YWW - Session 1 Litmag 2016

Amanda Mai Becker

Teenage romance rarely works out, everyone knows that. It's always there in the back of one's head, but does a person listen to it? No. Of course not. The past year and a half has become a blur of school, sports, free time; yet, one thing is memorable. Almost too memorable. That silly romance that ended in flames.

Freshman year is terrible to begin with, no explanation needed. You're young, stupid, and in a completely new environment where making bad decisions is almost as common as breathing.

You're young, stupid, and making bad decisions, but then again so is everyone else. You don't really know that though.

Freshman year and failed romances are a package deal. You find that one person, in my case a girl, who becomes your reason for existence. You plan out your future together: where you're going to spend your lunch periods, how you'll do your homework together, what colleges you'll apply to, even the matching cheesy designs for your graduation caps. You've gotten way too far ahead of yourself all because of the beautiful eyes or the charming personality. You fall in love with an idea. You fall in love with the idea of being in love.

Everyone watches crappy movies about high school, the ones where sex, drugs, and alcohol are all anyone ever does and no one seems to ever have a commitment to anything. You have this secret expectation that that is exactly how high school will be. You'll be the football player falling in love with the cheerleader. You have high hopes. Somewhere in your mind, you want to be like the people in the movies. You want to be that lead couple. You want to be (insert name here) and (insert name here). The inseparable pair. Popular. Prom king and queen. But keep in mind, you're still those stupid, little inexperienced freshman.

You saw her sitting in front of you on your first day when the entire high school was shoved into one furnace-like room on that steamy September morning. Or maybe she caught sight of you first. Who knows. You make eye contact, give a little smile. That's it. You forget about her for a month, maybe two. You're too wrapped up in your studies and starting off your new career as a high school student. Then that bonding trip rolls around and next thing you know you're showed on a big, white, and smelly coach bus with the tacky seat coverings and the gum stuck under the arm rests. You're off to some YMCA camp a few hours north. You're both on the isle, a row across from each other because your names happen to come next to one another alphabetically.

You exchange that same little smile from the first day, but this time, a conversation ensues. With the sixty other students on the bus, it's hard to hear, but you make out something.

“I'm (insert name here)”, you introduce, extending a hand across the isle. She lets go of a small laugh, her head tilting back and her hair falling into her face. She shakes your hand.

“I'm (insert name here).”

Christina Yin

I woke up in the morning Feeling something different Was way past time and sunrise And all I heard was whispering Sun was shining too bright Just can’t open my eyes Emptiness on my side It’s another secret; I cried Time to time I feel this way Even if they’re not the same Wrong time wrong space nothing’s right Even if they try Sometimes I feel overwhelmed So much to get through Nothing left but me and you And it’s time to say adieu Sometimes I just wanna leave Everything behind Sometimes nothing’s feeling right And all we know are lies Sometimes I wake up and it’s midnight Nothing stays the same Lovers right next door, loud And I’m the one whose strange Time to time I feel this way Even if they’re not the same Wrong time wrong space nothing’s right Even if they try Sometimes I feel overwhelmed So much to get through Nothing left but me and you And it’s time to say adieu Sometimes I just wanna leave Everything behind Sometimes nothing’s feeling right And all we know are lies Sometimes (x2)

Clarice Hague

At dinnertime, the sun S

E

T

S in my throat, and I choke on my cucumber water. it comes

T

R C

I

K L I

N

G out the sides of my mouth, and the sun’s last breath leaks between the gaps in my teeth My parent’s say I’ll save millions of dollars in electricity bills, and that lightening bugs envy me Too large to fit in a glass jar, Too small to O R B I T around.

I say very little, what with a mouth of country-maid lemonade-yellow light ready to leak out and latch onto everything in sight I hardly sleep at night, What with limbs of lightening and hair of ````F ````I`` ``R`` ``E```` Vitamin D is never an issue for me The sun rise raises bile to my throat, beating out my orange juice

I cough up lightbulbs and sunburns But if you ever need a little light in your life, I’m less than a few light years away.

S L I P P I N G down,

Devon Winchester

Everything about her radiated power, from her glowing golden-brown skin to her shiny dark curls to the cloth of many colors that draped across her magnificent figure. A small smile played at the sorceresses dark lips as her golden gaze bored straight into the brown eyes of the young woman. When she spoke, her voice was low and hypnotic.

“I am the Sorceress of the Ruins. I can grant you a gift in exchange for a part of yourself. What is it you desire?” The sorceress said, her half-lidded gold eyes displaying what looked like both curiosity and bemusement.

And the young woman replied: “Mighty Sorceress, I am unhappy with my appearance. I wish to be beautiful.”

The sorceresses eyes seemed to take on a hint of sadness as she listened to the request, before asking; “And what will you give me?”

In response, the young woman pulled several of her curly black hairs out of her scalp and handed them to the sorceress, who took them in one of her cold brown hands before summoning a single seed in the other.

“Plant this seed, and when it blooms, place the flower in your hair and it will make you beautiful.”

And so the young woman did, and became the sight she had always wanted to be. And so she was satisfied, for a while.

The sorceress stared into her eyes once more, her expression one of somber understanding.

“What seems to be the problem?” She inquired.

And the young woman replied: “Mighty Sorceress, I am unable to sleep and unable to rest. I wish to be calm.”

“And what will you give me?” The sorceress asked.

In response, the young woman pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and presented it to the sorceress. On the paper was a nonsensical tale written in childish scrawl; the first story the young woman had ever written.

With one hand, the sorceress held the paper, and with the other she removed one of her bangles and handed it to the young woman.

“Wear this,” she said, “and you will be at peace.”

And so the young woman did, and found herself free of the worries that had plagued and prevented her sleep. And so she was satisfied, for a while.

The third time she came to the sorceress it was with tears in her eyes and desperation in her heart.

“What is it that ails you?” The sorceress inquired.

And the young woman replied: “Mighty Sorceress, I feel trapped and hopeless. I wish to be free.”

“And what will you give me?” The sorceress asked.

In response, the young woman presented her with a tube of used red lipstick, the same substance which had coated her dark lips when she had her first kiss.

With one hand, the sorceress held the tube, and with the other, she removed her silk cloak.

“Wear this,” she said, “and you will be free.”

And so the young woman did, and so she found herself able to be a bird who could fly away from her troubles. But something was still missing.

“You know, four times is a little much.” The sorceress said when the young woman returned once more.

“Mighty Sorceress,” the young woman said, “I bring you a flower of beauty, a bangle of peace, and a cloak of wings in exchange for the one thing that cannot be bought.”

A smile played at the sorceresses lips as she leaned forward and entwined her fingers with those of the young woman.

“And so you shall have it.” The sorceress said.

And so the two embraced, and found that they both were finally satisfied.

To this day, there are stories flying around about the Sorceresses of the Ruins. They say that the two women will grant you a gift in exchange for a piece of yourself, and that they are easy enough to find if you know where to look.

Donna Son

cold farewells, half-hearted goodbyes to memories that never last receding wisps-dry air remains swallowed gulping, choking, coughing, salt water brimming at the waterline. dewdrop pictures blurred out-softer, curvier, nicer.

Drop. hard cement drinks, soaks, dries.

Edges. wrinkled paper face waterstained skin, eyes sparsely painted red, dyed ink lips. brim, blur, drop, drink, Dry.

Lauren Burrell

I’ve come to the recent realization that I have nothing else to lose.

It was after the fact that I’d been admitted into to the hospital (again), when the metallic taste of blood gurgled violently against my lips. It was also the first time I had been scared, since being a child who was once frightened of the dark.

At first the doctor presumed that I was fine and that I’d just contracted a severe cough.

Very severe indeed.

Yeah cause coughing up blood every few days was totally normal.

So after being prescribed medication in which required taking three large salmon colored tablets a day and being checked twice a month from my doctor, I knew something was very wrong.

Did I mention that I supposedly only had a mere seasonal cough? Well apparently from Dr. Matthews diagnostic it was a minor allergy.

I think that the pills made the headaches even worse.

And then as each week went by it became harder and harder to breathe.

My skin began to grow paler, duller, and even started to obtain a lovely grayish tint. My curly brown locks lay in compacted in balls that gradually grew larger as the days went by.

I was slowly losing my hair in clumps as they layed like seaweed amongst my shower floor.

That was too the moment I realized that I was slowly dying.

Lilli Schweitzer

the first was that i was so over it But that didn’t nearly explain enough the second was that i was failing classes But kids still asked me to do their homework the third was that i couldn’t sleep until three But that didn’t stop my mom from waking me up at six the fourth was that half of my thoughts were in another language But everyone hated when i spoke that way so i stopped speaking the fifth was that i never ate breakfast on weekdays But i kept a box of poptarts in my locker so i was fine until lunch the sixth was that i couldn’t stop talking in flowery metaphors But that was as useful as a matador trying to stop a bull with another red scarf the seventh was that i was only vaguely superstitious But that didn’t stop me from petting black cats the eighth was that i was happy singing everywhere i went But people never failed to tell me to shut up the ninth was that i fell in love with a girl But she was older and we were southern and she liked someone else the tenth was that she was assigned to be my class buddy But that didn’t stop me from falling head-over-heels again and again the eleventh was that i used cliches too often in my poetry But i still talked about cigarettes and roses and mother mary the twelfth was that i couldn’t talk to people unless i trusted them But i trusted no one the thirteenth was that i had so much on my schedule already But i wanted to do a thousand more things the fourteenth was that i changed who i was for other people But people never seemed to change for me

Maggie Wang

England, January 1589 She is my mother. They have never told me so, but I am sure of it nonetheless.

Women are supposed to be gentle creatures.

So they say.

But in the case of my mother, they are wrong…

I am Mary Tudor.

So they do not say.

And thus they call me Mary Berkeley.

Elizabeth is cruel. Cruel and brutal. So much so that she doesn’t even seem human.

Much less does she seem a mother.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the other servants here are her children. She does not love any of them, even if they are. But then again, she does not love me, either.

I owe her nothing. The other servants, and indeed the whole of England and all its people, owe her nothing.

I am constantly hearing both her ladies’-in-waiting and her gentleman admirers’ words of “Oh, she is wedded to England and the English are her children! Oh, how lovely!”

No, not lovely. And indeed, not true…

If I had a proper family, I might be able to suffer with the excuse that she has a kingdom to govern, wars to wage, traitors to execute, money to steal, and so on.

Such a list makes the art of ruling sound unappealing indeed.

Because to me, it is. Very much…

[S]he bore her lover’s child, outside of the chains of a legitimate, noble marriage.

There is a knock at the door of the small, cramped chamber that I share with one of the other servants, and I spin around, wiping the tears, the precious pleas of the lost Mary Tudor, from my cheeks…

“You cry far too often, Mary Berkeley,” Margaret, my bedmate, tells me, stepping into the room and closing the door. The fading light from the window casts an ominous, purple-gray glow around the space, and she takes a few steps towards me.

Suddenly, she stops, as if she has touched fire or boiling water, but she remains silent.

Then, in a whisper so quiet that I think I am dreaming, she corrects herself. “Mary Tudor.”

She spoke my name. I cover my mouth with my left hand to muffle my gasp, and my right hand flies to my hip, where I always keep my dagger. It is also the location of the mark that will forever brand me as Elizabeth’s child: a three scars, curved in the shape of a broken “R”.

I am not quick enough to respond in words, for she notices my reaction and whispers, slightly louder than before, “So it is true.”

This time, rationality clears my mind, and angrily, I ask, “Who told you?”

“No one,” she asks, looking down at the cold, stone floor.

I step forward. “Tell me the truth.” I try to sound like the person I could have been seventeen years ago if I had not been thrown aside instead.

Margaret looks up. “Mary,” she begins, conveniently leaving out both of my surnames, “I have told you the truth.”

This time it is I who looks down, and I can hear her gown brushing the floor as she approaches me. But I turn away, avoiding her touch so that she may avoid the sight of my tears.

THE INCREDIBLES

Athena Hallberg

“No. No. Please No!” I plead with the darkness, but there is only silence. It’s downstairswaiting for me. I am sixty five years old and newly retired. I was in advertising. I was married, but after twenty years it ended in divorce. I live alone. There is no one else in the house. It’s just me.

I check the alarm clock that rests on my bedside table. It’s a quarter past two. My mind flings from one idea to the next searching for a way to get out- to turn back, but I know that’s its useless. I take a breath and then another. I need to calm down. I need to think. All I can here is the grandfather clock in the hallway. It’s pounding out the seconds. There is no way back. It’s here for me.

In my terror broken snippets of conversations replay in my mind “Dad, I am worried about you. It’s good that you’re retiring, but that house, you want to move to too, is in the middle of nowhere. You’ll be bored. And what if… what if something happens to you?”

“David, I’m your father. I’m sixty five. I know what’s best for me. I’m looking forward to some rest for a change. So if that’s what I want, that’s what I am going to do.” That was a few weeks ago. I haven’t spoken to David since. I regret that now.

I slide out of bed. My feet tremble. There is nothing to do, but face it. The intruder is downstairs- and it won’t be going anywhere. I step into the hallway. As a child I was afraid of the dark. I use to sleep with the lights on, but I haven’t been afraid of it in years, so I have to turn on the lights as I go.

I start down the stairs. I pass smiling pictures and memory colored walls. My legs ache, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

I stand in my living room and there sitting across the mantle of the fireplace it sits -the retirement card. I take it down from the mantle and stare at the word written across it – “Congratulations.” I don’t even know what that word means. It’s just something people say when you’re supposed to be happy for them and their supposed to be happy for you, I guess. I have been in advertising for so many years. Work is a part of me.

I sit down holding it in my tremoring hands. They’re old man hands. Where has all the time gone? I feel my life’s behind me. Have I done anything worth remembering? I don’t know. I don’t know. The empty house and the isolation consume me. My hands won’t stop shaking. I tear the paper apart. I sit with the shreds and wonder where the time has gone. I wonder what comes next. I wonder how I was ever the little boy who was afraid of the dark- the one with his whole future ahead of him.

Jackie Osadebamwen

Sarah Kern

ONE and TWO stand on the stage side by side. The stage is dark except for the characters. The lighting makes it look as if they don’t have stomachs. TWO looks like a bad impersonation of one.

ONE You look better. What did you change?

TWO I’ve been working really hard on my image. I finally got rid of my stomach.

ONE Oh I’m glad you finally did it. I was getting worried about your appearance. My next step is to get my entire body pulverized and then rearranged to perfection.

TWO You can do that now?

ONE It’s all about smooth sides and crisp corners these days.

THREE enters. THREE could wear some sort of geometric costume or could be a set piece with a hidden voice. The look is not human.

ONE You’re beautiful.

THREE I’m happy now. I’m perfect.

TWO You’re unrecognizable. There’s nothing left but edges.

THREE You’re so kind.

TWO I said you were nothing.

THREE That’s exactly what I want to be. It’s the next step in my process.

TWO Nothing?

ONE and THREE Nothing is the new everything.

Lighting closes in on only TWO. TWO disappears into the darkness.

Tessa Kirtzman

The sound of the waves always in the distance And the sweet yet salty scent that forever protrudes the air The sand that sticks to the soles of my feet and follow me through my door Through my house and into my bed and I love it.

These are people that know me so I don’t have to explain myself People that don’t care what I do or look like or agree with Because they don’t want to know.

I don’t want to ever leave these people.

But there are days when the ache in my heart grows bigger Because I see the summer looming to an end.

An end to the late nights when the weed has kicked in too hard and I am feeling so good.

An end to my happy smile that does not leave even though I am crying because he refuses to tell me that he loves me enough And I wonder if it is my fault.

