She`s ignoring my call

2014 – 2015 Mason High School Writers’ Block Staff:
Cameron Albers
Maya Malaviya
Sneha Ameya
Nicole Markley
Yana Artemov
Jhenae Martin
Amani Ashraf
Megan McAneny
Nicole Baah
Kamala Mullur
Katelyn Bill
Reanna Nartker
Nina Bredemeier
Madelyn Paraskos
Jessie Dibb
Ishani Paul
Allison Dreyer
Melissa Phillips
Mallory Elder
Sneha Rajan
Katelyn Emter
Allison Ridener
Catherine Gong
Stephanie Schoenlein
Ramya Gutta
Sarah Senne
Katie Hibner
Jessica Sommerville
Tanvi Jagtap
Rachel Stapleton
Mallory Johnson
Divya Takkellapati
Frances Kraimer
Joice Thekkethottiyil
Aniya Longmire
Kelly Tran
Sierra Longmire
Radhika Upadhye
Advisor: Mrs. Amanda Bross
Writers’ Block would also like to give a special thanks to the Mason High
School Art Department, especially Mr. Aaron Roberts, for their support and
assistance with the artwork portion of the magazine.
Thank you to the 2014 – 2015 Creative Writing I and II classes and to all
others who submitted their work for publication.
Magic
By Nicole Baah
She remembered,
Long, long ago,
When the magic began.
She teleported,
Able to weave
in and out of dimensions,
Unbound by the limits of space and time.
She lived,
Never feeling trapped by walls,
For they could simply
be melted with the mind.
She traveled,
Whisking away to far lands,
Where time
was never of the essence.
She imagined,
Creating new worlds,
But kept them her own
ever treasured
Then she learned,
Willing to share her power,
Transferring fantasies
to anyone who dared dream.
But she faded,
Losing her brilliant force,
Instead drowned
by her overwhelming reality.
...
He listens,
Captured in wonder & awe,
As the woman spins
vibrant tales of adventure.
She watches,
Smile washed with reminisce
As her old love of magic
will forever endure.
Magic by Nicole Baah
Art out of
Self-Doubt
by Katie Hibner
Every time
I wallpaper my watershed
so it transpires and peels
into pamphlets that stir
the salmon to insurrection
a salty stroke against
a sled husky’s grain—
tug at the root of the current
and there is a paper biplane
swimmer I pulley him
up into the shadow box
and swat my flipper to repel
the pterodactyl cloud,
it may be studded
with FDA approval but declare
We don’t want your extinction coat.
Teardrop Slab
by Madison McConkie
The Magic Telescope: A Children’s Story
By Sierra and Aniya Longmire
Ring, Ring, Ring,
“Kaylee, go to
the door, it must be
Emily and Zach!” Mom
yells across the room
while she fixes dinner.
I sprint to the
brown wooden door. I
open it to be
immediately greeted
with the whiff of the
autumn breeze that
satisfies my nose. My
neighborhood friends
greet me with a huge
hug. I can’t wait for
them to see my new
tree house.
“Wow, this is an amazing tree house. It looks so cool!”
Rising France by Alyssa Evans
Zach says, his eyes are glimmering in amazement.
The tree house had been sitting sturdy, in the old tree
that has been in my backyard for over 20 years. There are a bunch of comfy bean bags
and board games like checkers but best of all, there was this awesome telescope...
“What’s this?” asks Emily
“Oh, it’s a telescope used to see objects far away,” I begin to explain, “My dad
told me that it could take all of my worries and fears away, kind of like my teddy bear
but only better!
“That’s neat!” Emily says with enthusiasm.
“Can I touch it, Kaylee?” Zach asks. I shrug my shoulders. My dad had always
told me to use it only when I truly needed it but it won’t hurt to try with my best friends,
right?
We race to the telescope all at once, and I look through the clear lens.
“My dad said to count to three, so let’s try it!”
“One, Two, Three!” we say together.
We open our eyes and the sight of a large desert with wild animals, giraffes,
elephants, monkeys, zebras and more, roaming about startles us. Looking to the right, we
see a bunch of tourists riding in safari Jeep, admiring the view of Mother Nature’s
beauty. Looking to the left, we see a lake where hippos are bathing.
“Where are we?” sighs Zach with a faint look on his face.
Emily answers Zach, “In an African safari. I learned about the Savannah Deserts
in school!”
“...But how did we get here?” he asked.
“I guess it’s because of the telescope.” I say as my vision comes into focus.
We begin to explore and we spot a giraffe protecting its baby from a lion. As we
see the amazing yet natural instinct occur, the hot sun blazes on our skin.
I look into the distance of the desert and I see my telescope.
“Look, guys that’s my telescope from my tree house. C’mon!”
When we reach it, we investigate it to see how this telescope could have possibly
transported us all the way to Africa from home.
“What if we count to three again? It might take us back to your backyard,
Kaylee,” suggests Emily.
“One, Two, Three!”
I wake up. It felt like I was in a dream but somehow we had ended up in London!
I look around as my vision clears up from being blurry. I
see beautiful tall buildings that look old and ancient. The Palace
of Westminster stands sturdily right in front of me.
In front of the gates, I see tall men in red uniforms. I go over
and tap the shoulder of one; because they looked as if they were
statues. He didn’t blink at all.
My father
I look over to see Zach and Emily standing at what I
was right,
think is my telescope.
the telescope
I run over and join them to see what other place the telescope
did take all
would take us to next.
my worries
“One, Two, Three!” we say again, as our voices
and fears
harmonize.
away.
The Eiffel Tower in Paris, France overlooks Emily,
Zach, and me. The smell of French baguettes make me hungry.
“Kaylee, let’s go explore the Eiffel Tower, come on!”
We all run across the soft green grass towards the
ancient tower from 1889. The first floor takes you back to the
construction of the Eiffel Tower and makes you feel as if you
were there. The lift takes us one floor up and there we see old photos, gift shops, and an
amazing view. Our next stop takes us to the third floor. Looking through the windows,
we are able to look down at the beautiful view of Paris. The telescope appears and we
walk towards it.
“I’m starting to get tired, are you?”
I start to yawn and we look into the telescope one last time.
“One, Two, Three!”
Before I know it, I’m lying in my bed, ready to go to sleep. It was such a day to
remember. Seeing the beautiful countries all around the world with my best friends is
something I wouldn’t trade for the world! My father was right, the telescope did take all
my worries and fears away. While falling asleep, my dreams include my amazing
adventures.
By Andrew Caudill
As I watch all who fall around me
We paint them as heroes
But really they are victims
Victims of this cruel world
Victims of their forced environment
Memorials are erected
Endless moments of silence are offered
They do not see the errors in their ways
Mass production of children drones
No personal connection available
Those who are gone wanted to be free
Leaving us feeling more imprisoned
Resentment grows; sides are drawn
Look what it has come to
Sides taking up arms against each other
I refuse to take a side
It all really depends;
Who the lesser of the two evils are
That, unfortunately, is what it has come to
Ethereal by Kate Mroczka
Bitter
Winter
by Lily Hopkins
Fairy Tale Forest by Amani
Ashraf
Secluded from everything
amongst this ghostly blanket
of wonder.
Leaving you hopeless,
Deprived
from the world.
You become breathless.
Losing your state of mind.
The dark winters loneliness
right beside you.
The tree stands
Silently,
the wind blows.
The snowflakes tapping,
like fingers on a wooden desk.
Hitting the frozen over window.
You watch them
fall to your fingertips.
realizing you are trapped.
and you wonder if you can ever
Escape.
The One and Only
Carolyn Messer
My name was something from the time before us. It was given to me from both my grandmothers. My first name
from Grandma Jane’s middle name and my middle name from Grandma Irene’s first name. My parents sure thought they
were clever.
I was to grow up a delicate, quiet, knee-length sundress on a summer day kind of girl. My name was fit for a
classic lace-filled painting. A vintage, throwback, old-timey name. But for a while, I refused to accept that. It was too long
for me. Too sophisticated, like a snooty poodle with its powdered pink nose stuck straight into the air and a bow tied
around its neck. I didn’t want to be put together and prim like my name made me out to be. So I wasn’t. I refused to keep
my hair in place, would dress to defy my mother’s pokes and prods, and never became that quiet, peaceful, calm person
that my name portrayed.
So I got nicknames. Lindsey-bin, for only my dad when I was the little monster running around the house causing
chaos and laughter between my siblings.
“I’m gonna getchyou Lindsey-bin!” he’d scream with a playful growl and bit of laughter. Care, for everyday use that anyone
who was close enough to see the pig-tailed, wild child I was. And Carebear, for my silly friends that found themselves
hilarious at their ‘original’ name.
“I have an idea!” it always started, “We’ll call you Carebear!” and then laughter exploded throughout our little mouths.
But it always crept back, that Carolyn Irene…
The heaviness of my name came in the time of anger. When I stomped my way into the house, arms folded, brow
furrowed. Frustrated at the things not going my way. It came in a time of sorrow. When the gentle coo of my mother’s
familiar, loving voice soothed the bitter tears the left tracks on my dirt-covered cheeks. It came in the time of
consequences. When I cringed and hid from the angry footsteps bounding my way. It always came back. And I slowly
realized that my name was mine. Not Grandma Irene’s or Grandma Jane’s. Of course I admired their wisdom, their
independence, and their laughter. But I did not have to be them.
So I had to learn. My name did not just have to be one thing. I could make my name however I wanted it to be.
Because my name was given to me so I had the ability to create something new with it. It was never meant to create me.
So that’s where I started. Started creating, and learning, and growing. The one and only, Carolyn Irene Messer.
Different Colors
By Amani Ashraf
The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution:
Rights and Responsibilities of the Red Guard
(An Excerpt)
Catherine Gong
“Revolutionary leaders are not gods, but human beings; [we] cannot worship them like gods or
refuse to allow people to point out and correct their errors just because they are great; neither can we totally
repudiate them and erase their historical feats just because they made mistakes…”
-- Chinese President Xi Jinping
W
hen one examines the history of a
country, great ages stand out. Some
periods shine with triumph, others bow in
defeat. Influential people are born. They make their mark
and die, living on only in the memories of adoring
followers, leaving nothing but actions, some of them
mistakes, for the scrutiny of critics.
Revolution and Red Guard organization in an attempt to
gain popular support. Throughout the Cultural
Revolution, the rights delegated to the Red Guard by Mao
Zedong greatly influenced the views of the Guard
members regarding their personal societal responsibilities.
