, suddenly I hear a loud buzzing. I continue on in my fantasy, my
subconscious mind believing the ring is part of my made up world. Suddenly, however, I am ripped from my dreamland. My eyes open, I am in my room staring at the ceiling. Just another weekday. Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? Who cares? It’s always the same routine. Like most days, I am not ready to get up yet, so naturally I hit snooze on my alarm clock
2.
Wake up to my alarm clock again 6:54 A.M. The buzzing begins again, beaconing me again to wake up. This time, I reluctantly follow its
commands. I rise out of bed like a zombie and walk to the bathroom in the hall like my feet are bound by prison shackles.
3.
Get in the shower 6:55 A.M. I turn the knob on the shower. The cold water flows onto me like I’m completing a polar
plunge. This immediately wakes me up. No longer able to bear the arctic cold, I turn the knob to its hottest available temperature. Then I stand motionless for a couple minutes, letting the water run down my face almost as if knowing this will be the most enjoyable part of my morning.
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