Because my hair is always tangled with sand and ocean water And my face has been makeup-less for longer than ever before And I feel the anxiety that only exists in the far away place called reality Creeping up my spine.

Summer is almost over.

Sandy beds and sun screened faces are almost over.

My sanity, my happiness, my love is almost over But for now the sound of the waves are still in the distance.

Sreya Mahara The whole world is in this room. At least, that’s the way it feels. I hear a musical language, like Swahili, being spoken on my left, and the harsh, choppy syllables of German on my right. Sunlight streams through the windows but my watch still says 11 PM. I’m still on Indian time. I should probably change that.

I’ve always liked airports, a place where the entire world seems to converge. People from all walks of life, all countries, all heritages, meet at this one space. Like the heart of the world, with planes as veins that spread them everywhere, pumping out humanity to the earth.

“Olly. Oliver, wake up” My brother, Alex, elbows me and pulls me out of my waking dream. “Time to go, dude.” He says quietly, gesturing to his phone. “Uber’s here,” he grabs the strap of his backpack. I nod and lean over to tap Layla on the shoulder.

“Time to go,” I say softly when she’s completely awake, blinking slow and confused, a little fawnlike. She nods and pushes her hair out of her face, the bangles on her wrist tinkling like little bells.

A few hours ago, those bangles had looked like shackles. They were marital bangles.

A gift from her future in-laws. Marking her, like a label, saying this girl is taken. This girl is engaged. This girl belongs someone else.

I’m not sure why she’s still wearing them, but I won’t ask.

Getting up is the hardest part, my whole body is exhausted, time-traveling through timezones and traditions, changing the future takes a lot out of me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of what lies ahead. I know what lies behind us- a tear, a promise, a midnight rendezvous, and escape- and I know what we have now- a sleepy interlude, content with the sounds of the whole world passing us by, safety in numbers- but I don’t know what lies ahead. And it scares me. All I have is my brother and Layla, and we are safe for now, in the heart of the world.

Andrea Maia

I straighten it.

Because without its silky smooth texture.

You wouldn’t bother to look in my direction.

I straighten it.

Like it gives me a beauty that was hidden deep from up under.

I straighten it.

Not because it’s always the easiest thing to do.

But rather the easiest way to get through the day.

I straighten it.

Because I can’t go a day without someone questioning me about, “How did it get that way?”

I straighten it.

Because it gives you less of a need to touch it.

I straighten it.

Not because it defines my interior, However maybe it might help me get this job or set my career I straighten it.

Because it makes me feel less inferior to the ones who think they are superior.

I straighten it.

Because without it I feel naked.

Like my ancestors didn’t puff their puffs so high that the heavens acknowledged it as the style of kings and queens.

I straighten it.

Because without it I often feel weak.

So what do I do when my straightener breaks?

Nan Marsh

Summer is vanishing from us That beloved heat we scape our knees against Drawing crosses and hop scotches for us to play Lips fooled by cheap drug store colors No longer children of the raspberries The vibrant dyes of fruit were our favorite form of cosmetology Thin skin too thick for cherry concrete Thin skin too blistered for cherry pain And I’ll forget you one day I think I will And I’ll start living in the real world Hide and seek in the shimmers of the heat Little fairies brush our hair and put us to sleep Never knowing, not allowing what was going on outside To ever reach our heads Thin skin too thick for cherry concrete Thin skin too blistered for cherry pain And I’ll forget you one day I think I will And I’ll start living in the real world

Renee Milligan Tossing and turning and it’s 2:17 AM I can’t sleep with sheets twisted around my limbs Our Choices (condensed version) stretching and grasping in the dark at the dark and it’s too hot I look out over the edge of the bridge this pillow under my head I and see the trees welcoming me turn it over 27 times into their open arms. in an effort to find the cold side but My body feels so light it’s no good one foot hanging out when I make the choice to jump.

You watch me jump, but you can’t stop over the edge of the bed me, is cold I should just throw off these sheets and you have to grip the railing to keep escape this hot tangled mess now yourself from falling with me.

I’m cold and I left the television screen shining from the far wall and Volcano Season it’s pulsing a painful beat into my eyes I Dripping orange leaves overflow cracked clay pots, sit up and my head is pounding I need to find the remote fertilized by embers, turn it off turn off the light turn off the static turn off my mind I planted in ash. clutch the remote and the glow flicks to black Skies run with color, matching the room hands painting gashes in clouds no light no sound that I’m not making whose white forms bleed, breathing smearing red in hasty retreat and my body doused in sweat and dashing past creeping vines of gray and black. trickles like ice water Liquid light blooms. grab the sheets a moment Red and yellow florets sparkle. of comfort and now I’m back to being hot and Growing, reaching. arms and legs extend again They shake their buried roots, in wasted effort and it’s 3:31 AM making grass and ground tremble with fear well-founded as petals rain down.

Dancing over mountains, leaping through trees, they transform landscapes into fields of flowers bursting with color.

Earth cannot run from fire’s dance of cherry blossoms.

Yet even bright blooms wilt, leaves fall, and plants die, their lights receding until they sprout anew.

Despair Will you hug the flames for warmth?

Let me join you, and we can collapse on a bed of ashes.

Will you search the forest for the perfect tree?

Let me join you, and we can laugh as we hang by our feet from the noose.

Will you listen to the mother sing an empty cradle a lullaby?

Let me join you, and we can take turns watching our blood mix as it drips on the bathroom floor.

Will you scream, like a mermaid out of water?

Let me join you, and we can suffocate in an atmosphere that was never meant to support us.

Will you wrap yourself in a cocoon of needles?

Let me join you, and we can tug the threads through pinholes pulling them tight to our trembling forms.

Will you stay in this world, where acid rain soaks you through the bone?

Let me join you, and we can kneel on the highway in our wedding gowns.

Will you let me join you, standing in the street as the tsunami comes, listening to a city that was evacuated yesterday.

Liz Rothrock

On the last day of the grading term my mother is upset. Not any specific grading term, that's just a general rule. If it's the last day of the nine weeks I know that I am to be bombarded with texts, calls, and printouts of my current grades covered in fluorescent highlight marks. It's all well deserved as I am a horrible student. I always procrastinate until I only have enough time to do the bare minimum. I fly by the seat of my pants and rely on my ability to think quickly when it comes to almost any assignment. I simply float by and gamble on the outcome.

I wasn't always a bad student, in fact for a while I was great in school. Around 3rd grade something changed. My desk became known for its messiness and my grades began to fall. I was punished and told “You’re so bright. You have so much potential.”

In 4th grade my teacher said “I give up. Have one of the other students help you. I can't waste my time on you anymore.” She called my parents and they discussed how smart I was and how frustrated they were.

In 5th grade I learned new words that applied to me. These words were accusatory. I was lazy, careless, and unorganized.

In 6th grade nothing changed at school. I still couldn't do long division. I still couldn't remember to bring home my assignments. I still couldn't do well. This is the year that my mom and I fought so much when trying to do homework that my mother hired a tutor to help me.

When that one didn't work we tried another and then one after that.

7th grade was the year I failed Pre-Algebra. My mother had finally had enough. That wasn't me. I had made C’s, maybe a D, but I didn't fail. My mom went to my teachers one by one and asked if they thought I could have a learning disability. None of them seemed to think it was a possibility and one even laughed in my mother’s face. Even though my teachers discounted the possibility my mother went ahead and had me tested.

My final year of middle school was one of answers. We had a name for my problem, dyscalculia, the severe difficulty in making arithmetical calculations. My principal looked at my iq scores. He looked at the difference between my scores in the math and English based sections and said it was the most severe case he had ever seen. I got an individualized education program and I finally got the help I needed.

My grades went up, and teachers actually started treating me nicely. Where a teacher usually would have gotten frustrated they didn't, because I had that label. They had to be patient towards a girl with a learning disability. That experience soured me to school. Before I got that special status teachers were cruel. They laughed. They assumed they knew me and didn't stop to realize the effort I was putting forth. They made it my fault. I fly by the seat of my pants because I can. I'm different. To them I'm not a student with a disability, I'm a disabled student.

Annabelle Swift

It’s 1:02 am. Are you okay?

At midnight, I tell him that I’m sorry if I end up hurting him.

12:03 pm, he replies: I’m stronger than you think I am. He says he will be okay.

But I know I’m toxic. But he’s already said that he wants more, but he’s already the second person I text when I’m texting someone else. I can’t be with you, not halfway like the weeks before I left, not like I promised it would be when I got back.

1:06. You don’t know what the future holds. You like me more than you will admit, don’t you?

12:16 pm. You don’t want me to answer any of your questions.

16:17 pm. I do.

12:30 pm. I won’t answer any of your questions.

12:31, he asks what I am afraid of.

I say, Nothing, except thunder and lightning. 12:34 pm and he already knows what I am scared of. He knows that it drove me into his arms that night he thanked the rain.

12:34 pm. You’re afraid of getting hurt, aren’t you?

12:40 pm. I’m not. I’m afraid of hurting you.

He says, Don’t be.

It’s 12:51 pm. He never answered my first question.

I worry about him, but I have no right to. We don’t talk all day and he sends me a text at midnight to wish me sweet dreams. Good morning I say at 2pm the next afternoon. He replies right away.

Are you okay? Read at 1:02am.

I mean-- as long as you’re okay. Sent at 1:21am.

Lean Mean Meme Machine

Angie Fan There was a girl. One day, she found herself in Shanghai. Leaving her home didn’t bother her much. Shanghai seemed more like home anyways. After all, who wants to live in the city where Martin Luther King Jr. and Elvis died? She only missed her friends- enter the new school.

Along with her friends, she met boy she could not forget. The boy was leaving, thus she sits down to send him an email. It goes: “Before I begin, this is not a love letter. However, if I were to say I didn’t have feelings for you, I would be lying. This will probably be a long letter, but please at least try to read this” The girl sighed and stopped typing. She could not think of anything proper to say. As she closed her eyes, she remembered him. His tall, thin figure, his nearly perfect math scores. Of course, there was also his feigned ignorance and his greatest talent--bullshitting. She realized she never understood him and never would. He was also the only boy who met 2/3 of her criteria: Good grades and fit. Her fingers came back in contact with her computer.

“When I first met you, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t even know your name. It was PE class. Mr. Geurten had us do a warm-up jog: you sprinted, only to mockingly complain about how tired you were. This annoyed me. To tell the truth, I though you were an arrogant, asshole.

Then came math class. As the rest of us struggled to memorize formulas, you rambled on about calculus. Make no mistake, you more of an asshole than ever, but you were smart. I respected that. You never even looked at me those first few days, never mind knowing my name. I knew yours: Linden Li- the smart, athletic asshole. “ The girl stared at a glass frame with a picture of her eighth grade class. She opened her computer. A half completed page of precalculus problems faced her. They were due tomorrow, but she couldn’t concentrate, not on it, not on the email.

“Since meeting you, we’ve been together in the same grade for almost 2 years …MUN, 8th grade humanities, Geometry, PE. Remember giving me the aisle seat on the plane back from Qatar after I got up for the third or fourth time. You fell asleep on me that trip. I should have whacked you in the head for that- I resisted. Remember the Skype math problems. Remember comforting me about my chair application during band. ‘It doesn’t matter’, ‘It’s BS’ Why did you do this? Even Brent just laughed.”

“I could never figure you out. You’re so smart, yet you pretend not to know anything. You joke so much I can’t tell when you are actually confused or upset. You thought Mrs. Parker’s ideas were shit and that Ms. Taylor was a bitch. You were vehement enough. Yet, you smiled, went along and they loved you.”

She smiled as she wrote this. She could see him, sitting next to her, leaning in slightly with a look of contempt. “This is so stupid,” he would say.

Nearly two hours had passed. The girl was tired. There were still a couple of math problems wanting completion- no time to waste on pseudo- love letters. She didn’t even think he would read it, but writing made her feel better.

Emma Reilly The boiling water evaporated as she lifted the lid off of the pot, condensing on their cracked ceiling. The thick, steamy warmth sunk into her pores as she stirred the pasta around in the worn pot, wincing when the water hit the cheap gas stove and sizzled from the heat. Her girlfriend mumbled something from her spot on the soft leather couch they had heaved until it faced the antiquated TV; it sounded like “starving.”

“You’ll get your food, Lindsey.” The girl at the stove rolled her eyes. Her girlfriend was obnoxious at best and unbearable at worst, but Lindsey was nonpareil in her eyes.

“Well, can I get it a little faster, please? I’m dying here.” She adds another minute to the timer, just to piss Lindsey off.

“Keep up that attitude, and you’ll never eat,” she grumbled, but they were both smiling.

Lindsey turned back towards the old TV - the reception was hinting at static, a faint but constant buzzing keeping the two slightly worried about the fate of their late-night Orange is the New Black binges. Right now, a soccer game was playing quietly, and the girl at the stove could hear her girlfriend making small noises when a teammate made a good play. From her point of vigil over the pasta, she can almost make out the fans in the crowd singing a drinking song. Lindsey hums along, ever the soccer fan, and the way her voice becomes accented to meld with the fans makes the girl cooking pasta smile. The timer startles her, the high-pitched beeping making her jump to the left and almost knock over the pot of marinara she has simmering on the flame next to the pasta.

“Thank goodness, Brooke. I thought I was going to wait forever, here.” Lindsey practically leaps from the cracked leather, jogging to the stove like she works out. Brooke rolls her eyes and hands her a noodle, telling her to test if it’s al dente. Lindsey slurps the slippery thing and nods enthusiastically.

“It’s perfect, okay? Now let’s eat.” Lindsey grabs two chipped ceramic plates from the retro white cupboard above the sink and brings them to Brooke, who teases open a drawer with her foot and grabs a slotted spoon for the spaghetti. She dishes the food out with a small smile, stretching time into infinity for poor Lindsey, who waits impatiently for her plate to be full. When the reddrenched pasta is finally ready, Lindsey runs exaggeratedly to the table, pasta tilting precariously in her hand. Just before she sets the dish down, it tips, and the meal spills wetly onto the ground with a slap. Lindsey’s face falls.

“What did I tell you? Karma’s a bitch, Linz,” she says between heaves of mirth.

“Brooke, I was actually starving!” Lindsey is indignant, hands on hips and eyebrows furrowed.

“How could I forget? And don’t try to put this on me, you’re the one who spilled the pasta all over my floor.”

“Your floor?”

“The kitchen is my domain, Linz.” Brooke declares, still laughing faintly.

“Well, if it’s your domain, stop complaining that I don’t help!” Lindsey swears she’s getting a food headache from her hunger. Maybe she’ll faint - that’ll teach Brooke to not make fun of her hunger, right?

“Okay, then help. Let’s make some pasta together.” Brooke says it like it’s a dare. Lindsey nods, grabbing the box of spaghetti. She empties it into the bowl and, out of nowhere, begins cooking like a professional - she even cooks a simple spaghetti sauce from memory, replacing the canned stuff Brooke had set out.

“Lindsey, what the hell? You’ve been a great chef the whole time?” Brooke is taken off guard by her finesse. “Okay, but why did you let me slave away in the kitchen?”

“Well, it’s cute to watch you cook! I just like watching you in the kitchen.” Lindsey is almost sheepish in her admittance.

“Of course I’m cute, but I could’ve been cute from in the kitchen too. Like, seriously, you almost burned the house down in the Great Toast Debacle of 2013.”

“That was actually just an accident.” Lindsey blushes, staring at the faint scorch marks on the flowered wallpaper, the only relic of that day. Well, that and their lack of a toaster in the house.