The changed views of these perhaps wrongly empowered
youth also significantly swayed their cultural perspective of
superiors and elders. The Chinese Cultural Revolution was
A revolution is difficult to begin, and once
originally launched in an effort to save Mao Zedong and
initiated, almost impossible to control; those that try are
his reputation. As it concluded, however, it was clear that
usually torn down. They are
the results were far beyond what any
often the result of the
“A revolution is difficult to single person could predict. Effects of
human tendency toward
begin, and once initiated, the Cultural Revolution continue to
power; the results are
almost impossible to control…” ring through modern China, and the
powerful waves of change,
events and people will forever play a
both positive and negative, that ricochet throughout
part in Chinese history.
society. A pristine historical example is of the cultural
issues in late twentieth century China. Following the failed
When Mao Zedong and the Communist Party of
Great Leap Forward, Mao Zedong, Chairman of the
China (CPC) commissioned the supposed ‘Great Leap
Communist Party of China, was quickly losing power and
Forward’ in 1958, none anticipated the economic failure
thus desperately invoked the Great Proletarian Cultural
that ensued. It ended in 1960 with food shortages, some
caused by natural disasters, a lack of raw materials as well
action of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. These
as poor-quality production followed. Mao, charged with
points supposedly addressed and categorized the enemies
the largest responsibility, was forced to step down as the
of the revolution as well as revolutionary masses. Persons
Chairman of the People’s Republic, though still
in positions of power were known as cadres, and in his
maintaining the position of Chairman of the CPC. For the
Sixteen Points, Mao addressed them vaguely, naming them
next half a decade, he would be politically pushed aside by
as falling “roughly into the following four categories: good;
moderates from his party that disagreed with his policies.
comparatively good; those who have made serious mistakes
However, throughout this time, Mao was still gradually
but have not become anti-Party, anti-socialist rightists; the
rebuilding his power and supporters and in 1962 began a
small number of anti-Party, anti-socialist rightists.”
small campaign to purify his party. In 1966, he officially
According to Mao, those that were good or comparatively
launched the Cultural Revolution, claiming the bourgeoisie
good made up a majority, but “The anti-Party, antitrying to restore capitalism needed to be put down through
socialist rightists must be fully exposed, refuted,
violent class struggle. The Chairman enlisted the help of
overthrown and completely discredited and their influence
middle school students, as well as some university and
eliminated.” In his wording, many conceivable actions can
high school students, and organized them into the
be seen. The phrases “good” and “comparatively good” are
notorious Red Guard, commanding them to “struggle
clearly up for interpretation, and most likely purposefully
against and crush those persons in authority” as well as
elusive. In accordance to this, the consequences of being
“criticize and repudiate the
an “anti-Party, anti-socialist
objectives
and rightist” are equally unclear. It is
reactionary bourgeois academic “...their
responsibilities rang in their obvious that Mao wanted those
authorities” (Mao’s Sixteen
thoughts; they were rallied and in opposition to him to be
Points). His words regarding
the Revolution and its
enlisted, their rights assumed…” removed or threatened, and he
objectives were incredibly
wanted the revolutionaries to act
vague, and in part contributed to the confusion and chaos
upon this. The lack of clarity in his words could possibly
that resulted. The youth of the Red Guard started to wreak
be a ploy to assemble the Red Guard, and convince them
havoc upon the old social order. Acting in accordance to
to take action against their elders, as well as teachers and
the words of their leader, they began to rise and attack
other respected figures. Power in a society often rests
elders, teachers, anyone that could be a possible enemy of
within the masses, something Mao Zedong clearly realized.
the state. Mao’s words regarding their objectives and
The responsibilities he charged the Red Guard with, the
responsibilities rang in their thoughts; they were rallied
responsibility of creating a revolution and of taking power
and enlisted, their rights assumed – but not necessarily
for themselves, gave rights to the Red Guard that were
dictated – which is a possible explanation for the violence
unexpected. In doing so, the Chinese Cultural Revolution
that came after.
quickly escaped the grasp of Mao, and fell into the hands
of the Red Guard.
Mao Zedong’s Sixteen Points were adopted by the
CPC in 1966 as guidelines for the ideals and courses of
“Chance” by Jessie Dibb
It’s
STRANGE because I never knew
That I would get so
I used to
And
SEE you from
AFAR
WONDER who you really are
Your
LAUGH, your
Your
GRIN
EYES, your CHIN,
And the way you’ll
A life of
CLOSE to you
NEVER cease to be
, to me
Cherish the
Little
Things
By: Melissa Phillips
Goldfish. Apple sauce. Juicy Juice boxes. These were just a few of the many items in my cart as
I got in line to checkout at the supermarket. If that didn’t scream Hey! I’m a mother with a small
child! I don’t know what would. Placing my items on the conveyer belt at the checkout register, the
sound of sirens slowly became louder as a police car flew past the front of the store, followed by a
fire truck, then an ambulance. Where on earth would they be headed this early in the morning? I
figured I’d find out soon enough. After all, Brookside was a small town and news spread like wildfire
around here.
Groggy and extremely exhausted, I loaded my bags into the trunk of my sapphire Volkswagen
Jetta and yawned as I looked up at the sun was slowly emerging into the sky, as daytime would be
approaching soon. I don’t necessarily enjoy grocery shopping at the crack of dawn but it’s the only
time I have to shop between my crazy schedule at the hospital. As I climbed into the driver’s seat and
started the car, another ambulance raced by the supermarket with its lights and sirens illuminating the
darkness. Wow, something pretty severe must’ve happened.
I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home where I would soon have to change into my
scrubs and be off to the hospital. As I was on my route home I noticed I was following the
ambulance’s path. Maybe I’ll get to see what all the fuss was about sooner than I thought.
Approaching Chestnut Street, worry lines started to cover my forehead as the ambulance in front of
me made a sharp left turn into my neighborhood. Vibrant red and blue lights flashed from the
entrance. Butterflies began fluttering in my stomach as I briskly followed the life squad, fearing the
worst. Please don’t be my house, please don’t be my house. Increasing pressure on the gas pedal,
panic began to boil inside of me. I turned sharply onto my street, only to slam on my brakes as I
realized all of the ambulances and police cars were at my house. The only things running through my
mind were my husband and my daughter.
I jammed on the parking brake and tumbled out of my car leaving it running in the middle of
the street. I could feel my face flushing and tears swelling in my eyes. My soul felt separate from my
body as a wave of utter terror washed over me. My forehead began to perspire and cool tears began
to trickle down my warm, flushed face. “Piper!” I screamed when I saw her standing by the porch
with one of the cops. I shoved my way through the numerous fireman, policemen, and EMTs in my
yard to get to her.
“Ma’am you can’t come through here,” a burly EMT informed me as he grabbed my arm.
“You get your hands off of me! This is my house and my husband and daughter are in there,” I
dryly scolded as I ripped my arm from his grasp.
“Mommy!” cried a terrified Piper as she waddled over to me from the porch.
“My soul felt separate from my body as a wave
of utter terror washed over me. My forehead
began to perspire and cool tears began to
trickle down my warm, flushed face.”
“Piper! Oh my God I’m so glad you’re safe,” I
whispered to her as I bent down and held her tightly.
“Excuse me, officer? What’s going on and where is
my husband? Was there a fire? A break in? A gas
leak?”
“No ma’am your house is just fine. Your
husband on the other hand…,” he paused. “Well…
He’s had a minor heart attack.”
“No!” I gasped as tears finally spilled from my eyelids. “Where is he now? Is he going to be
okay?” I choked.
“The heart attack was minor, so the EMT’s believe he will recover over time, and they’re
getting ready to transport him to the hospital. He was unresponsive when we arrived; however, the
EMT’s managed to revive him. They believe he’s suffered a minor concussion upon falling from the
heart attack, but they won’t know any more until tests are run at the hospital.”
“Oh thank God! How did you know to come here? He didn’t call did he?” I pondered.
“No, he didn’t call us. It looks like you’ve got yourself a little hero on your hands. Your
daughter called 911. She told the dispatcher he fell and hit his head and that he wouldn’t wake up. If
she wouldn’t have called when she did there’s a possibility your husband wouldn’t be alive right
now,” he told me as he flashed a smile at Piper. The officer leaned down to get right at Piper’s level,
looked her in the eyes and said, “Piper, you did a very brave thing today, especially only being four
years old. You did the right thing calling 911 when you knew there was something wrong with your
dad.” She looked up at him and nodded shyly and the officer gave her an “honorary police badge” to
pin on her shirt. A smile crept across her face as well as mine.
The police were getting ready to leave when I glanced over and saw the EMTs rolling my
husband out on a stretcher. He was stable but still needed medical attention immediately. “Wait!” I
yelled to the EMTs. They stopped at the edge of the ambulance. A lump was beginning to form in the
back of my throat again just seeing my husband in that condition. “Jason,” I smiled as a salty tear
rolled down my face once more and I bent down to wrap my arms around him.
“Jenna, don’t cry. Really, I’m fine,” he croaked out with a weak smile.
“I know. I just… I can’t believe this happened,” I whispered as he reached up and softly
stroked my cheek, wiping away my tears.
“How did the police and EMTs get here? I don’t remember calling them. Was it you?”
“No. I was at the supermarket.”
“What? If it wasn’t you then who was it?”
“Piper,” I answered with a smile. Jason turned his head in shock to look at Piper.
“Come here Piper,” Jason cooed and I lifted her onto his lap. “Piper I want you to know that
you saved my life this morning, and I will forever be grateful for that. I’m so proud of you and that
little police badge of yours shows how brave you were.”
Jason leaned over and placed a soft, gentle kiss on
Piper’s forehead and extended his arm for me, pulling us into a
long embrace.
I almost lost my husband that day, which made me
realize how the people we love can be there one moment and
gone the next. How easy it is for them to fall through our
fingertips and disappear forever. Sure, they’ll always be in our
memories and in our hearts, but not physically with us. After
that dreadful morning, I realized how important it is to cherish
the little things in life. Piper will always cherish that little police
badge of hers, as it reminds her how proud Jason was of her.
People cherish little things in their lives, whether it’s a bouquet
of flowers from your first date, or a photograph of your
deceased grandmother. Every moment we have with our
families- even the little things- should be cherished because you
never know when it will be the last.
Nature by Jessica Wilson
Inside Dream by Abigail Walouke
Yellow Dreams
By Amira Righi
Yellow dreams only happen in the summer
When the snow is long gone
And the lemonade is too sweet
Anything can happen
And everything is real
You slayed the tiger
With your bare hands
Life and death
Dreams and reality
Are lost in lucidity
You
Yet
The
But
are gone
ever present
world is gone
you run yours
When the first hint of cold air sweeps you off your feet
You get scared
You're going to lose your yellow dream
Coffee Break
You want to stay here forever
But the world wakes you up
You find yourself lying down in the middle of the road
By Tehya Morgan
Tears fall, and screams tear your ear drums apart
You long for your yellow dream
She poured hot coffee down her throat
But the tiger you slayed is eating at your
As if it would make her forget the pain
Lovely Yellow Dream
Of heartbreak
Her mind was focused on the taste
Dark toast, flavored with hazelnut
The boy at the train station
Sat on the cold bench with a burnt tongue
From his first sip of coffee
It smelled like hazelnut
He thought of the girl with the polka dot rain boots
That walked out of his life just last week
Broken hearts are like burnt tongues
Both take time to heal
You may think it’s better
But you can’t taste the sweetness of life anymore
There’s a rough patch that you remember
At 2 in the afternoon
Bloom by Amanda Garvin
Giraffe by Madison McConkie
http://pocketguys.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Pink-Rose-Flowers-HD-Photo-Wallpaper.jpg
Watermelons by Annabelle Engle
Give it a Chance
By: Cami Albers
I ran a hand through my hair, ignoring the
I walked up, my wobbling legs carrying me
thick droplets dripping off my arm. Tugging on my
in a baby deer-like fashion. My mask was slipping;
shorts, I wished that I had worn longer pants, even
the emotions that I had swallowed down bubbling
if we were in Costa Rica. Generally, the days were
back up to the surface. I wasn’t ready; I wasn’t
filled with sticky, stagnant air today the rain was
prepared to be hanging several hundred feet off the
depleting the humidity and plunging the
ground. I reached the attendant, his honey-colored
temperature down to the 60s. I sucked in a sharp
hand lifting me onto the platform next to the
breath as the platform rocked below me, a slight
cable.
breeze tipping the floor slightly. It was getting
My hands shook as I handed over the
harder and harder to ignore my situation. I was
handle that would connect me to the line. I looked
terrified of leaving the ground, of flying past the
at my feet as he explained what to do. I needed to
trees, only secured by a harness on a handle that
put my hands on the silver handle, hold one, and
was easily detachable for the employees.
tuck my knees to my chest. I nodded as he finished
I shuddered, trying to roll the awful
possibilities out of my head. The line was inching
his mini-tutorial.
I placed my hands on the handle, the cool
closer and closer to the drop, the cable, and the
metal slipping into my palm. I squeezed my fingers
nightmares that followed after. I turned back to
shut around it, my knuckles turning white from the
my huddle of friends we were in a large circle,
pressure. The attendant lifted me up, separating
clutching each other like penguins to keep warm. I
my feet from the ground, a soft chuckle erupting
put on a smile, the mask of pure calm slipping onto
from his lips. I fought back the panic that was
my face once again.
steadily creeping up. Squeezing my eyes shut, I took
“You guys ready?” I asked, my voice
dripping with nonchalance that I didn’t have.