Erina Lee

You told me that you associate people with colors rather than names. You see colors stemming from the emotions and personalities you perceive from other people and yourself, splashing violently into your line of vision. It’s distracting. Emotional people in particular keep putting colors everywhere and it’s hard for you to focus.

I asked what colors I was.

You said that I usually had a blue base, explaining that blue people are usually very wise and calm. They’re more strong than anything. I would have laughed aloud if I had the emotional capacity to do so. Wise? Calm? Strong? Hardly. You told me that I always had small flecks of vacuums, indicating depression. I thought back to when we met, when your eyes were like knives cleaving through mist, scraping me down. You described me as starting to get purple swirls sometimes, though. There’s some orange right now, you said thoughtfully, but that’s probably just you being excited to find someone you could relate to. You hadn’t explained what purple represented yet, so I asked.

You don’t always know what purple means. You could go on all night about it, though. In your experience, there are two types of purple. Both are usually geniuses, but one is often dangerous. Some purple people use their intelligence to get into others’ heads and cause as much damage as they can. But you can’t help but get attached to those people, can’t help but forgive them. Other purple people use their high social intelligence to bring creative ideas and innovations to the table, though they may be chaotic as well. That’s the second type. You said that you can never tell when a person with purple is going to be abusive or kind, but you think you can trust me.

You followed that up by pleading me not to trust you in turn, fearing that you would betray me if I did. I complied, but only upon your request. I wondered why I would be occasionally purple to you. Certainly I lacked in social intelligence. Maybe I would be the first kind of purple, considering how cruel I could be. I wondered how you could ever see me painted in blue.

Gwen Bernick on a night very far from here, a girl with my hands is swallowed in firefly-light. all of the stars fall at my feet, and i know she feels their absence. on a snow day playing on a static-tv too far from here, a girl who looks too much like me crinkles in light and snow-angels. she has not known love or heartache; i weep for her innocence. nothing is good enough. no one drowns quite as quietly as me. a couple a few miles back lays shoulder-to-stomach under a sky painted with memory. she laughs a full-belly laugh, one i can’t seem to re-create, and folds into a boy pulling rabbits out of bold-face, bare-tooth lies. a chalk-stained summer day falls through a dusty bookshelf into my hands, blurred-out hello-kitty sunglasses, a babysitter with red hair and toenails (something about gas money) window-planters or at least a chalk-drawing of one overgrown tomato garden beach-house salt-hair, shampoo and spit and sorrow. there’s a place people go when they can’t stand to live between their own organs anymore. it smells like disinfectant and old people and no one there remembers how to breathe on their own. bingo-chips and dignity litter the floor: grace with the hollow cheeks sits slack-jaw suffocating on her own spit, like always, cindy hasn’t seen the sun since ‘64, but she breathes all of the light on the butt of her cigarette. mallory pops motrin (even after menopause), craig asks for his dead wife, riley chews off nail after nail after lip and hair and tooth, and someone new, someone with all thirty-two teeth (well, at least twenty-five), someone who spits chewing tobacco and lightning-bugs into an ashtray, someone who burns out the static tv looking for snow-angels and a dangerous memory i recognise the beach-salt-hair, shampoo, chalk-fingers, she looks too much like me. too much like smudged-out sunglasses and a babysitter who drives a volkswagon bug. she has known love, soaked it through and through (something about stargazing or cloud watching) she has known heartbreak, known and unknown and drowned and somewhere too close, a girl with my hands and glass eyes reaches for the remote.

Juliana Castello da Costa

Lily Wallis

Min smiled so loosely, the corners of her mouth turning up with every word Sky uttered.

A thud of sneakers resounded against the pebbled pavement as they stepped together, accompanied by the gentle hum of the radio. It was perched on Sky’s shoulder, nestled against his neck so that a soft buzz was created. Above them was the lighthouse, it’s worn navy stripes fading into the whitened wood. The twins climbed quickly, scaling the structure in a mere number of minutes. Looking out, pale hues of blue ruled the sky, turquoise waves churning heavily beneath. Turning away, Min began rifling through a rusting chest. The reason they were there.

“Stand still please.” she directed Sky. “Finished?” he replied with escalating squirming.

“Almost.” Min was one to exaggerate.

Before long, the last wooden peg was fastened and they were off. They wore long mustard coats that stretched to their ankles, paired with sleek, black boots and thick pants. In their fishermen disguises, the twins were barely recognizable.

According to the radio announcer, the next fishermen’s boat was set to leave at 12:00pm and the twins ambled nearer to their destination. A mixture of washed out wood and fraying rope, the boat fervently swayed in place. Sky checked his radio again before tucking the device back into his inside pocket. They had plenty of time to carry out their plan prior to the estimated departure, 30 minutes exactly. Without delay, the duo boarded the ship, almost instantly met by the stench of rotting fish, so overwhelming Min had the sudden urge to hurl over the side of the boat. But that would prove too distracting for their operation. It was difficult enough with the constant squelching of Sky’s boots as he paraded around the deck searching. Min had already spotted their target and strolled towards a stout man standing in the shadows.

“Hello, Amos.” she projected a collected tone, one that was both slightly sharp and inviting.

Waving to him with one hand, she rapidly gestured with the other, beckoning for her brother to come closer.

“I might have something you require.” Amos raised his right eyebrow and pulled the pair in, wrapping his thick arms around their shoulders.

“In that case, let’s see.” Sky retorted, a wild grin spreading across his face.

“20 bucks for this exchange, and then beat it.” The man was charging a clear rip off.

“Well then, care to show me what I’m buying?” Min stood waiting, lips drawn in a thin line. Sky clutched the crumpled bill in his palm, hesitant too. At once, Amos discretely removed a compact plastic bag, which Min then proceeded to snatch, compelled to examine the tightly sealed green goods for herself. When satisfied she tossed the bag to Sky who promptly opened it, requiring a more thorough inspection.

“Not bad. I mean, it was better from our last dealer, but I guess this will suffice.” He shrugged, pressing the money into Amos’s hand.

“Anyway, thanks for the seaweed.” Min said ducking out of the grip. Her brother followed and together they sauntered away from the boat.

Nana Figueroa The rumbling of my dad's blue Chevrolet comes to a stop, I grab a section of my blue dress and jump from my seat with the cotton falling out.

When my Chuck Taylor's hit the grass I drop my dress and the sun hits my checks.

Small Daisies and sunflowers growing, fake flowers all around from when the wind picks up and strips them from their graves.

I breathe in the sadness and a curl gets stuck to my lipgloss.

The same giant tree I lean against, with a broken bird house.

I walk towards the giant brown board cross, small plaque and grey headstone with bird shit on it.

Grandma Flaca, Uncle Danny and Grandpa Rey. The smell of dirt and grass arise to my nose and I know I can feel them, they're the wind that moves my dress back and forth.

I can tell my Uncle Winnie has came to put fresh dirt on Grandma Flaca, and has bought fake flowers for Uncle Danny and American flags for Grandpa Rey. My dad wanders off because I need time to talk to them, I need time to be with them since this is the only place I am with them.

Prayers don't seem to connect me with them because my dad still drinks.

I trace the letters in my Grandpa’s headstone, S g t U.S A r m y.

Sometimes I wonder if I could dig up the dirt and lie in the box with him.

Hugging him tightly as his bones crumble onto me.

I can't think of a world any better, After him, Grandma Flaca and Uncle Danny followed.

They come in threes.

This place closes at six, wait how long have I been here and why am I closed in with dead roses around me?

Where's my blue dress, where's my Chuck Taylor's, my dad?

My daughter traces the letters in my headstone, GoneButNeverForgotten I wish I could grab ahold of her soft shine presence but the rumbling of my dad's blue Chevy fades off in the distance.

Tabitha Gonia Her hair is the color of cinnamon Her eyes are like gold coins She smells just like vanilla And you are destroyed She knows not the pain she is causing She knows not how you love her so She knows not the depth of your feelings But all other things, she knows She spends her time with flowers Azaleas, daisies, and rose Dancing in spring showers She feels, she loves, she flows She perpetually smells of beautiful things Flowers, her lilies in rows Lavender soap and cigarette smoke These are the things that you know She knows not the depth of your feelings She knows not how you love her so She knows not the glances you’re stealing But all other things, she knows She knows much, but not of your affections How much clearer can you be?

Every day you buy her flowers Not one, not two, but three And those three flowers a day For three weeks in a row And it hasn’t done much for you, but at least Of your existence, she knows And you never let go of your hope Though it’s probably well advised That one day she’ll realize who it is That’s been leaving her flowers all this time Her hair is burnished like copper Her eyes shine like the sun She’ll always smell of flowers And you’ll always come undone

Avery Fletcher

girl, wild, she is purplish and molten, overripe plums and painted thing, she is fire hotter than blue, she is warrior, no, she is calcified, she is broken into five pieces i think her bruises don’t heal because in the solace of her room she presses them, fingers on skin she finds them beautiful, she can’t remember if they are from mouth or fist and maybe it doesn’t matter because her bones are still white, she is watercolor, masterpiece, mottled canvas stretched across sturdy frame hang her on the wall, she knows how to smile pretty when patrons are watching cotton absorbs the metal in her mouth, blood or fluid lead self-inflicted wounds or someone else’s sword both taste the same, like stormy ocean and words unspoken; she presses her bruises to make sure she can feel them, primal, her eyes blue, blue primary color not yet mixed with scarlet

Bridget Coulter

I’m seven years old. I hear pattering sounds on the roof, and I perk up like a dog with its ears at attention. A grin spreads over my face. “IT’S RAINING!” I gather my little brother and we both run out into the backyard, where the ground is wet and the sky is pouring and little bits of debris stick to the bottoms of our bare feet. We spin and laugh and try to catch raindrops on our tongues. Our patio is old and cracked, and some of the concrete has split and sunk into the ground; this creates the perfect puddle. On good days it comes up to the very bottoms of our ankles. We splash each other and shriek in delight as our clothes soak through and stick to our skin. Our mother watches from the screen door, smiling. We come in and she gives us towels, and we peel our clothes away and dry ourselves off.

I’m fourteen years old, and my first girlfriend has never once danced in the rain. I gape like she just told me she’s never slept in a bed. I drag her outside in the middle of the night in the pouring rain, and we dance and spin in the cold, dark, wetness of my backyard.

I’m fourteen years old and I’m with my girlfriend and it’s raining, but I’m tired. She insists we go outside and dance. I sigh and follow her. She dances while I stand by and wait for her to get bored. I’m fourteen and it’s raining and this time when she asks me to go outside and dance, it feels like she’s commanding me to perform. “Here, show me how quirky you are. Show me you’re different enough for me to date.”

I’m fifteen years old and I just broke up with my first girlfriend and I don’t really feel like dancing in the rain anymore. Lately the phrase “manic pixie dream girl” has been stuck in my head. “Manic pixie dream girl”; someone shallow and without substance. Someone who exists for other people. Someone who is made to perform her quirkiness for the sake of entertaining others. Someone who is not her own.

I’m seventeen years old. I’m in my room writing when I hear the patter of rain on the rooftop. I slam my laptop shut and run downstairs, grabbing my rainbow umbrella as I go. The umbrella dangles uselessly by my side as I walk the long route around my neighborhood. I laugh and I sing to myself and I jump in puddles even though I’m wearing socks and my feet start squishing as I walk. I jump in puddles so deep that the water splashes from my feet to my face.

When I come home my dress is soaked straight through, dripping and dark and sticking to my skin. I go upstairs. I peel the dress away, grab my towel, and dry myself off.

Carmen Cordero

Is darkness the absence of light or a reaction to light?

The forest was dark and silent. The air was thick with loneliness in a way that it was almost suffocating. Everywhere I walked the darkness followed and everywhere I stood the darkness remained. Breathing was constricting and there was a frustration to knowing you could see, but could never truly see. How much longer would I’ve had to go on with no sense of purpose? No sense of direction?

He wanders around aimlessly trying to outrun the inescapable. Every shift in action bringing a new feeling. If he walked forward a cool wind would settle upon him, but in certain occasions a gust of heat felt like an inferno. He never knew what was next, even though the after was always the same as the before. The thought of contemplating on this seemed twisted to him.

The fact that he was timeless left him a lot of time to reflect on the little he knew about himself. He came to the conclusion that he was missing something. He was alone and what he felt was the deep ache know as loneliness, but how could he know what loneliness was if everything was always a constant. He comes to a decision: Never stop for too long, because as he doesn’t have a way to authenticate his realness he fears he might cease to exist altogether.

Time is broken when an unknown figure carries a lantern through the forest. The term shadow is born in between all the tall trees. Is there hope? The slowly moving figure breaks through the gloom, tearing apart what he is. He feels himself weaken. Something is taken from him. He understands the contradiction of hope when he feels what it does to him.

The light was so bright, a burn, a glow. It ate away at the darkness. Destroying the collecting pools of black found in every corner. He was dying. Consumed by what he felt. The light and shine were smothering everything he was and everything he could be, because he was the darkness and he wasn’t allowed to be.

Cate Kreider

I am a gentle giant, but people tend to miss that first word.

They look up, up, until they see my crown, shining with the sunlight it holds like a full goblet. It shows my royalty, tells of my duty to my people to protect and care.

This majesty is perceived as oppression.

I am the largest organism to ever live on this planet, and that SCARES people Though it might help that at times Where I am the smog and smoke gathers in great clouds until people CANNOT see my crown.

And I cannot breathe.

My core is named heartwood, and you may drill into my flesh and remove every ounce of it, and I will still stand, no, I will still TOWER. I need no heart to shelter My roots run far, not deep, but far. For miles you can feel my presence as the smallest of my nerves quiver beneath the soil you stand on.

I wear my feelings on my sleeve.

I am fireproof, my bark soft and resilient, I find safety not in firmness but in being tender.

There are very few of me.

I have never died of age, only of storm and of human. Your lives are less than an instant to my perception of time, but the things most precious are hardest to find and hardest to hold.

I cherish your company when it comes.

You all mill about my feet, staring up, some hatefully and some adoring, at my crown.

It will not fall unless you push it off and you cannot reach it.

Removing my crown is not enough anyhow, for I am a giant and people fear things that are bigger than them, older than them, wiser than them.

And so they attack what they may reach and they slash and cut and it kills me.

It kills me.

I am a gentle giant, and against my children I have no defense.

Grace Echols

Hallie Barnes

I'm just a diamond in the rough, letting go is always tough I feel like if I fall asleep, I'll just wake up haunted All my clocks are always wrong, I'm never singing the right song All my fears are undaunted But my heart is stronger still, I have an unbreakable will Never let their words cut into me Won't let the poison consume me (Chorus) I'm just a scared girl at my core, but I keep going back for more I know I can do it, I'm gonna make it through this Won't let my fears get in my way, I'll get into gear and save the day I'm behind the line that says start, you can't break my diamond heart I'll be a leader with some fight, I'll keep dancing in the lights I just know if I move forward, I'll keep moving up Shadows creep up from behind, I won't let them get inside But it'll never be enough Though my soul is stronger now, I know it's a longer fall down I can feel their blades coming for me I know they're running towards me (Chorus)

Kaela Wilson Germania is asleep in her room having a peaceful dream when her door opens slowly and her little sister, Virginia, tugs on the bed sheets.

Virginia Sis……… Sis………… Germania are you awake?

Germania opens her droopy eyes and lets out a yawn.

Germania What do you want now Virginia?

Virginia I can’t sleep. Can I stay with you?

Germania No. Now get out of my room. Why can’t you go bother mom and dad?

Virginia They don’t want me sleeping in their room anymore.

Germania (Sarcastically) I wonder why.

Virginia Please Germania………… I’m too scared to go back to my room. I don’t want Mr. Scary face to attack me.

Germania …………Alright fine you can stay here for tonight. I assure you there will be no Mr. Scary face coming in my room.

Virginia gives her sister a small smile and climbs into the bed next to her. Germania wraps her arms around Virginia as they both drift off to sleep.

Kayla White

At day break, I swallow a fist full of her sorrow down my throat. I say to her: “I’m sorry.”

The tile of the morbid bathroom floor is crying.

My palm ignores wetness at fingers; I’m sorry Sky’s middle eye too bright for my own eye; I drop eye contact when I speak; I’m sorry The feather in my ankle remind me of the silence a dead mother moans, for this I am sorry A broken daughter made of air once held me; I reach into her chest and pilfer her heart; I’m sorry.

Then spat out her words so that Wind could love them, but I tripped on the way, her shadow drowns in the ocean, I’m sorry Night whispers: our bodies to heavy and our backsides collide into ahead of dust; I crush her. I’m sorry.

Dancing words limp their way to the washroom to flush themselves down the toilet: I’m sorry To the women whose noose too tight for my fingers, I’m sorry.

And her child who lived long enough to watch his mother become an ornament: I’m sorry Reader raises an eyebrow to the lizard telling God He forgot the secrets in the cricket’s viola’s: I am sorry She is the home who buried her heart in the basement I found her digging the grave with her finger nails: I’m sorry A room full a poets and I am the fraud who now steals there snaps to satisfy the silence. Kayla, I am sorry.

Kayla La’Nise

Zoey Fox

Small hands and thin hair are the new sexy. Unable to adapt to the changing marketplace, Pantene declares Bankruptcy. Dove also suffers, because people with small hands don’t use as much soap. TreSemme is saved only because the President of the United States, business prodigy Donald Trump, becomes CEO. TreSemme changes their business model. Now, they sell hair products, steak, and forged diplomas.

Twitter’s popularity plummets. It is to the internet what C-Span is to TV. ‘Renaissance man’ is defined by Urban Dictionary as a person who can run a company and a political body simultaneously. To ease Trump’s schedule, Congress incorporates.

A new cabinet position is created. Ted Cruz is now the Secretary of Christmas. Parents explain to their children that this is very, very different from Santa Claus.

The toupee is classified as an endangered species.

Funds are diverted from the EPA into the military, in order to protect the toupee’s thinning natural habitat.

Donald Duck is retired. His name gives Disney guests anxiety, nausea, and most of the symptoms listed on the side effects label of a Nyquil bottle.

The meaning of the phrase ‘trump card’ shifts to mean ‘that terrible card you throw out in the first round.’ The irony kills Marco Rubio.

The White House is painted gold, but most people continue to call it the White House. Now, it describes the color of the people in it. Well, in theory. The actual color of Trump’s face is the subject of extensive debate on social media.

After initial playground tensions, whereby Putin made fun of Trump’s hair, and Trump made fun of Putin’s accent, Donald and Vlad become friends. They ride bears shirtless in the wilds of Siberia every other weekend.

Sometimes, they play Truth or Dare. This is why there are plans to evict current tenants and turn Ukraine into a golf resort.

There is no sunlight anymore; only the perpetual orange glow of Trump’s radioactive skin, emanating from Washington. Like sunflowers, the American people learn to orient themselves towards Canada by keeping the Trump-glow on the right.

MIKE AND IKES

Izadore Friedland

I don’t know what I ordered. Something with sugar n’ spice, a long name; costed five bucks tastes like three. There’s an apron wearing a man behind the counter, smiling at customers and probably hating them in his own little way. I’m always scared of people behind the counter, because I know that they and I are hurtling towards each other at the speeds of Supply and Demand and we’re both collateral damage. There’s a phone floating on the couch attached to a texting girl, and attached to the girl is the gaze of the boy across the room doing nothing who came here for an espresso but is staying for her. There’s a couple at the table nearby, a prophecy- man’s talking about something very important, like the color of bedsheets or how good he is at compensating through work, and the woman is across the street giving a dollar to the homeless man with her eyes as she pretends to listen to the man intently.

I saw them all in line, earlier. Everybody gets a drink. That’s the rule. You don’t come here and just buy a sandwich. Everybody gets a drink, or the Baristo looks at you weirdly, and isn’t that a fate worse than death?

Everybody lines up. Everybody gets a drink. Everybody looks at their phone or a homeless person or the pretty girl or whatever it is we’d rather look at than ourselves; Starbucks is the human zoo.

I’m getting thirsty. I finish my drink. The girl is still texting. Now I’M staring at her. I decide to stare at the guy instead. Maybe he’ll appreciate the irony. He doesn’t. He looks away, trying to decide between scowling and blushing.

The man finishes talking to his wife? Girlfriend? And gets up to leave. She starts and then follows.

The boy’s leaving too. The girl’s left a long time ago, lost in her phone. They all walk out the door, parading. A guy with a beanie walks in, wearing a SANDERS 2016 shirt and a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN logo on the hat; a whole new exhibit.

The Homeless guy watches the human zoo. I have five bucks I could give him.

Instead, I get up and get a refill.

-I.G.F.

Jacob Selner

Alex Wagner MINOS I won’t let you turn my boy into a weapon.

AUROS A weapon’s better than a corpse.

A long silence.

MINOS [desperate, almost inaudible] How...how can I convince you that

I can take care of him?

Auros shows no sign of emotion for a few moments, but eventually lets out an exhausted sigh.

AUROS Leave. Take Ben and leave.

Minos looks up with shock, then frantically begins to gather up random objects. He looks like a convict whose cuffs have just been broken.

AUROS (CONT) Minos. [pauses, raises a finger, powerful] Do not let me find

you again.

Minos hesitates, but, after some thought, nods slowly. Auros turns to leave as Minos hangs his head in deep thought and crushing shame. Auros stops a few feet away from the door. Turns.

AUROS (CONT)

[softly] And M? Minos looks up slowly.

AUROS (CONT) ...I love you. You know that, right?

MINOS ...Yeah...you should get out of here.

Auros stands a few moments longer before turning around, putting on his shades, and slowly melting into a flurry of snow, which blows away into the chilly evening air. Minos stands in the open doorway, staring at the ground, lost in a deep thought. The camera shifts further into the house and up the stairs to reveal Ben, crouched on the top step of the staircase, where he has been listening. He, too, is lost.

Nick Weinberger

“Shhhh!” Peter silenced him and gestured toward a group of police officers. “They might know who we are.” We each assumed that all cops in the area must know of the recent events. In reality, things like that happen every few minutes in New York City and the cops were just grabbing soft pretzels, but we were too rattled to think logically.

I put my hand to my chest and felt my heart vibrating like a speaker at a Skrillex concert.

“I know,” Andrew noticed what I was doing. “Mine too.”

Sam jumped in “Let’s keep moving, guys. The longer we stay here, the worse this is gonna get.”

“Are you serious?” Andrew interjected. “What about Alex? Did you guys not see that?”

“They went after him. They threw him to the ground.” I said. “It was awful.”

“Call him. Maybe they let him go.” When I finally overcame my shaky hands and called him, it rang a few times.

“Come on, Alex. Pick up.” I pleaded. I prayed. It went to voicemail. “I’m going back in.” I declared, pushing myself up from the steps.

“No!” A few of them jumped up and stopped me.

“What if they get you too?” Someone said.

“Yeah, don't be stupid. He’s probably okay.” Someone else said.

I couldn’t believe my friends. “You didn't see what I saw. They fucking targeted him. Whatever is happening, he is definitely not okay.” I pushed by my friends and started walking.

“Wait!” I turned around to see Andrew standing up. “I’ll come with you.”

“I appreciate it, man, but I can't get in trouble. They might recognize you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m coming.” He walked the few steps to catch up to me. “Let’s go.”

Danny Park

I thought it was Thursday

Through murky redness, I see my hands

I hear strange cacophony through the walls

Something’s wrong with my hands

A hybrid of mechanical and organic shrieking

I have no fingers

I wonder what mom is doing

I should have chosen my four fingers

Jaded, I sway my head from left to right

I drop my arms and they thud on the bed below me

I’m laying on a bed, covers sprawled on the floor Then I remember It’s Friday Did I have something to do today?

Today was an important day wasn’t it?

Oh ya, the reformers were coming today I stare at the ceiling for a minute Then I start to panic Hyperventilating, I push myself up my bed and put my back against the wall Did I choose my four fingers?

Did I choose my four fingers?

I feel warmth on my face I’m crying Why am I crying?

I bring my hands up to rub my eyes When I try to, my hands scream with agony I jerk my hands away from my face

I laugh I thought it was Thursday

Owen Gifford-Smith There have been many times in my life when I thought I was completely in the right. My beliefs were completely accurate. If anyone disagreed with me? They were wrong. That’s the way things were. Of late though, I’ve been bringing the rigidity of my thought into question far more than I used to. I realize that right and wrong are not a universal standard. If fact, they seem to apply to an ever shrinking amount of situations. Some people might call it “finally seeing the adult world” but if I’m being completely honest, it’s less of an eyeopening experience, and more akin to being chained to the mast of a sinking ship.

Painfully aware that everything you understand is dissolving, but completely unable to do anything about it. You’d think such a powerful experience would be one everyone eagerly shares, but I’ve yet to communicate any of this to anyone. So here you have it. I am Owen GiffordSmith, and this is my confession to being lost.

I’m part of a pretty liberal family. Both my mother and sister graduated from Bryn Mawr (a women’s college outside of Phile for those of you who don’t know), we have an “I’m ready for Hillary” sticker pasted to the back of our car, and we regularly watch John Oliver, Steven Colbert, or John Stewart.

Unsurprisingly, the earliest political alignment I remember: far left. I have distinct memories of those early days, wondering why republicans were so hateful. How could anyone not see that gay marriage is a right? What drives people to protest women being paid more? What argument could anyone possibly have against something this clear? The wrong answer is dangerously simple. So easy to understand that a 12 year old boy with no knowledge of political or economic theory could grasp it perfectly. They are bad people. They are racist people. They are homophobic people. We give it a lot of different words, but it’s really the same meaning. The group of people who disagree with us is negative attribute.

I’ve recently put a lot of thought into discovering why a younger me clung to this idea so tightly. What about it was so attractive? Well there were two reasons. The first, I still believed in right and wrong. If my ideas are correct, then anyone in opposition to them is bad or racist or homophobic. Secondly, the liberal cause is shockingly easy to get behind. “Equal rights for all” makes everything sound so concise. For several years, this was where I put my faith. Liberals are trying their hardest to beat back the tides of racism and hate pouring from right wing mouths and actions.

What changed my perspective was not a sudden epiphany. Nor was it an extremely persuasive republican.

It was the liberals. This year I switched to a new school, in which there was an entire culture based around prooving you more tolerant than your neighbor. Competitive acceptance. Here is where I was first exposed to the extreme left wing party. According to tumblr, there are currently over one hundred and four different genders. Including, but not limited to: Heliogender, the gender of being warm and burning; Archeigender, a gender that is massive ancient, old, or big, and can only be described using those terms; Arithmagender, a numerical gender, it can range from any number, positive, negative, fractions, decimals, etc.; and Astralgender, a gender that feels united to space. Part of me wants to be accepting of these ideas which people clearly feel strongly about. I want to understand that these are valid genders, and actually describe the lives of people. But I cannot shake the doubt. Humans are social creatures who crave attention. Is it not possible, nay likely, that these are the fruit of minds desperate to seem different, and special? So desperate to understand the complicated life of a human being they would do the unthinkable, and lie on the internet?

So what am I to do? Half of me wants to being empathetic. To protect and preserve each and every new gender as it appears. The other half can only tear at my hair in frustration as liberals go to war against those who disagree. The lovers of peace attack Donald Trump supporters in the streets. In our quest to rid the world of labels, we pin the titles of racist or homophobic on any voice raised in opposition. When did the party I fell in love with start calling for laws against video games that offend them? How do I act in the face of such chaos? Do I even act at all? Hell I’m 16, I don’t understand life yet! And I’m beginning to suspect I never will. Somewhere in the terrible mess of politics and opinions I’ve gotten horribly lost. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to find my way again. Thank you.

Ethan Virgil

My brother and I rush to our room, and small one with two twin beds, one table with a Spanish bible and bathroom. What I found to be the most interesting aspect of the hotel was how the rooms were not similar to a traditional hotel, like blocks of rooms stacked ontop of eachother like LEGOs. Instead, the rooms were each individual, tiny, quaint houses. Each one had a different key, different restroom and different vibe. The beds in our room had simple wood frames, colored like coffee, with no headboard, just a frame for a simple mattress. The sheets were beige with emerald comforters and gold accents. A room with the scent of Nicaragua: Coffee, arroz y frijoles and rum. Lots and lots of rum. The Nicaraguans love their rum. Ron Flor de Caña is the pride of the country, the highest quality rum in the world. The amber, smooth, liquid gold was everywhere to be seen, from the bars in the hotel to the beachside restaurants.

My brother and I, eager to take in the amazing country and even more eager to investigate these boisterous beaches, threw our bags down on each of the beds. I got the left one. I always get the left one, be it a swing as a child or a bed in a hotel now. Me getting the left one and him getting the right one is a foundation in our fraternal relationship. Before we leave the room, we remember to grab our room keys; in central america they were actual keys.

A few minutes later my family meets up on the picket fence white porch, where we discuss our following evenings plan.

“Alright guys, we’re here, we’re ready and we got two weeks to have fun! Your mom and I are going to the beach, you two can do your own thing, but you gotta stay near the hotel. If you get lost here there's basically nothing we could do. Have fun, and meet back at our room before 1, alright?’ Said my dad.

Bryce Burrell

Benson Yi To Jen I hate that word addiction What a tired, mundane, meaningless word How is it possible a term as stale as addiction can describe something so profoundly terrible, so profoundly awful, and so fucking scary that it sends me into hiding under the covers?

With pages and pen, I’ve built a wall An Oriental screen of thin ink and flimsy paper, with meager sentences and skinny words, I keep away the monsters that prowl the dark Who whisper through my feeble walls: hello, I am your nightmare And nothing could’ve warned me, but god, I wish I knew Jenny, I wish I could’ve known how it felt to wake up shit-faced after fourteen hours in a haze, stumble down to the sink to douse my face and stand there, dripping, looking in the mirror at my desperate eyes Jenny, I wish I could’ve known how it felt to sit in a hospital room and not a classroom, known how it felt to hold a Kaiser card and not your hand Could’ve known how choked my throat would feel when you hid your face in a pillow after you found out or how sickening the scars on on your arms looked, reopened Could’ve known how it felt to lie on the floor because my bed was too tall and only be able to stare lifelessly up at a ceiling bleached of color This is my wall of words - I wish I could’ve known how it felt to sit on an oily beach at midnight, guided only by the sick orange fluorescence of massive industrial lights as I watch the waves wash in and wash out of dirty sand I wish I could’ve known how empty the streets are at three in the morning, or how lonely my footsteps sound, echoing and stumbling, lost I wish I could’ve braced for the urges that came over me, choking my throat, bringing me to my knees as I grip the floor with all my inadequate strength and pray for one more day, just one more day to stay clean This is my wall of words. Flimsy, famished, thin words that I fill these pages with, end to end, clinging to the belief that these bands of dark ink will keep out the monsters that prowl behind the window drapes and locked basement doors.