“Yeah, it’ll be so much fun, zip lining was
a deep breath, trying to relax my tight muscles.
Opening them up, I was blinded by the sun peeking
out from the clouds, its yellow rays fighting for
one of the things on my list,” Faith piped up, her
control of the sky. I smiled, my confidence boosted
tall stature looming over my petite frame.
a bit. If the sun was winning the fight of the sky, I
I sighed from the moment I signed up on
the trip, this was my only dread. (Unlike Faith,
could win my own battle.
“Enjoy the ride,” The attendant called.
who, as many of my friends had, put this thing on
her list: Things to Do before College.) Still, I was
willing to give it a chance, at least to see how it
went.
“Cami, you’re up next. How come you seem
so calm?” Karah asked, tugging on my sleeve and
pointing to the end of the platform.
I shrugged, a little proud that I had
managed to cover up my jitters. But Karah’s words
sunk in and I fought to hold onto my mask. I was
next? When did that happen?
“Next!” I slowly turned around, gulping and
my heart beat spiking.
Peace and Quiet by Kate Mroczka
“Lost opportunities cause erosion of
confidence and the downward spiral
begins.”
-Charles Stanley
I thought back to a poem my mom could
recite from memory: E.E. Cummings’ Let’s Live
Suddenly Without Thinking. She used to pull out a
thick black book, finger the worn pages and read it
out loud; teaching me the magic poetry brought
her. A few lines ran through my head, soothing me:
let’s live suddenly without thinking
under honest trees,
a stream does.
Yeah right I’ll remember to do that. I sarcastically
The brain of cleverly-crinkling
thought. Give it a chance! I reminded myself.
-water pursues the angry dream
I left the ground, the vast wind howling
of the shore
through my hair, blowing it up, my blonde locks a
halo. I gained speed, the grey sky blending into one
blurry blob. I smiled, my cheeks widening. It wasn’t
horrifying it was actually fun. Flying through the
trees, small flashes of color from the flowers
growing in the rainforest. Yearning to see more, I
angled my head to the side, breathing in the citrus
fragrance filtering up from the treetops.
Bracing myself, I looked down, expecting to
see the tree line, the brightness and fullness of the
forest below. Instead, the opaque, white, rain clouds
covered my surroundings, a blank sheet of paper
waiting for my death the paint the canvas with a
story. The sun missing, gloom running the sky.
Why did I look down? You’re never
supposed to look down! People are taught that in
every film or movie that has heights!
My green eyes widened, my muscles tensing
again. I choked back a scream, the hum of the
metal harness scraping against the zip line,
pounding into my school, matching my frantic
mood. My eyes slipped shut. I held my breath. I
kept back shiny tears; they burned my closed eyes,
a dam waiting to burst. I felt dizzy a few moments
after, the pressure in my lungs increasing.
Screaming at me, telling me to take a breath. I
pried my eyes open and choked in another gulp of
the sweet and moist air.
Adrenaline was shooting through my body,
my mind racing. I felt exhilarated, my face
breaking out into a full-watt smile.
“Woooo,” I screamed, my voice echoing
through the still air.
“Pura Vida,” someone called out. It meant
‘pure life’ in Spanish and the Costa Ricans used it
to describe anything wonderful. I laughed, the
sound light, sending notes into the air; glad he
could pinpoint my exact reaction.
My head snapped up, no longer trailing the
line of trees below me. I could see the platform, I
got ready. Slowing down, the wind was no longer
blowing my hair around. The harness collided with
the stopping break, a huge clank echoing through
the platform, and my feet touched the solid
surface. Oscar, our guide, unclipped me and
engulfed me in a friendly hug. Throwing my hands
up into the air I noted the sun was back, shining its
bright and exuberant rays over the forest.
“How was it?” he asked, his brown eyes
gleaming. He loved seeing us happy; it was his duty,
his life.
“Amazing I’m ready for the next one,” I
answered, actually telling the truth.
I wasn’t afraid anymore. I had pushed
through it.
Let’s Live Suddenly Without Thinking:
http://poetryx.com/poetry/poems/10097
Gray and Personal
By Dean Ellis
Dear Dean Ellis,
Greetings, this is gray crayon, your favorite color crayon for some odd reason. I have sent this
letter to you because I have finally assessed the reason why you thought so highly of me. All you ever
used me for was to draw your dull brainless gray robots. I mean sure you drew the occasional moss
colored dinosaur, but I think have more of a right to argue than green does. However I’m getting a head
of myself, what I wanted to tell you was that you may have loved drawing all those robots, but I didn’t.
They were so squared and cliché I’ve seen more original robots from Isaac Asimov, oh sorry, you
wouldn’t know who that is. And don’t even think of using the childish argument of “I used other colors
to make my robots.” Please, all you ever used red, yellow, and green for was to add eyes and buttons
onto your lifeless automatons. So you may be wondering what I am going to do to you? Well first of, I’m
going to institute legal proceedings against you, or in lemans terms, I am going to sue you. On what
grounds you may ask? Well besides you using me on a constant basis, you never let me unlock my full
potential. I can be used for many fascinating things besides robots, like click-clock-gears, and muskydull-silt. People want to see the bleakness of industry, not the imaginative world of sci-fi. So I will see
you in court, you dimwitted simpleton.
Sincerely,
Gray Crayon+
P.S. Your robots were atrocious!
“Without tradition, art is a
flock of sheep without a
shepherd. Without
innovation, it is a corpse.”
Dragon’s Cove by Brianna Glassco
-Winston Churchill
The Path by Abigail Walouke
The Light of a Heart by Heidi Cervantes
I am fourteen,
And my personality is never terminal
At times I find crossing the finish line an easy task,
And other times I have to drag myself across it.
Society still mutters my name,
As if I am a dead ghost trying to escape the graveyard
Grasping the dirty grass, getting my hands moist with morning mist
What if I died tomorrow?
Would someone in this lonely world cry for me?
Or just move on as if it were just a phase.
But at least I know that my soul is lost
In a never ending desert, where no one can copy it.
I need to be encouraged
To run faster, train harder
So that fitting in becomes easier
Though I’ve learned that life is not that simple.
I wonder why at times.
But at least I know that my soul is lost
In a never ending desert, where no one can copy it.
I love the smell of midnight,
With its nightly animals, and crawling creatures
It is so different from the glowing sun, the devil of the morning
But at least I know that my soul is lost
In a never ending desert, where no one can copy it.
Why don’t I try some more!
Think bigger, be smarter
That’s what everyone wants from me.
Rebellion feels so good,
When I’m fighting to be free from treacherous grounds
But at least I know that my soul is lost
In a never ending desert, where no one can copy it.
Weapons of hatred are all too common
Sticks and stones will never hurt me,
Not as much as the comments I used to get called.
But at least I know that my soul is lost
In a never ending desert, where no one can copy it.
Adam Smith
A LOVE UNWANTED
BY MADISON MILLER
My love, my dear Mia
You are the best thing
That has ever happened to me
I’ve loved you since
The day I met you
With your wild eyes and messy hair
I would talk about you
In my father’s garden
I could see our life together
In this glorious town
This house I restored for us
Mia Anderson
I couldn’t be filled with more regret
I should’ve gotten out sooner
My whole life was ahead of me
But he took it all away
How many hours I spent
Gazing at the stars
Where we could both live
Our own happy ever after
story
But you talked of wanting to
leave
You wanted to get away
From what? I didn’t
understand
You always used to whisper
But I didn’t want you to leave
You tried
Wondering what they
would look like
From somewhere else
The books I cuddled with
Whispered wonders
Of unknown places
Extraordinary places.
I always said
Tomorrow,
Tomorrow, tomorrow,
tomorrow
Tomorrow I would leave him
Tomorrow I would get out of this horrid
town
Tomorrow I will awaken somewhere new
But little did I know
That I would run out of tomorrows
Only seventeen
My thoughts will fade like the setting sun
On my final day
I will cease to exist
And my soul will ache
For the yearn of an infinite tomorrow
You told me you were
IIcarus by Jessica Wilson
leaving
I
I wasn’t going to let you go
c
So I slipped it into your drink
a
It made you sleepy at first
r
But
then you started to cry
u
The sun started to set
s
And I realized this wasn’t what I wanted
Your breathing started to slow
b
My heart began to race
y
Instead of saying you loved me
Your final word
J
Was
“tomorrow”
e
You were never mine
s
But now you will never leave me
s
Cause we both died that day
i
In this horrid town
c
a
W
i
l
s
o
n
Lesson #1: Don’t be narcissistic and lecture others on life
lessons
Hahahahahahhaha. Hahahahahhaha. That is you right
now. You’re currently supposed be dying of uncontrollable fits of
laughter caused by my on-point humor.
Anyway, I digress. To what I’m actually here for. A
modest proposal – which may or may not be in the form of a
life lesson – from me to you.
Personally, I believe that as a teenager living the
first world life in the glorious twenty-first century, I should
theoretically have no complaints about my current living
conditions. The fact that I drag myself to a place of learning
for seven hours a day and five days a week for approximately
seventy percent of the year should theoretically be the
highlight of my existence. The fact that I have the
opportunity to stay awake until two o’clock in the morning every
single day completing work that explores some of the most
valued studies in the world (which, for the record, range from
European history to human anatomy and physiology) should
theoretically be an excuse to hold daily jubilant celebration.
The fact that the last two years before I officially become
an adult are filled with test scores and decisions (made by
both myself and others) that may or may not affect me for
the rest of my life should theoretically cause fountains of
joyous tears to erupt from eyes. Unfortunately, as you may
know, this is all indeed theory.
As a teenage living the first world life in the glorious
twenty-first century, I am actually a horrifying, ungrateful,
angry, and depressed creature. I was fully aware of this,
but I felt no internal motivation to change this. Until recently.
I have noticed that many, if not all, of the
individuals of my age group and beyond (myself included)
suffer from a basically chronic disorder that influences
nearly every part of our lives. This disorder is a plague to our
society. Your current willingness to read this great work of art
is a strong indication that you are a frequent victim of the
horrific pandemic. In fact, I am so sure of my diagnosis that
I’m willing to place a hefty bet of three Pilot® G-2TM pens, two
Paper Mate Clearpoint Elite® mechanical pencils, and a
case of lead. What is this terrible disease that we have all
somehow fallen prey to? One word simultaneously summarizes
the disorder and strikes fear into our very human hearts.
Procrastination.
Let’s face it. No one actually stays awake until two
o’clock in the morning every single day solely completing work
that explores some of the most valued studies in the world.
Some days, maybe. Every single day? Definitely not. In fact, I
am once again willing to place the same hefty bet as before
that your schedule after school is almost exactly this:
Time
Activity
After school activities/sports and
extracurriculars (known commonly as
productivity)
Dinner, catching up with friends or family (also
5:00pm-7:00pm
known as productivity)
2:15pm5:00pm
7:00pm-12:00pm
12:00pm2:00am
THE INTERNET! ! ! ! ! ! ! And other relatively
useless activities (known as procrastination)
Trying, and failing, to finish copious amounts of
study material (known as the unfortunate
result of procrastination)
As you can clearly see, the plague of procrastination causes
the average individual to lose approximately five hours of
sleep a night, which, over an entire school year, totals to about
one thousand two hundred sixty hours of sleep lost due to the
disability. Basically, while you were fulfilling your goal of
watching every sitcom that ever existed on Netflix, you
could’ve slept for fifty two and a half days.
I am not, of course, trying to be a holy saint sent from
above to lecture you on your wrongdoings. I am, very
unfortunately, as guilty, if not more so, of the crime of
procrastination as the person I am currently sitting next to in
the Learning Commons. This beautifully snarky narration?
Formulated in study hall two hours before I have to turn it in.
That’s right, all about the authenticity. I have, however,
realized that my procrastinating mindset may affect more
areas of my life than simply my sleep.
As my doctor tells me every year I drop by for a
visit: “YOU NEED TO SLEEP MORE.
MOAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR.” I am as tired as the next
person is of hearing this statement, but the doctor just might
actually be right. Think about it. According to my highly
scientific calculations above, teenagers living the first world
life potentially lose fifty two and a half days of sleep a school
year (note: I am not even acknowledging the summer
months…) to procrastination. When we lose sleep, we become
tired. When we are tired, we morph into these horrifying,
ungrateful, angry, depressed creatures. And what are first
world teenagers always accused of? Being horrifying,
ungrateful, angry, depressed creatures.
What is the solution to this never ending cycle you
ask? I have found the answer and it is clear. Conventional
physicians have yet to reach this conclusion, but it is quite
obvious. Every teenager, from this point forward, should take
daily injections of caffeine directly into the bloodstream.
One Way Bridge by Abigail Walouke
I have discovered that through this method, I can avoid
entirely the issue of being tired. Although this remedy comes
with unpreventable twitching throughout the entire body, and
cases of organ failure leading to death, as a society, we can
band together and fight the curse of the ungrateful and
temperamental first-world teenager.
Thank you for reading “Life Lessons (and a Modest
Proposal) with Catherine Gong”, and please consider my
modest proposal.
Music is
by Archana
Ravinuthala
__________
It is the senior girl
screaming the anthem.
to a song
she doesn’t know.
Lights shifting in hues of amber, obsidian
and white
Roaring, eclipsing around her
Isolating her,
Yet she feels less alone
than she ever has.
As she screams, (screeches really),
voice growing hoarse,
wapping her hands
against her dew-wet jeans.
taking hostage of her senses
Except,
for the burning, exhilarating, adrenaline
rushing
Notes
that seem to wrap her
in a feeling of unity,
A brick in something
bigger than herself.
It is the beads of sweat that drip down the
forehead
Of a anxious fourteen year old pianist.
The notes slickly slipping out
Like oil on a platter
Agile fingers
Stretching out.
Darting.
A symphony of subtle and deliberate
of vexatious and soothing.
Each key, pressed with subtle nervousness
and hesitation
is a brick
in something
bigger than himself.
It is the rock star
Sweat clinging to his fringe.
It is the screams of a million fans,
and the guitar
evaporating into the crowd.
His sapphire eyes
burn with adrenaline, excitement, pride and
It is the soft
tinkling of a
wordless hymn
uncertain-but-bliss.
His senses are alight
with his own voice
and while it may look like this word
“Music”
may only be about him and his kind.
You’d be so wrong. For this show
of grandeur and modern superheroes
perched on a stage
is a brick
in something greater.
It is the soft tinkling of a wordless hymn
that a mother hums
To a sleepless infant.
A ball of wonder,
sucking in knowledge like a sponge
She hums it back,
tiny fingers grabbing at her mother’s
golden locks.
It is the garbles the baby tries to speak
But she is a tiny
tiny
tiny
brick of something
greater than themselves
It is the girl in Africa,
sneaking away in her bedroom
to get a moment of peace,
slipping on her head phones.
She speaks to
the girl at the party.
She listens to
the boy on stage.
She teaches
the pianist.
She helps raise the baby, her little sister. .
This is it.
The union of the world
Through every corner and every avenue.
Possessing
the bricks of us all
To form a wall
of Music.
The City
by Anna Estes
My Name
by Mariam Soliman
My name means blessed,
honorable, or noble. My
name can also mean kind,
nice or good to everyone.
My name is like the light
blue color of the sky. It
smells like the fresh wind
as it brushes through the
leaves of a tree on a
bright spring morning.
Tassneeme. That is the
name of a miraculous
fountain in paradise. That
is also the original name
that my parents wanted to
give me. Such a pretty
name with such a long
shorten my name after all.
I do not like when people
try to shorten my name
though, each letter
pronounced adds more to
its beauty. It feels like
smooth silk approaching
your skin as you softly
pronounce each letter
when it comes out of your
mouth. Actually, Marmar…, that would probably
sound cool too…!
Mother by Jessica Wilson
In Arabic, my name is the
name of one of the most
honorable women, in other
words it comes from the
name Mary. My name has so
many meanings, but my
favorite is God’s beloved.
Mary was a strong,
motivated woman who
persevered with what she
believed was right even
though there may have been
thorns in her path. This is
what made her God’s beloved.
I know that people may not
accept me because of my
appearance, but I know, and
can depend on God to always
be there because he is the
one and only who can see my
perseverance and my
strength. My strength is
the light inside of me that
glows brighter and brighter
each day because of the
experience that I gain from
the world around me, as
each day passes.
stream of letters, thank
goodness my parents
convinced themselves
otherwise. Just like
looking at a crossword
puzzle; its length would
probably give all my
teachers a headache form
just from glancing at it.
Many would have probably
given me a nickname
anyways instead of trying
to glue two parts of the
name together to make it
sound right. If would
have gotten a nickname, I
would have appreciated
something cool. I would
have wanted it to be
something like: Taz, the
Tasmanian devil from
Looney Toons, or a nick
name with two syllables
that is short and sweet
for someone to say like
Tas-Tas.
Mariam. I know just a
couple of girls who have
this name. My younger
cousin would be one of
them. She was named after
me, but of course, for our
family to differentiate
between the two of us, she
has a nickname. We call
her Me-me for short; maybe
there is something to
Mariam, this name is
unique to me and is what
defines me as a person. All
of the meanings of my
name are characteristics
that I try to embody in my
everyday life; elements
like nobility, kindness,
and honorability are
characteristics that may
not necessarily show in my
physical appearance but
are hidden deep down
inside like an earthworm
waiting for some rain to
bring it out to the world.
If you ask me I can not
think of a name that I
would rather have more
than Mariam. I would
never change it, even when
I turn eighteen!
“Don’t forget to fall
in love with yourself
first.”
-Carrie Bradshaw
An Ode to Family
By Abigail Werner
The smiles,
luminescent
with jocular joy,
Watered down
To a diluted,
elated beam of pride.
Round lenses
perched on a
childish face
gleam brightly
as he holds
the gentle
hand, clothed
in silken
material
of her
wedding dress
and vibrant flowers.
She,
with flaxen hair
curled in elegant
ringlets
and Tucked back
by an opaque veil
glistens with
love
for him,
who crossed
the track of her
turbulent family
for her, of fatherly
gambles,
and her parents’ marriage
going into shambles.
For him, paternal
misdemeanors and
wicked tales of
student loans
whilst his
sister becomes
a pianist
and a dancer.
Both have
met unfair
fates that
have today
twisted through
brambles to
blossom as
roses.
After years
of singular
euphoria of
just each
other, the
life of their
very first child
a loud set
of boisterous
lungs and a
buck-toothed grin,
a choppy golden
rats nest of hair
perched atop
a head
too big for
an underweight
body
Then after
three and
a half
blissful
years of the
first child
on both
maternal
and paternal
sides,
dark purple
moons
gracing the
proud mama
and papa’s
eyes as having
one child
becomes two
children
and the
raggedy
little girl
grows in
status from
an only child
to the
elder sister
yet her fame
quickly withers
at the arrival
of a red-faced,
wailing buffoon
of a baby.
She loathes
the creature
of Mommy’s
attention
and Daddy’s
cuddles
all because the
poor thing spit
up on her
on the day
of her delivery
But in the
twenty-year- old
photo, The man
and the woman
know not of
their soon- to
be fate of
a family,
only of
the happiness
that they
bring to
one another.
Oliver McKenzie
By Jackie Osborne
Mommy used to say that I looked just like Daddy,
And I never understood why she looked so sad;
Her tears crying as hard as she was, and her eyelids
As puffy as a cotton ball.
“I knew he never loved me.”
She would mutter to herself, she would believe her lies,
She would try to move on.
Why she didn’t want to know, what she didn’t want to believe,
Was that Daddy drank, he drank a lot.
And when he did come home, stumbling around the room,
She begged him to stop, for my sake. Then one day he came,
drunk as ever, to claim me, his son.
“No.” She demanded. “You had your chance.”
And closed the door.
From that day on Mommy changed, she stopped crying
She pulled herself off the ground and stood
strong,
Much like that First Lady I had seen on TV.
Until when he came back, smelling of alcohol,
demanding
That which was rightfully his. They fought and
he left.
But I didn’t get to say goodbye.
So I followed him, running into the street,
Into the path of his drunken rage, and his ’63
thunderbird.
Pensive By Kate Mroczka
Now Mommy cries every night. Because no one
comes home.
Not even me.
My father was a drinker. And his father before
him.
I promised myself I would never be like them,
like the two monsters I grew up with.
Like two overgrown ogres in charge of my life.
I would be the father I had always wanted,
the one I would give to the only boy I had,
the one my son wanted so many times
Reflection of Me
By Nadia C. Myrie
before I crushed him with a bottle of whiskey and
a push of the pedal.
My tires screamed as my whole world fell dead before me.
The look from his mother terrifying my very soul.
I had failed.
I would never be that father.
It wasn’t all my fault, you know.
That stupid, superficial car salesman should have
stopped me from buying a car.
Me, a man who only smelled
like the bitter taste of cheap alcohol,
like the staleness of a three days old suit,
like the tar of a pack of menthols.
Had I known Clifford my entire life,
he still would have known better.
So I kept going, kept driving, until the police
found me
“Joseph McKenzie?”
I didn’t answer.
“Father of Oliver McKenzie?”
Not anymore.
Joseph McKenzie
By Jackie Osborne
down into the muck beneath as the last of us charged
across no man’s land. We all knew we were going to die,
including our Commanding Officer who briefly after giving
the order to charge turned his gun upon himself. A round
struck the visor on my helmet, shattering the composite
The Omega Initiative
By: Blake Nissen
War buzzed all
material and the heads up display dancing across it. My
fingers fumbled across the rim of my helmet to find the
release latch. After a sharp tug on the wire, the whole
system split into two pieces and fell from my suit. In one
around me. Muzzle
motion I drew the knife from its sheath on my leg and my
flashes and the cracks of
side arm from the holster on my other, and along with the
rifles produced shell
few remaining men, jumped into enemy occupied trenches.
casings that land with a
I feel a hand grasp my shoulder and spin around, pressing
thud in the oozing mud.
the folded steel of the knife into her neck. Sarah.
The whole world was
Sarah dropped the coffee onto the cemen t floor. The
death. And the whole
glass shattered as the hot liquid webbed its way into the
world was lit with white
cracks of the floor. “Dad!” she screams as she pushes back
flares, explosions and
into my hand which is holding the blade against her neck.
rocket trails. Shrapnel
The war torn valley melts around me into the features of
tore bodies apart, the
my home. I recoil, slamming my back into the window and
same bodies that slowly
letting the knife clang against the hard ground. My lungs
sink into the greedy grip
gasping for air as my eyes dart around the apartment, its
of torn up ground. The
cold steel and cement features glare back at me. My eyes
brown murky water
dance across her face, still petrified standing in place with
turned red, the ground
her hand holding her neck.
now a layer of brass and
corpses. My heavy black
suit of armor pulled me
“Oh my God Sarah,
I’m…. I’m…” I stuttered my
thoughts still clouded
from being ripped from
my false reality.
“Same battle as always.”
My senses started to adjust, no longer smelling the
death and coarse gun powder but the stinging metallic air
of the three room apartment; one bedroom, one bathroom
and a room for everything else. Sarah occupied the
“It’s… fine,” Sarah
stammered as she walked
over to the small
tarnished mirror in the
corner. Her neck was
bruised from my fingers,
dark purple streaks that
encompassed the entire
left side of her neck. She
sighed, pulled her dark
brown hair, which held
stark contrast to her bluegreen eyes, over her right
ear and asked, “Another
war?”