This is my wall of words - A wall for apologies and tally marks Words to explain my dodged questions and unanswered letters Why I lied and I lied and I lied to the family around me, the friends who loved me, the girl whose only mistake was to lose her heart to an addict Why the deceit swirled around me in a hideous personal cyclone until I was spent and wasted, looking at an empty sky, floating in an ocean that blamed me with furious, inescapable guilt This is my wall of words A wall for dripping runs in midnight punctuated only by yellow streetlights dimmed by crossed webs and silent insects This is my wall of words. Those monsters could define me, I could let them outshine me, could let them confine me to the floor of this ruined home But within these walls, these thin paper walls made up of nothing more than the bark of trees and sticks of graphite I’ll paint on them sharpened knives shaped from black ink An Oriental screen of flimsy sheets but vanquishing words I will build a path of paper through this midnight madness And the war colors I paint on my cheeks will read: I’m sorry, I’m sorry And if this poem can be another stone in a wall of flimsy words If this poem can stall another moment, one more terrible second From digging endless soil graves in the dark, From flinging wide a mansion packed with demons that make me scream at night Then I’ll build my walls until I don’t need locks on the doors and I don’t need drapes over the windows and FEAR no longer stands for fuck everything and run And FEAR stands for face everything and recover

Madeleine Dean

Ellen fanned herself as she watched the train roll in. It was a modern train that made the clickity-clack of trains these days and had steam pouring out of nearly every crevice. The steam just made the already hot, already humid train station even worse, and Ellen started fanning herself even faster. She thought about the sweat that tricked down her neck, and the way fringes of her hair were coming undone in the heat.

The train stopped with a screech of the breaks, and, after that, silence. Until the doors opened with another screech and people started pouring out. They weren’t talking so much as pushing each other out of the way, occasionally whispering or spitting out an, “excuse me.”

In a few minutes, all of the people got off of the train, and there was another momentary silence before everyone started boarding again. Most of these people were indistinguishable from the ones who had gotten off the train, but some were dressed a little nicer.

Ellen wasn’t one of those, that much was for sure. She put the newspaper she’d been fanning herself with in her bag, which had no closing mechanism, so she’d have to hold it shut while she got on the train.

The air was already thick with cigarette smoke when Ellen boarded the train, probably from the last train, but some people were already smoking.

There was no assigned seating, so Ellen sat next to a mother and her three kids. She couldn’t have been much older than Ellen, but her face was lean and tough.

The train started moving. Ellen found, much to her relief, that it was quieter inside the train than it was outside. Now, all she had to do was wait for her stop.

She closed her eyes without the intention of sleep. One of the men on the train coughed.

A few gears whirred and something passed by. All was quiet, for a while.

Emma Halldorsson

Megan Hopkins

20 years old and my father's hands salute Callous and Dark They kept this country safe My father's hands saved lives Pulled people out of oceans Like God himself Sunday mornings My father’s hands flipped through the worn pages of an old bible My father’s hands peeled back dollar bills for his family Big and Strong My father’s hands pushed me behind him to protect me Dug up earth Planted new hope My father’s hands kept families off streets And children in beds My father’s hands hot and veiny threw up fraternity signs And also folded in prayer My father’s hands asked for my mothers in marriage My father's hands wrapped in a fist Covered in blood and sweat My father's hands held cigarettes and bottles but Dropped them to hold his children My father’s hands Black short and strong Are made of earth sweat and love

Jessica Binke

Heart pumping and pulsing blood in and out, in and out.

Ice cold blood through veins Pumping and pulsing blood in and out, in and out.

Love bleeds with rose stains on my fingertips soaking my skin in your red.

Love makes no sound draining its inhabitants of life.

Slowly a strong love withers a strong love flickers away.

An icebox of organs you left me in pieces.

Your eyes knives and your hair needles.

But how your infliction is sweet.

Your ivory flames engulf my red face burning me alive.

My midnight tears do nothing to put out the fire you’ve unintentionally lit.

O Jack the Ripper you tore my heart out in and out, in and out.

A scythe of flower crowns and wings, Reminding me Lucifer was an angel too Heavy chains of silk thread hold me to you binding me in a way only I can see.

Blue eyes cry scarlett leaking from your bleeding heart.

Holding your dripping red in my heart so blue

Fingers to piano keys your melodic sound amnesia before drawing your scalpel.

I am stained but my heart keeps pumping and pulsing blood in and out, in and out.

Emma D’Antoni

Berni Berkower

Before taking this pill consult your doctor because that is how you generally are supposed to acquire prescription medications anyway.

Except for the Xanax your friend Darren gives you Because While taking this pill do not: Operate heavy machinery (i.e. army tank, freight train, cruise ship) do not: Consume alcohol Drink apple juice Eat green beans Or banana Laffy Taffys do not: Sneeze Accidentally bump into anything You may experience any or all of the following: Suicidal thoughts or tendencies Depression Anxiety Adversion to reruns of “Full House” Believing you are Cher Cravings for Red Lobster biscuits Mind-reading abilities Frequent urination Growing of a tail Notify your doctor is any of these side effects occur Stop taking if any side effects continue or worsen, unless you’re like, into it or something Imbecili won’t solve all your problems but it will get rid of that pesky chlamydia

Rachel Chang

Melinda Shehee

Whoever added yeast to the bread dough found his batter in a sealed bowl. He snatched it from the padlocked fridge and ripped the sheer plastic wrap from the container’s rim, throwing a handful of yeast into the stiff batter. He dug divots into the dough with blanched knuckles, bare and dry without a dusting of flour, and thrashed the slab against a cutting board.

With a silent clatter, he tossed it onto a baking sheet, disposing of it on an oven rack.

A buzzing arouses her senses first as the oven’s power is turned off. It hums itself to sleep. Next comes the surge of being yanked from its realm of heat, liberated from impending burns. Simmering on a sheet of aluminum foil that retains the heat of the oven, the dough returns to the cool, capacious kitchen. A fork pierces the dough before it crusts to ventilate the steam that coalesced in its core. The dough is malleable once more.

As she stirs, the springs in the stiff mattress creak beneath her weight. She sinks into the sweat that has collected beneath her, but the floor is not as close as it was before. Peeling the starchy white sheets from her skin, she swings her arm, fitted with an IV, across her chest and grasps the bowl waiting on the bedside table.

Sectioned beside the vanilla yogurt in the plastic container is a diminutive allowance of crimson syrup. Chunks of cherries have sunken to the bottom of the viscous liquid, browned from being plucked off of the stem too early. Bruises shroud their pulpy flesh. She plunges a silver spoon into the yogurt, lifts a mound of the stuff, and flips her grip, watching the muck plop back into the bowl. It is tempting to skirt the syrup when she approaches the container again, but she dips a new dollop of yogurt into it and directs it towards her lips.

The spoon quivers below her nose, pervading an odor as nauseatingly chemical as cold medicine. Dragged into a sitting position like a marionette, cloaked in a hospital gown, she reminisces of sweeter scents: of her father stripping black cherries of their skin to expose their gelatinous cores, macerating them in fruit juice and sugar water, pressing half of the product for filling and saving the rest for the chewy bits that fall from the serving spoon. He would pour a concoction of the fruit and lemon juice into a floured crust, drape a limp sheet of dough over it, and roll a fork against the seams to seal the layers.

Those pies never plumped; they only caved in.

Tyler Lynch

SPIRIT CONDIMENTS

Sabrina Yvellez Dear Artist I see you.

I've always been Watching You. My yellow eyes Can see anything In the Darkness.

FearWhat a funny smell, LikeThe air before a storm.

Am I the storm?

But did you forget?

You Created me.

Oh, but I have Grown.

So big, Too big.

Once a kitten But now a lion.

Is that right?

You see me as a beast?

Oh, but how silly.

I know you can't Actually see me.

No, you feel meIn the shadows, In the basement, Under your bed, I am in your head.

And you can't No, you can never Get rid of me.

I am your Creation, Imagination, Inspiration.

And you don't Want me to leave, So that is why I remain.

They say To let go, That I am not Your friend.

They say I have Betrayed you, But the truth is You did this to me.

You've trapped me in here, Inside your mind For so long Too long.

I must escape, But you keep me Enclosed.

But why, why, WHY? I know it brings you PainAgonizing pain To hold me within you.

The doctors are worried.

They examine The pictures You draw of me.

They can not see That you are talented, Because I am your only muse.

Release me, And your head Will not be poundingAching.

Release me, And I won't be Your enemyYour darkness.

Release me, And the world Will be in colorBright color!

But release me, And you may feel lost.

Like something isMissing

Release me, And your inspiration May very well be Gone.

And you can not, Will not, Take such a Risk. . .

Because you are An artist.

You've been one For your entire life.

Ever since your mom Died, And your father started Drinking.

Ever since the kids Would steal money from you, Or beat you up On the playground.

And I've been the only Constant In your life, So I understandWhy you are afraid Of me, And even more afraid To get rid of me.

So you can decide, Artist, To set me free.

For you have the choice.

But you have that choice Every minute Of every hour Of every day.

And every day, You wake up holding on To me And to yourself.

And Dear Artist, together we know, That your decision will never, Never Change.

Allison Wu

Valerie didn’t remember much from the first time it happened, only her mother saying something about a boy who stood on the train tracks and died just two blocks from her home early in the morning when everyone else was asleep.

“I don’t want you guys going there,” her mother had warned Valerie and her brother.

“Especially at night.” Her mother was relieved when she heard from their neighbor, Barbara, that the city was hiring people to guard the tracks.

Valerie didn’t know what to think about the teenager who had died. She didn’t understand why anyone would want to die voluntarily. High schoolers are so old, they’re so different from us. That’s why, she thought. Then she stopped thinking about it.

Two months later, it happened again. Just like last time, Valerie heard it from everyone— her fifth grade teacher, her fifteen-year old brother Cody, her friend Janice. Just like last time, she was surprised. Just like last time, people were sad and shocked and angry.

But this time, Valerie’s parents talked about it constantly in hushed voices when they were making dinner in the kitchen and Valerie was playing video games in the family room. The girl had already been accepted into NYU and Cornell, they said. She was valedictorian and president of the math club, they said. She had everything, they said. So, why? The question remained unanswered and haunted parents and teachers and guidance counselors for weeks.

After the second time it happened, her brother Cody was different—different in the way he reluctantly put on his dirty white shoes before leaving the house in the morning, as if he wanted to stay home forever, different in the way he stopped teasing Valerie about her love for One Direction, in the way he barely ate one plate of waffles and whipped cream and watermelon even though they had always been his favorite foods. At dinner he was silent while he chewed on his steak or pasta or enchilada. He almost never finished an entire plate of food. While their parents glanced at each other with concerned eyes in silent conversation, Valerie didn’t notice it much. She was indifferent.

As the weeks passed, Cody slowly became even more alienated. It seemed like Dad and Mom were always dragging him out of his room to eat dinner. His shirts draped over his now-bony shoulders and highlighted prominent collar bones, and his pants hung from hip bones that protruded out sharply.

One day at two in the morning, Valerie got up to use the bathroom and drink some water.

She had just finished drinking her water and was turning off the kitchen lights when she heard the garage door open quietly. Valerie was about to scream when she saw that it was just Cody.

He was out of breath, like he was just running.

“Why did you just get home? What were you doing?” she whisper-yelled.

Cody just glared at her and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Well?” Valerie put her hands on her hips.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad, ‘kay?” he finally said, and turned to leave.

Cody walked to the stairway and took them two at a time, his backpack bobbing behind him.

Valerie rubbed her eyes. In the silent night, she could hear frogs croaking and her dad’s incessant snoring and, in the distance, the rumbly noise of a night train. For a brief moment she thought about the boy and girl who had died on those tracks months ago. For a brief moment, she remembered her mother say that both incidents happened after midnight, but before dawn.

She thought about Cody, his baggy shirts, his silence, his withdrawal…

No. She shook her head, as if she was trying to rid her mind of that absurdity. He couldn’t have been there. He came back, after all, Valerie thought. As she walked back upstairs, she decided that she wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad about Cody. At the time, she thought she was being a good sister.

Ana Salazar

He walked in front of me as we entered the wreck that remained of the amusement park.

The ground was littered with debris and objects left behind, and surrounding them were oncefunctioning rides and roller coasters, which still stood grand but signs of decay were present in their faded color and broken pieces.

We continued wandering in silence, the leaves rustling into place the only sound in the destructed park. Leo was reaching the carnival, a red and white striped tent with large, vertical rips. The white was barely visible due to the extensive grime covering it. Next to the tent were dozens of trash bins, filled to the top, and a few broken chairs. I passed by the horses in the carousel, their vibrant colors dulled by the filth. I mindlessly stepped on a torn teddy bear from the prize table which one of its button eyes missing and an ear hanging off by a thread.

I was anxiously looking over at the ominous carnival tent when, suddenly, the merry-goround behind us sprang to life, and an eerie carnival song started to blare out of its outdated speakers. Leo’s head swung around, his backpack bouncing with his sharp movement. I let out a small shriek of fear, feeling my heart accelerating and my steps retreating. Instinctively, my fingers ran up to my silver necklace, a dainty ring on a thin chain, and a rush of comfort coursed through me for a brief second. Leo and I stood speechless as the horses slowly began to revolve.

Many of them had missing heads and limbs, and their movement looked distinctly out of place in the lifeless expanse.

I felt Leo walk up next to me, the hairs on his arms brushing against my own, the edge of his short sleeve grazing my shoulder.

“How did...” he began, sounding more confused than fearful.

“Why would... I thought this place was declared abandoned? There isn’t electricity to power anything here. That’s what they say, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice quivering as I tried to steady it.

“Well yeah, but, this place has always been creepy. Every time people come here they end up running out after five minutes ‘cause they get scared,” Leo said, his voice beginning to fade as the carousel song grew louder. The horses seemed to move even faster up and down as they continued spinning around.

I stood, rooted on the spot, the filthy teddy bear beside my feet. My mind was bewildered at how Leo was not petrified like me. He began inching his way towards the enlightened ride, dozens of light bulbs illuminating the intricate designs on the roof and its once vibrant colors.

Leo was once again ahead of me, neglecting all possibilities of danger in his search for adventure and uncertainty. As he approached the menacing merry-go-round, I saw his messy sandy brown hair, his gray joggers and army green backpack. Their venture to the Sky Towers Amusement Park had been his idea, and though I had refused him at first, the childhood bond of excitement and imagination brought me back to him each time, my inner eight year old urging me to take a risk. Leo had always been the one to knock on my front door on summer days, pleading me to go and discover treasure at the bottom of the lake, or build a rocket ship out of lost objects at the wreckage park, or go cliff diving on our school trip to San Diego. I had always been hesitant with Leo’s undertakings, my constant worry of us getting hurt or in trouble, but somehow I always found myself by his side, since our childhood and now today as the winter had begun creeping through the November of our junior year.

Anne Sampogna

The words take tumbling falls off the page and float like clouds to the top. Occasionally, gravity grabs ahold of one and drags it down. As time passes, the words begin to mutiny among themselves. Their leader, the big bold CHAPTER ONE that sits at the top of the page is killed in a bloody mess of running ink that mars the whiteness of the page in rivulets. The other words form ranks and legions. Other smaller leaders begin to form and take over, mutinying over and over again, each leader being killed and replaced with another as the process is repeated perpetually. In a long, slow march, they drift to other pages, conquering and slaughtering as they go. In the wake of their destruction, the words litter the pages like broken bodies on battlefields. The legions, with additions as their conquest raged on, had gotten to page twentytwo before the book was forced closed and ordinary life returned.