Icarus
By Anna Hayes
bedroom; lately I have preferred the cou ch anyway. The
floors were all concrete and the walls were just the floor
with occasional steel beams for support. The apartment
“Same war as
was a common space for the lower middle class in what
always,” I climbed to my
was left standing on the semi barren wasteland of Earth.
feet, grabbing the knife as
Sarah walked over to me, glass of water in hand. As I
I stood.
reached for the glass she wrapped her arms around me. She
“What battle?”
set her ear right over my heart and just held me. Without a
word she let go, handing me the glass and walked over to
the wall to grab a towel to
“Greetings Citizen 5594, Walker, Sarah. We heard a
wipe up the coffee I made
disturbance, is there a problem?” The Drone stood at about
her spill. “Sarah I’m-,”
6 feet tall, the police model has only light armor, the arms
“Shhhh, its ok Dad.
It’s not the first time this
has happened. I know you
aren’t going to hurt me.”
“But what if I do?
What if I don’t snap out of
and legs still mostly open, showing the hydraulics and the
circuits that made this things skeleton and circulatory
system. Painted blue, black and white with a large screen
displaying “POLICE” in large font, Sarah knew it had the
ability to change depending on the language spoken. I t had
black slits where the eyes would be, but Sarah could still
feel its piercing gaze.
it? What if I don’t let go?
What if-”
“Dad! Stop,” Sarah
“No there is no problem, just spilled my coffee that’s
yelled. “I’m fine.” A knock
pounded through the
all.”
house, the sound of metal
“May we search the premises?”
on metal. “I’ll get it.”
Sarah laid down the towel
as I finished what she
started, sweeping up the
jagged edges of the cup
into the center of the
towel. Sarah waved her
hand across the censor on
the right of the door,
opening it. “Hello, can I
help you?”
“It’s really not necessary just some spilled coffee.
Thank you for your concern.” Sarah began to close the door
as the drones hand wrapped itself around the door,
preventing her from doing so. The bot forced the door
open.
“Co-operation is appreciated,” the drone said with
cruel tone.
I’m not going to fight again I told myself again and
again, never that savage. Never again. I looked up when I
hear the door fly open and see Sarah tumbling back into
the wall. An older model
and slammed me against the window. A crack spider
police bot standing over
webbed across the screen where my shoulder had
muttering something as it
impacted.
looked away and
continued its path
towards me. “Greetings
Citizen 5462, Walker,
Gabriel. We heard a
disturbance, is there a
problem?”
“No problem here,
just some spilled coffee,” I
said flatly. I turned to set
the towel on the counter
right next to the knife.
“Weapon spotted,”
“Dad!” Sarah screamed from across the room. As she
ran towards me the drone collapsed the baton and drew
another object from its side. The small silver object
unfolded itself into a pistol. A red laser protruded from just
under the barrel, sitting deathly still on Sarah’s forehead.
“Halt citizen 5594,” the drone demanded. Sarah
stopped on a dime standing on what remained of the light
brown coffee that sprawled across the floor.
“Don’t point that at my Daughter!” I barked at the
drone. The order was ignored.
“Kneel down, hands behind your head.” Sarah
complied. The drone satisfied grabbed the knife from the
the drone said as it
table and dropped it into slot that just opened up on his
grabbed a short black
chest. “Weapon confiscated, have a good day.” The drone
piece of plastic from its
released my arm, stepped past Sarah and exited through
side, which quickly
the same door it forced open.
extended into a baton.
The drone started towards
me, and I backed away
from the counter. This
action didn’t matter; the
drone grabbed my arm,
forced it behind my back
“Please Leave a Message after the Beep” by Ally Knestrict
He’s ignoring my call, she thought.
She’s ignoring my call, he thought,
as they both opted out of leaving a message.
Stake Out
By: Sneha Ameya
Well this is not going to end well
The girl, had short curly hair that
Marion thought as she watched the couple
stuck out in different places on her small
from across the street. Actually, the term
head. Her lips were pursed and her eyes had
"couple" was probably not entirely accurate
fire in them. She was small for her age-in describing the boy and girl now walking
probably 5’ 1” at the most. But, even
into a crowded Italian restaurant.
Michael (who always paraded himself for
"Acquaintances" perhaps. But certainly not a
going from fat to buff within a year)
couple. And Marion could vouch for that.
admitted that she was intimidating to say
She'd known Sarah and Brandon since they
the slightest. Nevertheless, she wore a
were young, and if they hadn't made it clear
simple teal dress that came up to her knees
that they hated each other since then, they
and flared out, like one of those vintage
certainly were now. Marion bit her lip as
designs that the city tourists always wore.
her two friends awkwardly made their way to
The boy, who looked slightly less
their table, their hands stiffly constricted
intimidating than the girl sat facing away
at their sides and their eyes
from him. Though Michael could
avoiding each other. A buzz
only see the back of the boys
came from Marion's pocket.
head from the position he was
She whipped out the small
in, he could imagine the scowl
black transmitter and pressed
that would’ve matched his
the button on the side.
girlfriend’s.
"They're going to get
Suddenly an icy voice
noticed if they keep doing
snapped him from his
that!" Noah urgently
observations, “Are you
whispered from the other end.
listening to me, young man?”
Noah, having posed as a
His mother repeated glaring at
bartender inside the
him from under her spectacles.
restaurant in question,
Michael cringed under his
rolled his eyes as he said
mother’s stern look. One very
it. They only had one shot at
important thing he had learned
getting this right.
as a child, was to never make
On the other end,
Mother cross.
Marion replied, "Well I did
“Yes, of course Mummy.
warn the commander about
Why wouldn’t I?” Michael
this. But you know him. The
throatily whispered, mentally
man's as thick-headed as my
slapping himself for getting
Through My Eyes
great gran. Steamrolled, right over
distracted.
By: Nadia Myrie
my qualms."
Across the street, Marion
Noah smirked, "So like usual then?"
watched the scene playing out inside the
"Of course." Marion sighed, as she
little cafe. The transmitter in her pocket
picked up her binoculars and peered through
buzzed again.
it again to get a better view of her
“What now?” She whispered into the
friends. They were sitting across from each
mic.
other now, still looking at anything but the
“Should we be worried about that man
person in front of them. Both of their feet
sitting two tables behind Brandon and Sarah?
ominously shook under the table, as if they
I swear he looked at them for a good 10
urgently needed to use the bathroom. Marion
seconds longer than what public decency
could almost feel the awkwardness of the
calls for. He could be gathering intel,
situation wafting towards her from under the
planning his next move of attack.”
front door. It made her nauseous.
Marion, zoomed in on the man. Then
She and Noah were not the only ones
letting out an exasperated sigh she turned
who felt it either. In fact, that pungent
on the transmitter again. ”I never thought
smell of ‘awkward’ had not gone unnoticed by
I’d say this to you, Noah,” she whispered,
the man sitting two tables behind them. The
“but I think you’ve just found a whole new
man, having been bribed by his older brother
level of idiotic.”
to treat their rambunctious mother to
“Wh--idiotic?”
dinner, curiously watched the couple that
“The man’s middle-aged, has more
had just sat down. His mother, who had
stains on that T-shirt than my Great Uncle
conveniently chosen to sit facing the wall
Bernie, and is on a date with his mother.
was on one of her rants again so hadn’t
And you think he has a capability to ‘plan
noticed the tense silence that had arrived
his next move’? Please...you’re more likely
along with the pair.
to kill Brandon or Sarah than him.”
“I’m telling you, that cow of a
“Well I might, if they don’t stop
father of yours will be the death of me!”
fidgeting like that. Can’t you do something
The elderly women fumed to her son, “He’s
to make them act--i don’t know-- more
the most arrogant sod I ever had the
normal?”
distaste of mothering a child with! I don’t
Marion sighed. “I could try texting
know how you stand him on a daily basis…”
Sarah. But the commander won’t be happy.”
The man grunted a response, still
“Oh trust me, he’ll be a lot less
intently watching the couple in front of
happy if this whole thing gets screwed up
him. Michael figured they couldn’t have been
because the pair of them can’t let go of
more than eighteen. But something about the
their ego for more than five minutes.”
way they carried themselves made them look
“Fine. But if I go down for this,
middle-aged. He thought it might have
you’re going down with me.” Marion
something to do with their rim-rod posture
threatened as she reached for her phone
and silent energy that seem to pulse from
them. They were the kind of people who could
whisper and hush a crowd.
|
Ripple by Nina Bredemeier
It is calm, each steady beating of the drum like a pebble dropped into still waters. Subtle
ripples of chords moving and spreading and growing, entrancing and mesmerizing as
they lap onto the muddy shores. Her voice perfection within its imperfection, each rasp a
display of celebration of humanity. Unadulterated. Empowering. For what does
perfection show of wisdom? No room to grow, no reason, no life- the stagnation of any
pond is just death waiting.
Are we not wise enough?
She asks in a soulful voice of no flourishes, as if too heavy with knowledge hard learned
through experiences hard won and lost. There’s no time to waste on such frills to
smother her words so urgent. An ageless voice to aged words. Pebbles graduate to
weathered stones, increasingly hurled in a crescendo of tides, almost pleading in
desperation to be understood, only to be held back by words, or lack of. Franticness like
a guardian wanting to save others from their own mistakes learned the hard way in the
big world. A timeless cycle with infinite revolutions, having to be infinitely learned and
relearned, comprehended for each generation.
Time is long, but our share is short. Her song draws out, but her plea is clear.
Be the one to break that silent pond. Let the loam soak between your toes, the weeds
weave and twine through your walking legs, the waves ripple out. Let the musty water
stain your jeans, and let the twigs snap beneath your weight.
Let the fish know that you’re joining them
Run, Run, Run By Mallory Elder You were only fifteen when you fell in
love. Too young to know any better.
Time flew by as days ticked along
slowly. Hands tangled in hair, lips
collided and suddenly you were a
different person. Life was like a vivid
dream- hazy but so magnificently real.
You were sixteen when you lay in the
bed of his trunk, counting stars like a
movie. His hands intertwined with
yours, soft and warm like the feeling in
your stomach. He whispered silent I
love yous against your ears and for the
first time, you believe them. It's too
dark to see his face but you know he's
smiling. You can feel it.
You watch red cars whip by like the
trees. You know it's not the same this
time because they're the ones moving
and you're standing still. Behind the
iron gate you used to climb over at
night to meet him. It looks so much
taller today. You can hear the faded
music from your mother's open
window- a love song. The words slip
past you. There's no way to catch them.
He drives you out of the town and into
the woods, where you can be alone. The
trees whip by and disappear one by one.
He kisses your hand without taking his
eyes off the ride. If you died then, you
wouldn't care; you'd have died happy.
You were so pretty then, so young. Red
hair and redder lips. Pink dresses and
high heels. You were beautiful when
you were with him. He made you
beautiful and you did the same. Young
love didn't feel so young. It felt a
thousand years old.
You're seventeen when he leaves.
Going on eighteen and so close to
following him. Sneaking away and
starting a life like he always said you
would. You don't.
Dream in the Dark by Abigail Walouke
Blue hydrangeas line the porch to his
house. Empty now, but still beautiful.
You used to take pictures of it. It was so
beautiful; the perfect home. No mail
comes there anymore but you check
every day. The doors are locked but you
try to get in every day. You can see his
bedroom from the lawn. Can still smell
the cashmere cologne he wore.
Memories of late nights and soft kisses
flood through your mind and you're
sure that's why you keep coming back.
It isn't.
He doesn't write. You know he won't.
Deep in your heart, you know you'd go
to him if he did. No second thought,
your bags are already packed. If he calls
you're never around answer. But he
doesn't. He thinks about you, you know
it, but he doesn't call. Can't.
And if he were to call, you would go to
him. Be with him. That's the saddest
part. You have to wait for him to change
his mind. He may never yet you keep
waiting because the chance is enough.
Boys flick by and you love them but
they aren’t him. You watch yourself
break hearts and can't stand the guilt of
it. So you stop. You know you'll fall in
love again one day- or at least you
should. You know it will beautiful as
the first time. But you don't.
You're finally eighteen when you realize
you were always alone before him. Your
mother is glamorous. Gorgeous and
kind. Your father loves you more than
anyone. But you still feel lonely and you
aren't sure why. It doesn't matter
anyway because you'll leave home soon.
You'll leave and you'll start a life of your
own. Not the one you planned, not the
one you wanted, but it will be yours.
One day you will see him again, you
think. Maybe he'll be married with kids.
Maybe he'll break down and confess
he's always loved you. It's always been
you. You don't care which it is because
you love him and you want him to be
happy, even if it isn't with you. A small
part of you wonders if he'll ever be
happy with someone else. You won't.
It doesn't matter though, because you
fell in love once and it was perfect. The
kisses, the late conversations, the
fights, the crying. It was all perfect
because it was real. You want that again
but not with anyone else. It's been too
long to still love him but you do. You
always will.
The thing is you don't know anything.
You were only fifteen when you fell in
love. You don't know that you won't see
him again. That you won't love him
forever. That there is someone else out
there, many someone else's and you'll
love them as much as you loved him.
He was the past and he is your present
but he will not be your future. You just
don't know it yet.
Snow
By Alyssa Manguiat
Falling,
Drifting in no specific
way
and
none
of
them are the same
as if each
but it’s
was
delicately crafted
by a set
of small
and gentle hands.
And they look
as if
they are
a work of art,
only to settle
ground in overflowing piles
to the
and to be
smashed under
the boots of
eager
children. Or maybe to be
formed into
a ball and
tossed through the air and fall to the
ground with crash.
And
squeals of joy and endless laughter are spreading the
happiness
through the cold and crisp
winter air.
Starlight
By: Alex Testerman
“Letting your mind ease.
And falling into sleep”
The Sea of Sky holds mystery
Endless stretches of stars,
Holding everything in place,
But slowly gliding along.
Stretching too far for us
But still has us wanting more.
Staring up to the void
Unable to know
What is staring back.
Forever Unknown.
Losing yourself in the beauty.
Allowing your body to relax
To drift…To float.
Into the soundless sea,
Engulfed by emptiness.
Letting your mind ease.
And falling into sleep.
Disturbed by none
Until the sea
Is woke by sun.
Galaxies in Her Hand
by Kate Mroczka
Synesthesia
By Lauren Zell
I remember when the world was blue.
Blue was my brother, Luke, playing piano in the front room, with my mother singing along. The
smell of breakfast would waft from the kitchen: bacon and the World’s Best Blueberry Pancakes, courtesy
of my dad. He would pop his head into the room and gave me a smile. “Look who decided to wake up this
morning!” His hearty chuckles danced through my mind- purple, like the crocuses in our window.
I ignored his teasing and began to sing a long, a soprano harmony above my mother’s alto. Luke
looked up in slight surprise, but didn’t stop playing. In fact, he didn’t miss a beat. This was the norm,
here- a blue morning song followed by a breakfast conversation (mostly lilac and periwinkle) and the
radio playing music from decades passed, blues and greens in the side of my vision.
But those blue days were fading in my mind.
That was the last time I heard blue, bright and clear as a summer sky. I’d been avoiding the sound
since it happened, even though it wouldn’t have been the same without her anyway. I began to prefer a dull
grey that came from going to my room and sitting
Funny how the sound I’d been
running away from was the color
that might free me.
in silence, with my comforter pulled up over my
head; I’m not sure whether the grey came from
the silence, or from the feeling, the total emptiness
and frigid cold, even though my blanket was
warm.
“Clara.” Luke’s voice managed to wriggle itself into my ears, a lively lilac, now dull and dingy with
his murmur. I slowly pulled the blanket away, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Funny, I hadn’t even
realized I was crying. “Everyone’s waiting for you downstairs,” he told me, though I already knew. “They
want to pay their respects, whatever that means.”
Oh yeah, the memorial. I was trying to forget- forget the people downstairs, the whole world if I
could manage it- but mostly, forget the green in her singing voice, and in her laugh. Altogether, to forget
blue.
I forced myself off of the mattress, and followed him out, staring at the carpet. My fingernails dug
into the palm of my hand at the thought of the crowd, as my vision began to fill with murmurs of maroon.
All I heard was “You poor dear,” and “I’m so sorry.” Navy. Emerald. Enough to fill a crayon
box. I just nodded and tried to fade away, leaving behind a thoughtless statue that people were welcome to
pity.
That’s when I saw- I mean heard- it again: the piano, playing from the other corner of the room.
The tune was too familiar to keep from stabbing me with the pain I’d been avoiding. I knew exactly who
was playing, just like I knew
every single word begging to be
sung. But not by me. My voice
wasn’t the right shade. The
words came out anyway.
I ignored the bittersweet
smiles and focused on Luke’s
fingers gracefully dancing
around the keys. At first, each
note felt choked back, but it
slowly became easier, as the
weight in my chest slowly lifted
away. Funny how the sound I’d been running away from was the color
Serenity
that might free me. Not too dark, or to light. Not too lively, but
By Maeve Morris
definitely not safe. There was only one way to describe it.
Blue.
The Technician, by Tanvi Jagtap
Arthur gently shook his leg as he stood in the lowest tech room of the Pentagon. It had fallen asleep as he guarded the
malfunctioning computer systems and the computer scientist sent to fix them. Wincing as his leg prickled with pins and needles, he mulled
over a possible shift in career path from government security to something in sunny Florida.
“Almost finished,” Dr. Jillian Miller-Lee, the computer scientist, said as she ran one last diagnostic. “Looks like the satellite crash
won’t affect the US Government computer systems after all.”
Arthur grunted, shaken out of his reverie. “Good.”
Jillian grinned. “Aw come on, big guy! SpaceEx Tech formally apologized for screwing with your computers, okay? And we’re fixing
our mistake!” She gestured to the computer screens that flickered in the dim basement tech room of the Pentagon.
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. It had been stressful when the satellite crashed in Virginia, the normally stoic government
technicians sprinting through the halls, drowning themselves in coffee and attempting to fix the staticky computer screens and frozen data
files. At first, the higher-ups had thought it was a foreign plot to steal information. That was when SpaceEx Tech had claimed the satellite and
sent a computer scientist of their own to untangle the computers. A very pretty computer scientist, who was currently fiddling with her flash
drive in one of the USB ports of the computer.
Soul Colors by Samantha Jo Giesel
Arthur shifted his position to glance at the diagnostic window. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Jillian moved in front of the screen. “It’s fine,” she said shortly.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Programmer babble, you wouldn’t understand a word of it,” she added hastily.
The stress of these last few hours must be getting to her, Arthur thought.
Jillian looked away from him. “What’s on these data files anyway?”
Arthur shrugged. “The usual government stuff no one should know about, I suppose.”
Jillian sidled up to Arthur, her body still blocking the computer screen. “What kind of secret government stuff?” she asked, nudging
his shoulder playfully.
“If I had to guess, and I do mean guess,” he winked. “I’d say the locations of government warehouses. Places where confiscated
contraband is stored.”
“That it?” Jillian almost sounded disappointed.
Arthur shot her a sidelong glance. “That stuff’s worth a lot on the black market.” He remembered the first time he had walked into
one, the walls lined with illegal weapons, and cabinets full of heroin, cocaine and meth. If any criminals got a hold of their locations, they’d be
rich.
“Oh.” Jillian’s eyes gleamed.
Arthur frowned. She must really be tired, he thought. The dark circles under her eyes and the frizzy, unkempt hair did nothing to
make her look less manic.
“They’d be rich.”
Behind Jillian, the diagnostic announced its completion with a couple of short beeps. Jillian spun around and glanced at the
computer screen, muttering something under her breath.
“Is everything alright?” Arthur didn’t need any more stress. The computer technicians under his care spooked easily.
Jillian blew her hair out of her face. “Everything is perfect.” she straightened, her hand sliding her flash drive quickly into her
pocket. “I should get going,” she said. “SpaceEx needs their top technician!” She smiled brightly and breezed out of the room.
Arthur shook his head and smiled.
Twenty minutes later he entered the room again, distractedly shuffling the paper stacks searching for something one of the techs
needed. The mainframe beeped loudly, starting him from his thoughts. He glanced at the diagnostic on the computer screen, the one that
Jillian had forgotten to close before her hasty departure. Something itched in the back of his mind.
Download 100% complete, it declared in large block letters.
Arthur’s mind was numb and his fingers trembled as he opened the data section of the computer and navigated to the file that held
the addresses of the contraband warehouses.
File Empty, it read.
Tested by Akane Ohara
Elisa perched on the buttery leather seats of the dark bullet train and opened up
her history textbook. Kat sat next to her scrolling through her social media feeds on her
gold phone. King William’s War, Constitutional Convention, Civil War, Cold War,
Watergate Scandal, Election of Barack Obama, Amendments 40 through 43... Elisa skimmed
through her entire history book in order to freshen up her memory as the train zipped
towards the city.
“Elisa, you’ll be fine. We studied so much this year and when I quizzed you, you
were fine. Besides, we just have to pick the right answer,” Kat tried to reassure. She
put her phone away then stood up as the train came to a halt at the hub. Elisa tottered
after her, shoving her textbook in between her math notebook and chemistry binder.
“Wait up,” she called at Kat’s back, weaving through parents and other students
as they all made their way to the
school building.
“Hurry, we’re going to be
late, and we can’t be late or else
we’re going to find ourselves
thrown into The Village,” Kat
shouted over her back and The
Village students and parents looked
at her, spears of hatred shooting
from their eyes.
“Sorry!” Elisa grinned at one of The Village students that she had seen at
school before. “You know how it is.” The girl nodded, shifting her eyes towards the
checkerboard tiles of the train station. With that, Elisa sprinted down the sharp hill
and finally caught up with Kat at the steel elevator that led up to the school. A
colossal audience gathered at the top, parents and teachers gleaming, as the students
found their classes and made their way towards the gates. Kat skipped over to the girls’
class and joined in on a conversation that her friends were having. Elisa walked over to
Bryn, her best friend.
“Welcome students, you may now enter in order of your classes,” the government
official monitoring the Enquiry spoke over the interphone. One by one, The Village
students headed in, followed by the Norms. Then, the final class of Manor, which was
unusually walking in a straight line, entered the school and marched up the main
staircase. Cheers and applause could be heard as the heavy, iron gates closed with a
thud. The Manor classrooms were on the third floor, with the best view of the rolling,
green vineyards and the city, with its slim, sleek skyscrapers. They reached Room 310 at
the end of the glass-enclosed hallway. The sliding door whirled open and the line entered
the classroom. The students walked towards the silver port and systematically grabbed
their tablets. Elisa sat down on a metal chair at a chrome desk, set the tablet down, and
it hummed to life. The bright screen was speckled with official looking letters that
read:
“This test will decide
the rest of your
life.”
Welcome to the Final Enquiry
Her fingers drummed the smooth desk and her feet danced around. She took a deep
breath, imagining her parents’ faces when they were informed of her results. They were
both beaming widely as they welcomed their party guests into their home to celebrate
their daughters’ performance.
“Elisa, don’t be so nervous, there’s no thinking involved. You just have to go
with your gut,” Bryn said as she leaned over Elisa’s desk.
“I know, I know, aren’t you nervous at all?”
“No, we’ve taken this test so many times!”
Elisa caught Kat’s eye, amidst all their classmates surrounding her, when Ms.
Albert walked in her metallic stilettos clicking like the second hand on the clock.
Kat’s eyes crinkled and
she mouthed “Good luck”
as Ms. Albert removed
her neon blue shawl to
reveal her government
issued uniform.
“It’s Enquiry
Day!” she trilled. Then,
her coral grin
disappeared and her voice
lowered. “This test
will decide the rest of
your life. I would like
you all to do your best
and represent Manor
well. You have two minutes
until the Enquiry
begins. Please take your
seats and we’ll begin
shortly.” The talking
dwindled and the rest of
the students slowly took
their seats. Elisa
looked back at Kat and
whispered “Thank you”
as the national anthem
began playing and a
mechanized, monotone voice
stated,
“You have three
hours to complete the
Enquiry. Begin.”
“We only get
three hours? I don’t
think I’ll finish!”
shouted Luke, the class
clown, sarcastically at
the intercom. The students
snickered, knowing they
would finish in less than
an hour. Elisa saw The
Village students flinch
and Norms roll their
eyes.