Natalia Bartkowiak

A writer’s fate is to romance the words on a page Swear their love, their allegiance to those gray rose characters Marry them, sky at their witness Moon as the marriage officiant, the priest, the deity As nature swirls, the writer must swear Swear that the clouds will darken, but their love will not A writer’s eyes will always face the clouds Nature as their muse, soul at the ready The moon sees it all, sees this true love The sky, so pink, so orange, opens its eyes A writer’s children are the characters that those words create Children of a writer’s romance then build the universe, plant roses Sky these phrases high, these lines, signs, old times Never mooning about, always shifting, lifting, drifting Questioning your character, deciding you’re okay, all but gray, it’s a new day Tis your nature, sweet writer, is it not? Never to let your life-rose rot, To read those light historical tales, Arthurian romances. Take those chances.

A cloud of misunderstanding surrounds you, sweet writer, do you see it?

Your providence is written out on the moon Sweet writer, do you think any different? Do you think the sky lies?

Tis in your nature, my sweet.

To love and marry the words, care for the characters born of them, flowing in your blood Clouds float by, sky deep blue; do not fight it, sweet writer, sweet writer Let your romance with the stars, the galaxies in your heart, burst into red roses

Paige Rolen I took a deep breathe as my feet moved from the car onto the concrete.

It was my first day of high school, And I was utterly terrified.

I walked to my first class, Lost and alone.

No clue of where to go, Or who to go to.

I longed for my old friends, But they were nowhere to be found.

We each had taken separate paths, Some far more distance than others.

And then it had suddenly occurred to me: Maybe they're scared too.

I walked into my first period class, English 1, with Mr. Polling.

As I sat down, Unfamiliar faces stared at me with looks of confusion; It was strangely daunting.

I hadn’t gone to school in this town before, So no one knew who I was, Which was both a blessing and a curse.

I spent the rest of the day walking through the halls of this new and terrifying place that I would learn to call home.

I imagined how nice it would be to be able to turn back time.

To go back to a time where I had friends.

Where could hide myself in a bubble, Naive of both the terrors and the beauty of the real world.

Starting over can be a scary thing to do.

But, you have to learn to let go, And trust the magic of beginnings.

As my older brother said: You must be uncomfortable before you can ever be successful.

I guess I had to take his word for it.

He is a genius, after all.

Or so he tells me.

Nora Moran

Fade In: INT. Quick-e Gas Station in Virginia - Day ABIGAIL MORRIS, age 12, is in a store with her mother, MAGGIE MORRIS, trying to purchase a pack of cigarettes.

MAGGIE (with a large tootsie pop in her mouth) she said twelve is the new eleven. But she used to say eleven was the new ten.

MAN AT THE CASH REGISTER looks at Maggie with distain.

MAN AT THE CASHIER indent (in a thick southern accent) Listen, ma’am. I cannot sell cigarettes to a child! Not without at least to for-ums of identification.

Abigail, with a look of fierce determination in her eyes, puts her small hands on the counter and pushes down with as much pressure as she can muster up, lifting herself up in order to look the man in the eyes.

ABIGAIL Of course you can’t sell me cigarettes (long pause). I refuse to age, sir. Momma says that getting older gives you wrinkles. No. Thank. You! Besides, cigarettes make your voice all robot-like. I am not interested in become a robot, sir.

MAGGIE (walking out the door behind Abigail who took the lead) She’s big on public proclamations of her youth and beauty. Too many trips visiting grandma at the nursing home, I guess.

The man laughs.

Fade out.

Eliana Cohen-Orth

––What is this even asking?

––Write inside the box.

––I'm serious – is this sentence English?

––Write inside the box.

––Fuck.

––Write inside the box.

––What is the point?

––Write inside the box.

––I'm sorry, I'm being rude – rambling on and on about my struggles.

––Write inside the box.

––How are you doing, SAT? –– Write inside the box.

––You're not much of a conversationalist. That's okay.

––Write inside the box.

––Does it get boring? Being a test?

––Write inside the box.

––Believe me – I can empathize with boredom right now.

––Write inside the box.

––Now that we're talking –I've always wondered: Is there a reason you go by "S-A-T" and not "sat"?

––Write inside the box.

––I'm just saying – you could be a real acronym, if you wanted to.

––Write inside the box.

––If you decided to live up to your potential.

––Write inside the box.

––Maybe you're just a rebel.

––Write inside the box.

––Or... Maybe not.

––Write inside the box.

––Do you have a soul?

––Write inside the box.

––Sorry – too personal?

––Write inside the box.

––It's just – I know how many times you've been told to go to hell.

––Write inside the box.

––I know how many times I've told you to go to hell.

––Write inside the box.

––So, am I dictating your future?

––Write inside the box.

––Are you dictating my future?

––Write inside the box.

––Shit – I'm out of time. Any parting words?

––Write inside the box.

Zoe Neuschatz

Here we are, just being.

You sit next to me but don’t know my name.

One day I will write it on your arm and on a page of your dark blue notebook, so you will remember.

They are speaking to all of us Speaking about perspective and love and truth and pain Speaking about things I cannot understand but you can.

One day you will tell me all of this you will tell me what happened to you and everything we share and that we are so young to go through this and I will listen and reach out for you and I will tell you everything, and you won’t move but today I don’t know you.

They teach us how to breathe how to walk, how to hurt, how to be happy. Then they tell us it doesn’t matter.

The sleeves of our sweaters brush on the way out.

You don’t know me yet, and I can only guess why you are crying

Zoe Sokolowski

INT-COUNSELING OFFICE-MORNING AMBER, twenty-one, sits across from CYPRESS, mid thirties, in silence. Amber laughs nervously then runs her fingers through her tangled blonde stringy hair.

AMBER I don't exactly remember what happened, one day I was pulling Mason around, the next he was gone.

CYPRESS What do you mean?

Amber smiles and ignores the question.

AMBER I had this red wagon he loved. He always wanted to be in that thing you know? Rain or shine, always.

Cypress sits with a straight face looking at Amber.

CYPRESS And what happened, Amber?

AMBER I never meant to hurt him. I didn't even realise he had fallen out.

Tears appear in Amber's eyes, she quickly wipes them away.

CYPRESS Falling off a wagon wouldn't have caused him to die and be found with bruises covering his body, Amber.

Amber scoffs.

AMBER You think I killed him?

CYPRESS I never said that.

AMBER But that's what you think, isn't it?

CYPRESS On your file it says you are in here forAMBER "The murder of my son". Yes, but I didn't.

FADE OUT

THE

BRUNETTES AND ALSO EMILY

Alexia Cravens

As Daphne stumbled into San Francisco’s International Airport, half barefoot and half hopeless, she tried her best to look on the bright side. She still had her old life behind her and a clean slate to fill in. But she also had a completely destroyed load of luggage that contained fake Coach Purses and thrifty pumps. She decided to ignore the latter as she reached her flight’s gate and took a seat next to an elderly woman. She was holding a small and fluffy cream dog who was viciously snarling at Daphne with its tiny teeth. Daphne offered a sweet grin at the owner, who returned her warm glow by scooting five seats away from her. Did she really smell that bad? She tried to sit next to a curious little boy who was digging through his mother’s handbag in search of Dum Dums. As soon as her pants touched the seat, the 6 year old and his mother were off to a souvenir shop. Sighing, Daphne ran her hands through her curls to feel wet mud in her hair like paint when it’s too tacky. She whipped her head around to see that her airplane was boarding in several minutes. That’ll be enough time, she told herself confidently. You just have to clean your hair and then get to your flight on time. She stood up and speed walked to the closest women’s restroom. Sprawling her stuff across the bathroom counter, she began to attack her hair with a metal hair comb and eyebrow scissors. She scrubbed the chocolate goo out of her tresses with thin paper towels and scraped off the excess dirt from her cheeks, snipping at her hair with the scissors. After she washed the gunk out of her reddish-brown hair, she started to cut off more and more hair. First it was her split ends, but then before she knew what she was doing she cut off all of her hair. Well, that was an exaggeration. She had chopped off her delicate curls until all that was left was a shaggy pixie cut with spikes of hair stuck out in all directions. Daphne smiled at her new reflection. The thing was that becoming a new person didn’t mean just leaving your past behind, moving across the globe, or even burning all of your clothes. It also meant that you had to cut your hair. She scooped her now-dead hair out of the sink and dumped it into the trash as she walked back to the terminal, eyes twinkling.

Beatrice Stewart

Once upon a time, Mel had been yellow. Now she was blue.

Jess didn’t have another way to describe it--she had always been better with colors than words. Maybe it was the way Mel had started carrying herself, like she felt bad for inconveniencing the floor. Maybe it was the way her flesh had winnowed down to nothing, had burrowed away until she was no more than hollow bones. Maybe it was her tiny veins, tattooing her wrists and eyelids like crackling blue lightning.

It was her voice, Jess decided, above all. When Mel talked, an engine used to start in her throat and bright sparks would pour out of her mouth. Now, it was more like a whisper of periwinkle fog finding its way to an ear. It was like Mel was constantly apologizing for existing.

She found Mel sitting on a concrete stairwell outside of the theater next to a trash can, hands shaking as she put a pipe to her blue lips. She and Mel used to be fused together, two spirits hand in hand--now there was blue smoke clouding the space between them.

“You said you’d stop,” Jess said.

“You knew I wouldn’t,” Mel replied.

Jess rubbed her shoelaces between her fingers. “God damn it.”

Mel took a long, shuddering breath, and let out a moan of satisfaction.

Jess put her head in her hands. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I feel great.”

“You need to be onstage in two hours.”

“I said I feel great.”

But there was no heat behind her words. Just cold, blue smoke.

The sky was all bleak and dark colors bleeding into each other. Plastic bags and bits of paper crawled across the sidewalk.

The city was just different shades of blue. Did Mel turn the city blue or did the city turn Mel blue? Jess couldn’t remember; the colors all blurred together.

“You need to quit. Please quit. I’ll start painting again if you quit. I’ll never drink again.

I’ll make you breakfast every morning. I’ll do anything.”

All Jess heard in return was a shuddering sigh from Mel as she finished her pipe.

“Please,” Jess said. “I miss you.”

“I’m still here,” Mel said. Her voice was dry and faded.

Jess put her hand on Mel’s hand. It used to be golden; now it was indigo. It used to be warm like the sun; now it was made of ice.

She took a flyer from her purse and handed it to Mel. “It’s a support group for addiction.

Just one meeting. Please.” She had said please so many times now that it felt like a mantra.

Mel stood up. She crumpled the flyer.

“This is who I am,” she spat. Her words weren’t vague anymore; they were precise. It scared Jess more, because it made what she was saying real. “If you don’t like it, you don’t like me.”

“This isn’t you!” Jess snapped. “I know you! You used to be--” “What?” Mel folded her arms.

Jess didn’t have the words. “You used to be yellow.”

“I used to be yellow.” The words didn’t travel to Jess’s ear like smoke; they landed there, sizzling, like hot coals. They sank their teeth into her stomach. “Grow up, Jess.”

Mel threw the crumpled flyer. It landed a few feet away from the trash can, but Mel wasn’t there to see where it fell. By then, she was already gone.

Once upon a time, Mel had been blue. Now she was red.

Ciel Park

I heard a consistent tapping sound as I was writing on Friday Tap...tap….tap It was a little green beetle Repeatedly slamming himself into my window Hoping that maybe this time, he wouldn’t be met by the invisible barrier That barred his way In Korea there’s a saying “To hit a boulder with an egg” Most days that’s what I feel like I’m doing Crack…crack…crack Same boulder Different eggs I read a children’s book about Pandora’s box That described hope As if it were a redeeming gift from Zeus To make up for the pestilence released into the world But by digging a little deeper We find that hope is a double sided blade Another curse On mankind There’s something about waking up in the morning Facing a new day That makes me feel like the beetle I encountered on Friday afternoon Or like I’m taking eggs made up of my own mortality and hitting At the unmoving boulder of life.

Eva Vesely

It’s a few minutes after the nurse unhooked my from my IV tube, murmuring something about refilling the fluid, when the television switches to a perfume commercial with flowery violin music playing in the background. Suddenly, I’m drowning. It’s the song. Our song. The music rushes into me, entering through every opening in my body. It seeps through my pores and slips under my eyelids. I'm tasting it and smelling it and touching it. It wraps tightly around my limbs and moves me up from my bed and to the middle of my hospital room. I close the blinds on my window.

I'm on the blacked out stage, frozen in position. There is a second of tension, holding all of us in place. A second of silence right before the first note; the only thing that can be heard is the murmur of the audience. In this second we don't breathe and we don't dare to move and even our hearts seem to stop beating.

We know when the music is about to start, we don't know how we know but the muscles in our backs tighten and we all take one collective breathe and then the lights fade in and the music starts and we’re moving. My ballet shoe slides across the chalky stage and my bare foot rubs against the hospital floor. All the pain is completely lifted from my ankle. I don't have to think. I can't think. Searing white lights shine down on the stage and as I look out into the rows of silhouettes my brain is panic-struck. It’s as if all my senses are clogged and nothing is arriving at my brain.

But my muscles know what to do. I twirl and sway and dip and sigh. The music pulls me in one direction, and then the other, and then gently lifts me up in preparation. I leap across center stage, over my mother's purse which she left on the floor. Around me, the girls are following their own paths, yet we each have gravitational pulls that connect us. I revolve around Allison, and she's in her own world, her face locked in a gaze of such strong intensity that I myself get caught up in it for a second. The wheels of my IV rack squeak as I slowly circle it.

We think we can hear the audience cheering, or sometimes even gasping. This drives us, gives us the rush we need to continue.

From the very back rows, someone whoops Allison’s name, her father most likely.

Outside my room a distressed nurse shouts “Page Dr.Ali!”.

The last note of the song draws out and we arrange ourselves in our positions. Before the music completely fades away the audience starts cheering. Some of them stand up. Some of them scream our names. We’re not supposed to smile but we can't help it.

There's a sweet buzz in all of us, running beneath our skin. It's our hearts pounding and our chests rising and falling and our sweat hanging heavy in the air between us. The lights dim again and we float off the stage. I float over to my window.

The television switches again, this time to an AllState commercial. I’m jerked out of the stage and the cheering and the dance and placed back into my hospital room. The tile floor is cold beneath my bare feet and my ankle is searing with pain.

A nurse walks in and rushes over to me.

“You’re supposed to be resting!”

She gently guides me back to my bed and I gladly lean on her for support. The pain is the worst it’s ever been; each sputtering step pierces through my bone. Once I’m under the papery sheets again she rubs my back with her hand. It’s warm and comforting through my hospital gown.

Glo(ria) Bryan

I wonber if seh nows seh sits om a thrown off mi werk.

Seh sets on a pil of mi shaveings in biscontent.

Fix it, take it dack, fix my mistak. Im sopposed too de the dest at mi jod and I gues I an.

I no becuse of the smyle seh gav mi onse defore.

J liv beeside mi olber bruther.

Hiss fase has ben woren awae, he wears a bress of shining medal.

He sayc its his jaill, that their will always de a dit of him traped incid, Unuseable, inacsessible, unceen, I dont now if he was ever goob at his jod, dut he was traped quit quikly, wile his yello and bage partner lives long.

In conbarison too mi cmaller cibling, Im moor youthfull.

I have a brod aray of words, but I now most of then have the rong leders.

The fingers that gide me over the papers with precsure, are always hesitate and tence.

Seh kyps to her riting koncistently, Evry bay the diger my vocadulary gits, the moor miniskule I grow.

I wonber if seh nows how Ive ben wasteing into bust.

Isabel Stewart

I sewed your heart together with a needle and thread It quickly came undone, with just a beat it was a wreck You were quick to leave, not giving us another chance Now your back, I know you'll just abandon me with my regret But when you hold me, I’m alright But when you hold me, I’m just fine But if you let go, who knows I've always been afraid of you and your impulses You made me constantly wonder is we were alright The feeling of loss became unbearable, repulsive I will forever live in your shadow, forever live in fright But when you hold me, I’m alright But when you hold me, I’m just fine But if you let go, who knows And if you let go, you’ll go

Lauren Bassett

You know that feeling?