Bring Back What Once Was Mine
“You will not
need to start,” the
by Madison Krell
intercom stated. “You
may leave now, Luke. There
will be no Enquiry for
you. We will use your
previous scores in order to place you. Have a good day.”
With a blank expression, Ms. Albert walked over, took Luke’s tablet and pointed
to the door with a fuchsia nail. Luke rose; his bold grin wiped off of his face, and
exited the classroom. Everyone watched as he beat the glass walls then sprinted down the
staircase that he had just come up, ten minutes ago. The students faced their tablets and
their giddy expressions were replaced with solemnity. Ms. Albert sat down quietly at her
desk, her heels not making a single snap.
The Real World
(excerpt: pages 1-4)
By: Sarah Senne
The apartment feels much too empty for a night this cold. I know
you’re in the bedroom but it’s no comfort, not really; the hardwood floors
don’t have a scratch and the marble counter’s just been cleaned and the
rooms are too hollow for even an echo tonight. You like it this way, I
know. This is The Way Adults Live and we are almost out into The Real
World and there’s no time for things like picture frames or creamer here.
Here’s a secret: I only pretended to like the coffee black to impress you.
Here’s another one: It’s been so long I’ve got no idea which way I really
prefer it now.
I can’t fall asleep tonight. Again. I can’t tell whether it’s work or
life or both that’s got me up this late, wandering the apartment almost
every night now. I almost liked the dorms better, the scratches and the
snoring and the imperfections were there, but they were communal. There’s
a garden here, in the back of the building, but no one ever goes there and
the playground’s of no use to this collection of Young Urban Professionals
with Bright Futures ahead of them. Sometimes at night, when I can’t bring
myself to cross the perfectly polished floor back into our bedroom, I go
out there and sit and wonder. But tonight it’s four in the morning and
outside the moonlight is still tangled with the trees so I just sneak
around the apartment, cold coffee in my hand as I roam these halls that
feel like little more than reflections. Careful not to make a sound, I
find your shoes by the door and your toothbrush by my sink and it all
feels like I’m witnessing something I’m not supposed to.
A confession: Sometimes at night I lurk around the hallways, playing
at not being the prey for once. I smirk at nothing as I try to somehow
dominate the darkness the way you can, so sure in your steps you make no
effort to muffle into the shadows. But it’s always broken somehow, a
window will have been left unlocked or I’ll hear a squeak from somewhere
and I’ll realize my fingers are bony and my legs are bare and the night is
not meant to be played with by girls like me.
Tonight it’s the floor that breaks it. As I try to slip into the
living room it creaks slowly, slashing into the silence. Head down, feet
careful, I make my way back into the bedroom and only stop in the doorway
to make sure you’re still asleep. You are. The walls seem to rise and fall
with your chest as you breathe, in and out and quiet. I sit down on the
side of the bed slowly, wincing as you roll over and mumble foggy words
that never seem to leave your lips. As I’m lying down, back facing you,
you stumble out of sleep.
“I only pretended to
like the coffee black to
impress you”
“Bella?” Your voice is barely a
whisper, “You awake?”
I hesitate for a second, wondering if
you’ll notice if I just close my eyes
slowly and pretend. But there’s something
magnetic in the way you say my name and so I roll over to face you.
“Yeah.”
There’s a silence and my heart seems to shift into my lungs as I can
feel you deciding whether or not ask me why I’m up.
“So,” you ask, “Ready for today?”
“What’s today?”
“We’re meeting my parents? For church?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Nick…I thought we agreed-”
Today is not a day I’d like to be reminded of my morality. Today
there are more important things.
“Don’t be mad, come on, it’s just for a few hours. It’s The Adult
Thing To Do, they’re really looking forward to seeing you”
If by seeing he means judging whether I’m good enough for their trust
fund baby, then yes, I’m sure they’re really looking forward to it.
Perfect.
“Here, I got you something.”
You pull out a little red box from the bedside table and hand it to
me with a smile. Nestled inside is a necklace, a little silver key on a
long chain.
“It’s beautiful Nick, thank you!”
“If my parents ask, it’s real silver,” you say, breaking the spell as
you roll out of bed.
I just nod and go out into the kitchen again, the sun hasn’t even
begun to rise but I take out two cups for coffee and get the grounds out
from the near empty pantry I’m paying too much to rent. I know why he’s
doing it, in a way. Guilt and pride and the fact that there’s nothing that
slows your twenty one year old heartbeat more than seeing your parents
eyes get lighter and lighter.
One more day. One more day and this whole meeting will be over with
and Nick will be flying out to Santa Monica and I’ll have the place to
myself. By the time I’ve showered, found a dress his parents will approve
of, and put on makeup it’s time to
go.
“ Ready?”
“Ready”
As we get in the car I
“You haven’t told your father
yet but you’ve started
spelling god with a lowercase
‘g’”
rehearse the future in my head.
Back straight, legs crossed, glossed lips permanently turned upwards into
a smile. You’re lost in your own thoughts as well, you keep looking out
the windshield but not really seeing anything at all.
The entire way there you’re grasping your hands around the wheel so
tight they turn red and white around the sides. Around your neck is a
small cross necklace your parents must have gotten you, you keep pulling
on the chain like it’s choking you. You haven’t told your father yet but
you’ve started spelling god with a lowercase ‘g’, and I know you too well
to believe you when you keep telling me you’re great, just excited to see
them. We both know you’re lying but there’s no time for comfort and soon
we’re in the parking lot saying everything’s just fine, doing great,
thanks how are you?
As we pull into the parking lot I glance at the glowing green car
clock. There’s just enough time before the service for your dad to show
you him new car and for your mother to interrogate me.
“Bella, I’ve got to ask- where did you get that beautiful necklace?”,
your mother says as we walk into the chapel.
“Nick got it for me”
“Is it real?”
I smile, “Of course”
It’s not a lie, not really. It’s only a fake if your definition of
‘real’ is the most expensive thing in the store.
The service seems to last a lifetime. I sit in the chair softly,
cross my ankles and fold my hands, punishment and God feel awfully close
in this room. There are hymns, choruses with no real unison. There are
sermons with words as pale as the man who repeats the verses out towards
us. There are little clear cups of what they call Jesus’ blood laid out on
the table. I catch your eye as you drink yours; you’re the kind of atheist
still scared of going to hell and it shows when you swallow.
Iron Angel
By: Sarah Senne
The Silent Killer
Sneha Rajan
Imagine being diagnosed with a brain tumor so deadly, there is no chance of longterm survival. Every day could be the last one. Each year, about 23,000 adults in the
United States are diagnosed with a primary brain tumor. Approximately 60 percent of
primary brain tumors are classified as glioblastoma multiforme. Glioblastoma multiforme is
a highly malignant brain tumor that is the most common and most aggressive primary brain
tumor in humans. Complete recovery is impossible, and long-term survival is rare. It’s like
a ticking time bomb—you never know when everything is going to go black.
Glioblastomas are the most common primary brain tumor found in humans. Primary
brain tumors arise from cells of the brain itself rather than traveling, or metastasizing, to
another location in the body. Typically, glioblastomas can either develop directly or evolve
from a lower grade astrocytoma. Astrocytomas are brain tumors that arise from brain cells
called astrocytes, star shaped glial cells that support nerve cells . Brain tumors are typically
given a grade from I to IV; Grade I is benign while Grade IV is the most malignant.
Glioblastoma multiforme is a grade IV astrocytoma. The higher the grade, the faster the
tumor grows. They are typically found in the cerebral hemispheres of the brain, but can be
found anywhere in the brain or spinal cord. Brain tumors form from abnormal, unregulated
growth of cells. Abnormal brain cells re-enter the “cell cycle” because of alteration in any of
a large number of genes that control cell division and growth. Research is pointing to
genetic mutations as a primary cause of these tumors. Various deletions, amplifications,
and point mutations enable the irregular and uncontrolled growth of cells.
Treatment for glioblastoma multiforme is like
that of any other brain tumor. Standard treatment is
surgery (if possible) followed by radiation therapy,
chemotherapy, or a combination of the two. Because
of glioblastoma multiforme’s ability to invade and
infiltrate normal brain tissue, complete resection of
the tumor is impossible. Attempting complete removal
could put vital parts of the brain in danger of being
damaged during the craniotomy. After treatment has
been administered, observation and follow up appointments are important, because highgrade gliomas (like glioblastoma multiforme) have a tendency to regrow. This is because it
is impossible to remove every single cancer cell in the brain, so the ones that are left
unharmed by treatment reproduce and recreate the tumor. The extremely fast growth rate
of glioblastomas is why long-term survival is rare. Treatment serves to prolong the lifespan
of the patient, and improve the quality of life.
Research is being conducted to discover methods of prolonging the lives of
glioblastoma multiforme victims. Some techniques are more effective than others, and
doctors are now able to extend the lifespan of these patients more than ever before. There
has been significant progress, and the average lifespan of a patient with a glioblastoma has
increased substantially. Although the gains may be small, they could add up to a substantial
amount of information in the future. In the words of Will Rogers, “Even if you’re on the
right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” There have been cures found for
cancers thought to be irrepressible, so let’s keep taking baby steps to reach the ultimate
goal.
The Suit in the Room by Annie Jones
CHARACTERS
CRYSTAL- 34 year old mother, warned down, mother look, married to Josh
JOSH- 36 year old father, plays professional baseball, husband of Crystal, wearing a ball cap.
PLACE
A boy’s bedroom in a suburban home.
TIME
Late afternoon around four.
[Lights up in a boy’s bedroom. A made bed centers the room. Crystal is standing with her arms folded,
looking at a suit on the bed and two ties next to it. Josh enters, creaking the door open.]
JOSH: Hey I’m back. [Crystal remains silent, looking at the suit.] What are you up to? [No reaction from
Crystal, Josh looks defeated.] …Crystal. [Crystal turns her head to look at him then returns to looking at the
tie] I’m home.
CRYSTAL: I know.
JOSH: Did you have company today?
CRYSTAL: No.
JOSH: Cuz… there’s two bottles of wine in the trash can.
CRYSTAL: I know.
JOSH: [Looks shocked then annoyed.] Whatever…. What are you doin?
CRYSTAL: I’m just trying to figure out what tie to put with the suit. [Gestures to the bed.]
JOSH: Why do you have Sam’s confirmation suit out? [Crystal glares at him and Josh looks embarrassed.]
…Oh. Sorry, I should have figured.
CRYSTAL: Yeah. So what tie?
JOSH: I don’t know.
CRYSTAL: Well he has to wear something.
JOSH: What about the baseball uniform?
CRYSTAL: Oh thanks for the reminder. You need to get it out and throw it away. [Josh looks shocked.]
JOSH: Throw it away?
CRYSTAL: That’s what I said. [Still looking at the suit.]
JOSH: But…
CRYSTAL: What?
JOSH: Nevermind. [He walks to the closet but stops when Crystal asks again.]
CRYSTAL: But what, Josh?
JOSH: I just thought…
CRYSTAL: Yeah?
JOSH: I just thought that maybe
CRYSTAL: [sighs.] spit it out.
JOSH: Maybe… he could wear it.
CRYSTAL: Well that sure as hell isn’t happening.
JOSH: It was just a suggestion…
CRYSTAL: A stupid one. [silence. Josh looks around
the floor.] …I think I like the blue tie.
JOSH: He hates blue…
CRYSTAL: How would you know? [silence.]
To the Moon and Back
by Meghan McAneny
JOSH: what’s wrong with his uniform?
CRYSTAL: [Sighs.] Josh, I just don’t want him wearing it. Get rid of it. End of story. [She picks up both ties.]
JOSH: Okay… Sorry. I was just thinking of Sammie… He really likes his uniform. I mean, he did sleep in it
for an entire week.
CRYSTAL: Dammit! [She throws down the ties and looks right at Josh] He’s not wearing the uniform. So just
stop!
JOSH: Why are you being so selfish?
CRYSTAL: [Gasps.] Me selfish?