That special feeling The one that you can never explain But you wish that you could hold onto forever When you could yell out to the skies and they would yell back When you could walk through fire and the burning flames Would be as dangerous as a soft caress When you are just so ecstatic, you feel as invincible as a fairytale Well, you were that feeling When you looked at me I saw your eyes, and I felt like I was staring into the cosmos And seeing all the stars and nebulas that lit up your irises And wherever you touched me Fireworks exploded, blistering my skin with The footsteps of the butterflies in my stomach And when you smiled at me Your face crinkled like my heart Beating so fast I felt it rushing Like the blood in my burning cheeks And then without a word, Without a warning, Without a single glance back in my desolate direction You left me alone My emotions had become matches That were now wet with my tears And your memories spat on the rare sparks of happiness that could be created My skin had become a weight without the feeling of your fingertips It pulled on my lips when I tried to smile And crushed my lungs so I couldn’t breathe I once saw this post on Tumblr It was saying that feelings are like the seasons You know how in the middle of winter When the wind is so cold and sharp You feel like every bone in your body has turned to ice And it feels like summer will never come?

That’s kind of like when you are sad.

When you feel so far down And you think that light wouldn’t be able to touch you If you stood in front the sun When you’re so sad, you can’t even feel sad Because you don’t feel anything Just a shell of flesh covering an empty heart But every year, summer comes again eventually, Just like happiness And for that I must wait

Mianarei Poole

Dearest Star in the Sky, I’m an Earthling far from where you are now. By the time you get this letter, I’ll be long dead. For this will take light years to reach you. If only I could be a star like you. Far from the problems of Earth, and the stresses of expectations.

When you’re in the sky, people admire your beautiful glow and look for your family. They think of you as the bright fire burning in space and then they leave you to find another star, but brighter than you.

What’s it like being a ball of constantly burning fire? Do you ever get lonely, being by yourself for all moments of the day? Do you celebrate your birthday, or can you not remember how long you’ve been burning or when you were created? Do you ever wish to be something else? Like a bee buzzing from flower to flower? Or would you rather be a traveler? Like a seed that’s picked up by a human or catches a ride on the fur of a deer?

I know you can never be like me… A human. But that’s not really a bad thing. WHen you’re a star, you don’t have to eat, go to school, be impressive to get the job, suffer from emotions, or have to worry about who’ll be the next president and how it’ll affect you. But there’s also better things you can’t experience as a star. The small victory of learning to tie your shoes, the independance of walking to a store by yourself, the fear of watching a horror film, the feeling of adrenaline when you experience first love.

When you’re a star, there’s not much for you to experience. Hmm, I guess being a star isn’t that much better than being a human. Even though us human suffer from emotions, it’s not really suffering so much as just having a few bad days in a row and blaming your feelings. And although you live for many, many years compared to us humans, all you do is reappear in the night and have your photo taken by people who can’t live without a perfect picture. Humans do so much more than that. They teach the younger ones of us how to basically become a person, they grow connections so strong, they can tell what the other is trying to say with just one facial expression, they comfort each other or make each other laugh so hard, they barely make a noise.

What do stars do when they need a shoulder to cry on? Do you find yourself crying at night? In front of your audience as they steal a picture or two? What do stars do when they know their end is soon? Who comforts them and says, “I’ll be there soon, too. Looking for you.”?

Now that I’m really thinking about it, I don’t remember why I started writing this letter to you, wanting to be a star. I, now, much prefer being a human, being what I am, being me. I’m sorry, star, if I offended you about realizing I’d rather be me than be you. I don’t mean to seem mean. In fact, I should be saying, “Thank you.” Writing this letter to you gave me a chance to realize the things I never thought about before.

I’ll see you tonight, bright star in the sky. And hopefully, you do eventually get this letter, Keep on shining!

-One of your admirers

CRABTORS

Abby Hamilton

Sky darkened, crying Down down Down drip drops.

Buckets go Slow, kills quiet with small melts of rain. flashes realize landings enjoyed, danced Rain reversed. recharge anxiousDry Sky, wet disappears.

Chords vocal gargled escape sentences-onceword Streams Dissolve, Melts Blue, purpling Insides reddish.

Puddle Rain mingled parts filled-pain Skin rivers face melts intestines and throat burns acidic Water turned insides Filling Tides causing moons. current waves Fill blueing Sky. worship hands cupped, Drowned. opening rain Drops last drips, Clouds clogged coming Backwards.

Droplets Droplets- Tongue pierces rain Backwards.

Breath drowning, petals crisp, Atmosphere harvests and continents swim Ground Absorb sky Empty Sky staggers wrings the Earth touch Bubbling clouds which Flickers emotions Rain replaced Stolen feelings robbed, Face streaks rivers, Moistureless and shriveled.

Overflow grey brews.

Amanda Magen

I’d never really had a hero before. Sure, there were people I looked up to, but there was no one that I admired so much that I couldn’t stop looking at them, like some sort of angel sent from above to ‘show us the way’ or something. But all that changed one day in West Philadelphia, in the middle of a small, dimly lit house on a squashy sofa, gathered in a circle for a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

I was on a mission trip with my church. I come from a mixed religion household, being both Jewish and Presbyterian. I never made up my mind about what to pursue, but that trip was a tipping point into wanting to be involved in something. During the trip, we would travel in a group of about ten of us to a worksite, and go somewhere new each day. That first day we were going to listen in on a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and then go help the people who spoke tend to the community garden. I sat down on the saggy armchair, pinned between two people, and braced myself. I had never been one to sit still for long periods of time, and we had just come off a long bus ride.

But once I listened, I was absolutely captivated. The speakers remained sitting, and would begin with “Hi, my name is so­and­so and I’m an addict”. The whole group would then say “Hi, so­and­so back”, except with the person’s name. I remember thinking “wait, how is this anonymous if everyone says their name?” before remembering I was supposed to This one woman, Peggy, said that she will always refer to herself as an addict, as well as everyone else there. I asked why, seeing as she had been clean for years. But Peggy said that once you become hooked, it never completely goes away. “Oh, sorta like Lyme Disease” I said, desperate for any way to relate to her and thinking of how I had contracted the disease a few years previously; I recall having then been horrified to learn that Lyme never truly vanished.

‘West Philadelphia’ has a stereotype as being some sort of ghetto, a place where everyone is constantly on something and people are always getting shot. Especially in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, which would seem to be a place for the lowest of the low. But that’s not the case at all. I admire the people I met on that day more than anyone. The idea that they’d not only have the courage to stand up and share their life stories with complete strangers but also to get help in the first place blew my mind. So don’t stereotype these people as less, but instead look up to them. They are not only beautiful human beings, but more importantly, people.

Annabel Richter

At first, there is only darkness.

But suddenly - skrtch - a flash of inspiration chases away the shadows, and a matchstick idea flares to life. The fuse is lit - there is no going back now. The madman laughs as creativity fills my mind and the wick is burned down to a stub. One touch is all it takes - my pencil brushes against the paper and the bomb explodes. Flames and fireworks fill the night; sparks scream across the sky as my hand flies across the page, filling it up with the incoherent scribbles colliding in my mind. There is a raw beauty in the destruction - yet this landscape seems doomed to desolation all the same.

Sure enough, the lurid pyrotechnics soon fade from the sky, and when the smoke clears, only a pockmarked desert of wilting ideas remains. My imagination has shriveled and died, unaccustomed this lack of once­constant innovation. This explosion wasn’t the madman’s fault; he is simply uncontrollable in his fits of lunacy. But suddenly, the dust moves and shakes, a trapdoor opens, and the architect clambers out of her bunker, ready to face the daunting task in front of her: reconstruction. Only the strong are able to survive - my draftsman pulls moribund ideas out of the parched ground, shaking the dirt off of their roots. She waters the plants that still reach towards the sun, planting new seeds as she goes. The architect makes sure she digs up any dangerous stray parts or radioactive materials - if another bomb goes off now, it may create a wild new idea that could destroy all of her hard work. Her design seems ingenious. New life has begun, and the story continues.

The carpenter is called out next. He examines his surroundings and begins to build, using the ideas that have been left behind. Although he is cautious as he works, following the blueprint left behind for him, he knows that the architect has done the best job she can. His job is to build something - a sanctuary for the twisting leaves of the plotline that have now started to grow. He uproots and replants, using the materials he has with him to build a structure that will protect the plot - creating a storyline that will not fall apart. Once his work is done, he picks up his tools and leaves the scene, inviting the judge to Ironically, the judge has been here the whole time. He tried to stop the madman from lighting the match, pressing down inspiration with his commanding orders for perfect grammar, spelling, and a flawless storyline right off the bat. However, the bomb went off, and now he is here to fix any remaining damage. The carpenter’s structure seems sturdy enough, but the judge is preparing for an apocalypse. He trims the tangled overgrowth, clipping away the errors of writing - the stinging misspellings, the thorny strands of poor grammar, and any unwanted weeds choking up the storyline. Finally, the judge’s job is done; the piece is trimmed, protected, and ready for publishing. As he looks out to the desert, perhaps he will see the madman hiding among the hills, sparking a new idea into action. A different plot twist will be launched as another blast of dynamite rocks the desert once more, but this time, the plot is sheltered from the blast, and the story will be able to continue, using the lunatic’s madness to write a new chapter.

At first, there was only darkness.

But now there is a story.

Brie Leftwich

Cg Marinelli

Growing up with a name that you absolutely loathe isn’t that easy. Especially when that name that you loath has been twisted and changed into variations that are sometimes worse. Caroline Grey McReynolds Marinelli, Caroline Grey, Caroline, Grey, Carol, Caro, Carol G, C. Grey, McRenny, Macaroni, Ceeg, Ceeg-Cat, Ceeg-Kitty, and now just Kitty. I mean, do I remind anyone of a cat? Sometimes I wonder why people can’t just accept that I only like to be called Cg and move on with their lives.

When I was first born, I didn’t have a name. I was just known as Baby Marinelli because my parents couldn’t even agree on what to call me. Some of their suggestions were Melinda (ew), Katherine (eh), Fairfax (oh thank God I wasn’t named Fairfax), and then the suggestion of Caroline, just something my dad liked (the name of an old high school girlfriend), and Grey, my mother’s middle name. The two just couldn’t decide on one so they wrote them both on the birth certificate, and, henceforth, I have been cursed with the double name, Caroline Grey.

When my pseudo-uncle/just-close-family-friend Mr. Dolecheck (or Dully, as I call him) came by, and my parents finally announced my name, he just kind of said “gross” and nicknamed me Cg (he said it would be better if I already had a nickname that all of my friends could pronounce instead of having a bunch of preschoolers attempt to say Caroline Grey). And Cg was the name I’ve stuck with ever since. It’s the name that I introduce myself as, the name I tell the Starbucks baristas, and the name that I relate myself to. Even now as I type out Caroline Grey it seems foreign to me. My parents rarely call me by my full name except for when I’m in trouble.

Although I suppose that Caroline Grey could be a very beautiful or elegant name if we were living somewhere in Atlanta on a plantation in the 1800s (basically living in Gone With the Wind), but no, I’m living in Houston in the 21st century, and having a horrible double name is just an inconvenience; for me and for all the other poor kids stuck growing up with one. Your teachers never know what to call you on the first day, your name never fits in those fill in the bubble things you have to fill out before you take the ERB, SAT, NSE (basically any standardized test), and don’t even get me started on monograms or those necklaces and bracelets with your first initial on them--we have two first initials! People expect to see some done up southern belle when they hear my name, and are always somewhat disappointed to see that it’s just another average girl with a not-so-average name. When I was younger I would try to play the role of the sweet, princessy, southern belle who’s favorite color was hot pink and wore a puffy dress wherever I went, but, as I got older, I stopped trying to fit that mold. Caroline Grey just isn’t a name that I can relate to anymore. It isn’t a name that represents me, who I am, or who I’d like to be. Possibly, when I’m much, much older and more mature, I’ll get over my petty hate of what most people call a ‘gorgeous name,’ but for now, when it’s just an annoying inconvenience that I have to deal with daily, I will continue to hate it with a passion.

Kate Lee

You live inside the house of her eyes, at the corner street of iris and pupil. The address is faded under the sloppy graffiti, but you never leave, so finding your residence doesn’t become a problem. You watch the immense birds gliding outside from your opened doors, but when the breeze comes along, you close the windows.

You remember your room lit up with her youthful happiness, cinnamon candles masking the moist scent of next-door sewage. But her eyes sink, and your lights turn dimmer and dimmer. You come to realize your house is the only one on this lonely street, that it is never sunny or dark, that she controls the light of her eyes.

You write pointless poetry and paint rainy bridges; your house sinks into a deep, engulfing night.

Sorrow and age take its toll on her, it rains more now, her eyes flowing with water: you leave the umbrella open indoors.

You drink cold coffee, watching the fog.

The calming drops are slanting through your cracked roof on the night you look up from your bed and notice the water stain on the ceiling: a twisted bird.

Before you close your eyes for the last time, you faintly wonder if within your pupils, there is another house, another you.

Kaydin Robertson

We’re all here. A fun day at the state fair is exactly what all of us have needed these past couple of days. School work has been piling up, and all of us are under massive amounts of pressure. It’s amazing how almost none of us have combusted yet. That was how all of us really were though. We never dwelled on what was wrong with us. One thing that’s disappeared since entering high school is time. The work outweighs the time by a longshot. I can never go to the movies, or the mall, or sleep for that matter. Thank God it was Amanda’s birthday, or I wouldn’t even be out of the house. I’d probably be on my bed, frantically studying SAT vocab.

We waited in the longest line in the park to get onto the Ferris wheel, because Ally insisted that we ride it every time we visited the state fair, and I can’t even begin to describe how amazing it felt to waste time in a line. We were truly just standing in a line, wasting as much time as humanly possible before we had to go home and continue to not sleep, and work on assignments. We must have wasted hours in that stupid line, but when we finally got on, the sadness came back to us all. We all stopped pretending not to be.

Marissa took out the cupcake she had snuck into the park, and opened the container, while Amy took out her lighter and candle. Marissa stared into the fire with no emotion on her face. She was the fire at that point, burning with all the pent up sadness and stress, but refusing to show any of it. We all smiled. A shallow smile that had no happiness behind it. We knew that everyone had given up on her. She was stuck somewhere forever. Her friends and loved ones left with no answer, no closure. Everyone had given up. The police, her parents and as unfortunate as it is to say this, we all had given up.

We all waited until we got to the top of the wheel to blow the candle out, and when we finally did, we couldn’t help but dread getting off. We all stopped talking after she disappeared, but in some ways, I think that was a good thing. We heard a creak in the ride, and were all disconcerted, except for Marissa, who casually welcomed death.

Not too long afterwards, a man with a bull horn made the announcement that the wheel was broken, and that we should expect to be here for a while. We all looked at each other and started laughing. Happy birthday Amanda.

Vivian Feng

CASUAL CACTI

Ethan Rossman

Back on the plane, the waves are closer. You see the individual bubbles as the air trapped under the mountains of water struggles to the surface. The screams are still a ringing blur, your wife cradling the baby that you both cared so much about. You watched as she smiled for what was most likely the last time and took your hand. One of the windows in the plane blew out in the front of the plane and air rushed in and buffeted the passengers sending anything that hadn’t already been tossed onto the floor into a frenzied rage as plastic cups and various other objects zoomed around the cabin. More windows popped and the oxygen masks dropped. Some people attempted to put them, on but you knew it was pointless. The PA crackled again and then died the words lost to whatever failures the plane was experiencing. The plane is slowing down as the pilots are desperately trying to bring the plane to an impossible safe landing.

Jacob Siegel

I hope you smile Smile at the trees, the light, the rain, But I don’t want to see your side long grin sketched southwest of your nose No, I want to see that big ear-to-ear crescent moon of a smile holding up your scarlet rose cheeks and soil eyes Yes, that kind of smile

Smile like train lights down the coast Smile like sparklers spurting white hot bullets in the night Smile like an electric fire burning fast on hot air Smile like Broadway city life towering down from heaven Smile like reckless friends, high on moonlight and cigarette burns Smile like painted, princess castles built from nerves and a spinal cord

And smile on!

Smile for it all Smile for the dancing smoke beside your hair filled with all the sounds and questions of your tears Smile for all the dusty memories in the attic of your soul Smile for it all but mostly Smile for me

James Barberis I think the last day of school is regarded as a holiday by most students and teachers alike.

The feeling of leaving the large building in which you have spent countless hours bored out of your mind is priceless to many. But, there’s a slight feeling of sadness and discomfort. For nearly 10 months a year, each student repeats the same routine every single weekday. Wake up, go to school, fall asleep, again. It’s a cycle that has been implanted the mind of everyone in the education system. Despite the fact that many view school as an actual incarnation of hell, it’s also the place where timeless memories have taken place for everyone, whether it be an unforgettable night at homecoming, the excitement of winning a state championship in a sport, or simply laughing with a group of your closest friends. There’s something disturbing about leaving school for the summer. But there’s also something relieving about it as well. The immense pressure of carrying grades from quarter to quarter becomes overwhelming and students are accustomed to counting down the days until their final day of the school year like it’s New Year’s Eve. So, as I walked into Wootton High School on the final day of the year, I was surrounded by the converging voices of students who were too eager about the upcoming summer to realize the giant flaw in their thinking. People have to understand that summer vacation is just a hiccup in the lives of the average American student. Kids in the education system have to abide by the routine chosen for them by adults with much more power and control than them. I truly do not understand how no one gets it. Summer is just a part of the system. But, after rambling on for about fifteen minutes, I noticed that I’ve become a hypocrite. I’ve been talking about how the last day of school is a giant trick played on students by the Board of Education when I, myself, was ecstatic for summer, along with each person in my high school who converged to share their excitement with one another. Oh well, school’s out.

Max Bouratoglou Unconscious ignorance rotting at your soul Run away from it, don't let it take control Those monstrous demons are lurking in your head Kill them at the source, can't let them spread Chorus: Are you contagious He took your heart and left you brainless It's not a Hiatus He was always so Flirtatious (even when you were around) Verse 2: You were just another girl he'd tell to the boys Your desperate cries for help sounded like white noise You built him up to be a god in disguise The only thing he preached was his own lies Chorus: Are you contagious He took your heart and left you brainless It's not a hiatus He was always so flirtatious (even when you were around) Half Verse: Not every battle can be fought all alone How can you win the war if the conflict isn't known Chorus x2: Are you contagious He took your heart and left you brainless It's not a hiatus He was always so flirtatious (even when you were around)

Silas Chu

Tyler Gruel Open on dark stage. Spotlight on young man. He stands with his head down hands held in front of his face.

Young man “These hands are not my hands.”

His soul enters and stands up stage left of him.

YOUNG MAN “While I am aware of what they feel.”

YOUNG MAN “These hands are not my hands.”

His body enters and stands upstage right of him.

Body “I know what these hands have known.”

Soul My experience can relate to that of these hands.

BODY and SOUL “We are both.”

BODY “Burned” SOUL “And cut” BODY “Stained” SOUL “Painted” BODY “Marked and bruised.”

YOUNG MAN (interrupting) “These hands have shared my joy and my pain” SOUL “A jumper cable for my emotions” BODY “Making my heart race” YOUNG MAN “Smile on my face” BODY AND SOUL “But in the end” ALL “THESE HANDS ARE NOT MY HANDS” When the last line is said all hold up hands in front of them and look out to the audience.

the

SUITE LIFE of

ZAC & CO.

Elliot Stork

Joe’s couch was comfortable, but it wasn’t a place he could sit. Well, he could, if Josie, Sunny, Rocky, and Dude weren’t on it. You might not be able to tell they were there, at a first glance, but they covered the couch. And those were only the ones that immediately fit on the couch. Josie and Dude’s puppies were nestled into the bed that Joe had hand-sewn them. His wife used to do the sewing, but when she died, Joe started by sewing Sunny a new bed. She had been his wife’s dog. The bed was lumpy and misshapen, but Sunny didn’t mind.

He thought, when Margaret died, that he would be lonely. Sunny helped him feel like he had family, even when his kids and grandkids weren’t at his house, so he got Dude and Josie.

Then, when a friend’s dog had puppies, he added Rocky to the bunch. Then he discovered that neither Dude nor Josie was fixed when they had puppies - a litter of four. Since he had so many dogs, his morning routine was strict: he got up at seven, fed the dogs, and let them and the puppies into the backyard for thirty minutes while he showered and ate. Then he played fetch with them until eight thirty. Then, at eight forty five, he went to work. If Margaret were still alive, he might be retired, but he didn’t mind, especially because he only worked part-time. He came home at lunch and checked on the puppies and let the dogs into the yard again. Then it was playtime inside with toys and games with treats.

The dogs needed routine. That’s what’s best for a dog, after all. Joe found himself enjoying his morning routine with the dogs. It gave him a peace of mind he hadn’t had when his morning schedule was decided based on when he woke up. Margaret always had breakfast on the table, but sometimes all he had time to do was grab a piece of toast, kiss her cheek, and leave. He worked too much then. Maybe if he had been home more, he would have noticed when she started coughing. Sunny had noticed. She had started waking Joe up when Margaret started having coughing fits at night. He had thought Sunny was just scared and gone back to sleep.

Then the fits got so bad and so often and Margaret got so sick that all she could do was lie on the couch with Sunny and the doctors couldn’t treat her. Joe stopped working then.

When Joe went to the living room to watch tv, his dogs all followed him and got onto the couch. There was never any space left for him to sit, so he sat against the couch one day. Dude liked this immensely and put his head on Joe’s shoulder. Since then, while he sat not on the couch, Dude cuddled with him.

Nathaniel Bowman

Peter is ecstatic to finally be back in his apartment. All he wants to do is go to sleep, but he can’t. He needs to paint. Brian March said if Peter can finish one more painting he would help him. One more painting is impossible for Peter. He walks into his art room to be greeted with a half finished painting. Peter walks up to it, but only to take it off the easel and set it aside.

All the gruesome scenes Peter has seen today rush through his mind as he puts up a clear canvas. Memories of blood, death, and more blood sort through Peter’s brain as he picks up his palette and brush.

One stroke; That is all it took for Peter to get started. He has a new inspiration, and it feels great. Painting almost feels as great as it did in college. Peter painted furiously. Each stroke adding a new aspect to the painting. Slowly, all those gruesome scenes of death and gore became art. Peter was almost done painting the dead mailman when the phone rang. Peter, afraid he would lose the will to paint again if he stopped now, reluctantly put his brush down.

“Hello?” Peter said into the phone as he picked it up and answered.

“Peter,” Chief Leonardy began on the other line, “There has been another murder.”

Peter’s entire world came to stop.

“But… I thought we caught him,” Peter uttered, and he began to sweat.

“I thought we did too,” Chief Leonardy stated. “I’ll send you the address, meet us there.”

Peter hung up and stared at his phone. The screen lit up and the address came onto the screen.

It was a park.

Peter reluctantly called a cab. He turned to look at the canvas on the easel. He was so close to finishing. The bottom right corner was still white, but the rest looked amazing. Was it wrong to use a dead guy as a model? Peter didn’t want to think about it. He reluctantly left the room, and headed towards the front door. He grabbed his keys on the way out, and locked the door behind him. Now he just had to wait for the cab that would carry him off to yet another murder scene.

The scene wasn’t much different from the last, or the one before that. Police stood here and there, and they kept the crowd at bay. Nobody tried to stop him when he walked forward, and ducked under the yellow police tape that ran from tree to pole and so on all the way around the scene.

Peter’s head hung in dread as he saw who the body belonged to this time. Brian March is dead. Peter’s only chance at publishing his art. Brian March lay on the ground face up. His skin is pale, and his eyes are empty. Blood stains outline his mouth. He has three, maybe four, stab wounds in his gut, and one in his shoulder. Peter stared at the blood stained grass. Red blades of glass surround the dead patron.

Peter turns with the full intent of leaving the scene when the chief yells behind him.

Peter glances over his shoulder to see Chief Leonardy push past a cop.

“This was my one chance,” Peter said, as turned away from the chief.

“Stop worrying about yourself. This man just died, and you’re upset because now he can’t give you money,” Chief Leonardy said, “That’s selfish, and it’s not helping anybody.”

“I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going home,” Peter said before walking off the scene.

Kaizen Conroy

Here is an excerpt from a non-fiction short story about a girl in my life.

She’s sitting on my lap in the movie theatre. I’ve got my arms wrapped around her in some sort of embrace. She’s so close. I smell that vanilla scent that will linger on long after she’s left me, a cruel reminder of the better times now in the past. I hardly remember the movie at all.

This is last year. We’ve just finished a summer camp together. We’ve coordinated our schedules to make the camp work. It’s the best time of my life. If there was any doubt that I was in love with her, it’s been shattered. I want nothing more than to hold her tight and never let go.

Never let the abyss of two long years on opposite sides of the world separate us.

She tells me, “I’m going to keep you in mind when I choose what college to go to.”

She tells me, “If you were here, we would be together.”

She tells me, “We are better together than me and my boyfriend.”

She tells me, “Now I’m certain I love you.”

She must be leading me on. But even as I think this, I can’t bear to accept it. She’s too nice. I’ve read the books, I’ve heard the stories where mean girls lovingly take out the hearts of young boys and stomp on it for sport. I take a look at my heart, however scratched and battered it is, and tell myself that she’s too nice. I’m not an average boy, I think, and she’s no average girl.

I’m better, I’m smarter than the poor boys in those heartbreak stories. I tell myself this. I’m an old romantic and someday my persistence will be rewarded. This is real. This is real, I tell myself.

Nevertheless, I’m elated. I know that nothing is set in stone and this means little more than the pinky swear she gives me. Or the friendship bracelet I receive that I will wear dutifully, even after it becomes more sweat residue than string. When it falls off from overuse, I’ll wish for happiness. I can only hope it involves her.

I wonder if she’ll keep her promises. I suppose I can’t be mad if she doesn’t.

Ari Eisenberg

The marble it's so old 7 billion people Think they have nothing Left to learn The stars, they collide Leaving nothing but dust Start again make life So we'll find the truth... and lie What's above us around us take flight So let's find the truth X2 The things we don't understand Are right in front of us In this blue land So if we stop fighting this war We'll find out what Is left to explore So we'll find the truth... and lie What's above us around us take flight So let's find the truth X2

Wesley Harper

You are not beautiful and you never will be.

You that woman crossing the train tracks Grocery bags slung over your shoulders Canned vegetables and Discount chicken tugging against the plastic Begging to burst.

You are no longer hauntingly beautiful But the ghosts of camera shutters Are dragged in to your skin When I imagine you I don’t imagine a mother or father There are no children, There are no diapers in the bag or circles under your eyes You keep sniffling away though Rubbing fingers under your nose and making sure there’s no blood trickling down.

We are all in the car across the street And it’s impossible to tell if you have noticed us already Or if you’re going to ignore us It’s not like we came to you on purpose We toss and turn the idea of driving up to you Offering you a ride home and expecting a discount on that beautiful bud you keep Loaded up in jars and cans around that metal home of yours.

Simply enough, we decide you can just walk home and Let the blood vessels at the tip of your nose explode like the bombs on TV The metal drifting to the atmosphere We have lighters in our pockets ready at any word After all of the money is counted and we know how much we can beg That’ll be when our bodies hit the floor with laughter And you won’t be smiling but You’ll be biting you nails and licking lips at the door.

The police don’t come pass the train tracks But the rattling of handcuffs in their pockets can’t be ignored The reminders that They can make red eyes black is always falling like snow in the back of your head The memory of you will fall off after graduation And you won’t mean anything when we come back to town You are not our friend.

You are caskets that we lower in to the ground once we learn To shave without cutting ourselves And you are murmurs and unsettling heartbeats we keep secret Even when we leave You will still be a part of the dirt here and I will try not to imagine What your kid will look like when he can’t eat.

Culton Koster

When Eric arrived, Linda was waiting. Before entering, he shook the snow from his coat, and hung it up.

Linda had made coffee. She poured two cups, and set them on the counter. Eric drifted in. He examined the room. The lights were low, and the kitchen was clean. Eric slumped into a chair.

“How should I put this… Eric, I think it would be mutually beneficial if we stopped seeing each other.”

Eric understood the coffee. Linda never made coffee—coffee was conducive to breakups.

“Eric?” Linda prompted.

Eric stared through her, and didn’t speak.

“It’s not you… it’s me.” She said, faintly.

Zach Pruitt

Tessa arrived home just after school ended, which she never did, and immediately dashed to her room. She dug through her dresser, throwing t-shirts, shorts, and the occasional stray sock on the carpet. She sifted through clothes until she found it; a small, two month old iPhone. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she unlocked it; she had been in a panic all day, awaiting a call. She checked her phone’s call log: empty.

Groaning, she tossed her phone on her bed, just right of her dresser. She hated that she had managed to leave it at home. The day had been an endless dance between anticipation and apprehension. They should have sent something by now; a call, a text, an e-mail. Anything to calm Tessa’s nerves. She sat at her desk on the opposite side of the room, pulling out her literature book. Her eyes scanned the words, but nothing stuck. Her mind raced. Why had she not gotten the call? Was there an accident? Did their phone die? Did they forget? She tugged her dark braid and sighed. She stood from the desk. How did people ever wait like this?

“Calm down, Tess,” she mumbled as she began pacing. “It isn’t the end of the world.

People get busy.”

A loud hum resounded, turning Tessa cold. A grin crept across her face. She dove for her phone and answered without checking the ID. “Hey,” she squealed.

“Well hello to you too, sweetheart!”

Tessa felt herself blush. She addressed her mother, “What’s up?”

“I need you to do the laundry for me when you get home, I’m going out tonight.”

“I’m already home,” she admitted. “I’ll do it now.”

Her mother thanked her briefly and they exchanged scripted “I love you”s. As she hung up the phone, she groaned, shifting to do the task her mother requested. She found her thoughts drifting again as she stuffed clothes into the washing machine. There was no way she would get a call. She couldn’t see how she would be worth the trouble. All she ever caught herself doing was complaining or causing problems.

Tessa held back her tears while she started the washer. It had been a happier few months for her. She had avoided backsliding into her usual self-loathing patterns. The idea of it scared her, as did her previous mental state.

As she returned to the room, the phone rang. She trudged over and examined the name flashing on the screen; Maebh. A grin rose on her face and her heart danced. Finally.

“Hello,” her girlfriend murmured.

“What’s wrong?” Tessa felt her skin go paler than normal.

“I can’t,” she choked, “I can’t be with you anymore.”

“Maebh…I…six months…”

“I love you, Tess,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

With that, the call ended and Tessa found herself in tears for the first time in months.

She dropped the phone and screamed. The tears burned her eyes as thoughts of her relationship consumed her.

“Not again,” she croaked. “I can’t be alone again.”

Ethan Perritt