JOSH: Yes.
CRYSTAL: Where have you been Josh? Huh?
JOSH: That’s not…
CRYSTAL: How dare you call me selfish? [She pokes Josh’s chest.] How dare you say that while all this
week I’ve been planning and running myself crazy and all you have been doing is hanging with the guys. [
Shakes her head.] But ya know what? … I’m selfish… I’m so selfish planning MY OWN son’sJOSH: He’s my son too.
CRYSTAL: Really? Cuz last time I checked you were too busy playing ball to be here for his fifth birthday.
Too busy to come to his kindergarten graduation. Too busy for his little league games. Too busy to be here
to save his li-
JOSH: Don’t you dare blame is death on me [Beat.]… Don’t you even dare. I might not have been here,
because I work, but at least I wasn’t passed out drunk while my five year old son ran into the road.
CRYSTAL: Too pick up a baseball! A baseball! Do you know why he was playing baseball in the yard Josh?
Because he wanted to impress his father when he came home… ha, some role model.
JOSH: Who else was he going to look up to? His depressed alcoholic mother? [Crystal smacks him across
the face. Josh takes his hand to his face, surprised.]
CRYSTAL: [calming down] Maybe I wouldn’t have been depressed if you even stopped to notice me. To
notice us.
JOSH: I thought you knew what you were getting into when you married me. You knew I was going to be
gone for work. You can’t hate me for having a job.
CRYSTAL: But it’s not just the games or the traveling, Josh. You’re not even here when you are in the same
room with us… [Sighs] me. And now when I need you more than ever, you’re out with your buddies from the
team. And I’m alone. I have to deal with
all this alone.
“AN ACCIDENT THAT
COULD HAVE BEEN
STOPPED.”
JOSH: Well how are we supposed to get
through this together Crystal? You’ve
been a zombie since that day. It’s not
like I can talk to you. And I can’t be in
this house, standing in his room and
waiting for him to come back. It’s too
hard Crystal. I can’t do it.
CRYSTAL: [Crystal starts breathing heavy] Well, then maybe you should leave.
JOSH: Maybe I should!
CRYSTAL: Go ahead then!
JOSH: I will! [ Josh stomps out and slams the door. Crystal falls down to the ground and begins to cry. The
door creeks open and Josh comes back in. and sits on the floor next to Crystal.]
CRYSTAL: My baby’s gone Josh. He’s gone.
JOSH: I know.
CRYSTAL: And it’s all my fault.
JOSH: No its not. I shouldn’t have said that it was I didn’t mean it.
CRYSTAL: It is my fault.
JOSH: It couldn’t have been. It was an accident.
CRYSTAL: An accident that could have been stopped.
JOSH: What happened?
CRYSTAL: I was drinking, like you said. I had a long day, mom had called and was ranting and I had driven
Sam to different birthday parties. Well, Sammie came in and asked me to come play baseball outside with
him so he could practice for his game. He said it had to be perfect because you were coming home. I told
him to run along and start without me so I could put on my shoes. So I drank another glass, put on my
shoes, and went outside. But he had already run into the road. The truck driver was already calling 911 and
Sam was already gone. [Her breath caught and she sobbed.] He was so helpless. All I could do was hold
him and cry. Because I was too late. Because I wasn’t a good mom. Because I wasn’t there to tell him to
wait. I wasn’t there to say it’s just a ball. I wasn’t there.
JOSH: I should have been here.
CRYSTAL: It wouldn’t have made a difference.
JOSH: Yes it would have. [Silence.] You didn’t have to raise him by yourself and because of me you did.
CRYSTAL: What do we do now?
JOSH: We live with it. And stick together. It’s all we can do.
CRYSTAL: You don’t hate me?
JOSH: Not as much as I hate myself. But we can try and get through it together. Just no more drinking,
okay?
CRYSTAL: What about the team?
JOSH: I’m taking the season off.
CRYSTAL: Really?
JOSH: Yes. I need some time with my
wife. Some time to mourn.
CRYSTAL: I’ve been too busy planning to
mourn.
“Our boy will look
very nice.”
JOSH: What else needs to be done?
CRYSTAL: Just figuring out what he’s wearing and well there’s something I just can’t bear to go get. Just
picking it out would just make everything too real.
JOSH: I’ll take care of it tomorrow.
CRYSTAL: You don’t have to.
JOSH: I do. [Silence.] …How tall is he?
CRYSTAL: 3-8 I think. [Josh nods, gulps throat. stands up.] I think he’d like the red tie. He was a Reds fan
after all.
CRYSTAL: Are you sure you’re okay with that?
JOSH: Yeah. [Josh tears up.] Our boy will look very nice. [Josh exits room]
CRYSTAL: Yes he will. [Stands up, gets ball cap by his bedside and sits it on the suit. Collapses back onto
the bed and begins to cry again. Blackout.]
THOUGHTS
BY: MADDIE PARASKOS
Slowly and softly, it started to descend.
Twisting through the air in curves and
bends,
Caught on a silver, translucent thread
It spells out a word, never to be said.
Twisting, tumbling, spinning around
Taking its time on its way to the ground.
Brushing the earth with wings of light,
Its heart thrumming with its might.
A shadow slips, a hiss of ice
Avoidance would not suffice.
It conquers the mind, the soul
Its footprints left, like a stumbling foal.
Its branches reach high, its roots grow deep
And in its eyes, fire does weep
Branding its words on everything it may reach,
Fighting the mind, so someday it might breach.
The barriers of the world descends,
Its shackles at its end,
And in the heart something stirs,
A monster of the mind, a madness, a cure.
Mind of a Child
By Abigail Walouke
Time
Forever.
Your laugh.
By: Allison Ridener
Lost in the dark abyss,
Your smile.
A cold breath upon my
neck signals its time.
Wondering what
happened to you.
Your face.
A shadowy hand engulfs
me.
Is it my fault?
Fear, anger, despair.
Then time goes on without
a care.
My heart almost stops,
Yet someone else’s has.
The darkest place in the
room,
Why wasn’t I there?
I ask these questions with
despair.
I’ve searched for answers
and realize,
But all of you will be missed.
Forever.
Back in the present,
I keep telling myself to
never look back.
I couldn’t speak,
But that’s next to the
impossible.
I’ve never felt so weak.
There’s no escape from
reality.
Now I look back,
The door shuts on the
happiest day,
Gone along with you into
that dark abyss,
This is the first time I’ve
really cried.
Is filled with gloom.
It’s too late.
All gone.
Into the past,
And tears threaten me as I
try to remember,
But the pain fades slowly.
I kept thinking,
And dreaming.
Dreaming of the day,
We’ll be together again.
And she enters.
Your laugh, your smile, your
face.
My heart snaps in two,
But I’ve forgotten.
At all times.
Realizing that you,
I hold the memories still,
And I’ve found that,
Are gone.
But the most important
parts are missing.
Time heals all wounds.
So I keep this in mind,
Chaos by
Abigail
Walouke
Watervale Woman
Stephanie Schoenlein
It was late August and the days were long. The northern Michigan weather was cold enough to keep
you wanting a sweatshirt, but warm enough for the Watervale guests to enjoy a peaceful vacation on Lower
Herring Lake. Waitresses in the traditional uniform, a knee-length white dress and apron, zipped around
Watervale Inn’s dining hall. They disappeared behind the large kitchen doors, then slipped between tightly
packed tables draped in peach linen to deliver a four-course dinner. Chefs prepared meals in the steamy
kitchen to be whisked away into the fancy dining area. Waiters poured drinks for the elegantly dressed
Watervale guests that eagerly awaited the mushroom soup. The atmosphere was noisy but peaceful, and quite
familiar to the staff that stayed all summer long working at the old, quaint resort town.
Back then the staff worked long hours, getting up early to prepare breakfast and staying up late to
clean up dinner. In between, they cleaned and provided maintenance to the colorful nineteenth century cottages
in preparation for the arriving guests that seemed to never stop coming. But it’s late August, which means the
work season is almost over. There was relatively less guests, and less guests meant more parties. Late on a
surprisingly warm night, after the kitchen was cleaned to the very last chocolate mousse dish, the waiters of the
Music Box invited the waitresses of the Hen House to an end-of-summer party. Late at night, everyone still in
their uniform, the young staff walked along the skinny gravel roads through Watervale.
Streetlights were sparse in Watervale. There were no lights on the tennis court in the park behind the
Inn. There were no lights on the only paved road leading to Lake Michigan. In the places where a think canopy
of trees blocked out every ounce of rich moonlight it was so dark you couldn’t see your own hand in front of
you. Only the lights from inside the petite cottages provided a dull yellow glow that faded out before it reached
the road. The long dock in front of the Inn was dark and still. Moonlight poured over Lower Herring Lake.
Watervale was so quiet at night crickets sounded as loud as a concert, until the Music Box came into view.
Parties at the Box started late and ended early. The entire time music was blasting through the
windows and out the door. Everyone laughed and danced. Summer and work were almost over. The college
kids wanted to live it up. After all, they only had a few more weeks together before everyone packed up and
went back to school until next year. That’s when someone in the crowd yelled over the blaring music:
“Hey! Let’s go to the Big Apple!”
“Yeah! Let’s have a good time, have a few drinks.”
The Idea was a hit with the half-sober crowd. The staff piled into their cars, fitting as many people in
each vehicle as they could. Everyone pulled out of the gravel lot and whipped around the winding streets in the
pitch black night. Then they past the dainty “Welcome to Watervale” sign that stands at the point where gravel
meets concrete and the makeshift streets become Watervale Road. The trucks and vans turned right and
headed south down M22, a highway with hardly any street lights. Finally, they sped to Arcadia to party at the
Big Apple restaurant and bar.
Since the staff spent the entire summer together, most of them ended up dating. The trip to the Big
Apple became couples night out. Everyone had one drink too many, the large crowd swaying to music and
cheering periodically for no reason. While the many couples were laughing and dancing at the bar, one couple
found themselves in a heated argument. Everyone knew that they had been dating for a while, maybe even
before the summer started and into previous years. At first, it was just quiet banter. Both probably had way
too much to drink. Soon it grew into full-fledged shouting. Some staff tried to ignore the angry couple; close
friends tried to intervene, but to no avail. Today no one recalls what they were arguing about. Finally, the staff
heard from across the bar:
“That’s it! I’m done.”
They watched the Watervale waitress storm out the door.
“Where are you going? You
didn’t even drive a car here!”
The frustrated waiter ran after her.
The waitress waved him off, stomping out of the parking lot. She had decided to walk. The waiter
huffed, then turned for the door. She could walk home. The Big Apple isn’t that far from Watervale. Probably
just a few miles.
It was past midnight. The drunk waitress wandered down the side of M22 in her white dress and apron
uniform. Dark trees from the surrounding woods loomed overhead like dark towers piercing night sky. A car or
two passed occasionally, their bright headlights illuminating the highway for a split second, but none of them
stopped. She wished they had. The walk was longer than she anticipated. The waitress was exhausted and
drinking too much made her feel lethargic. She staggered on for a little longer. Her feet dragged behind her.
All she wanted was to rest. Her head was spinning. She should have just apologized at the bar and stayed.
The waitress trekked along the side of the road, looking for Watervale. It had to be there somewthere. She
had been walking for what seemed like forever. Where was that darn “Welcome to Watervale” sign? She sighed
and sat down. A little rest wouldn’t hurt, right? The night was so warm and peaceful. Just a small break. That
was all she wanted. She was exhausted, and the alcohol made it worse. Just a rest. That’s it. But the crickets
chirped a lullaby. The brilliant stars that shined clear as day were tucking her in, and the warm gust whispered
goodnight. On the side of M22, just before Watervale Road, the waitress had fallen asleep.
The steering wheel acted as a drum set to the waitress’s boyfriend. The rest of the rowdy staff that
had carpooled with him sang along to the radio. They were on their way back to Watervale. The staff would
have stayed at the Big Apple longer, but they all had work the next morning. The car swerved from lane to
lane. The waiter wasn’t paying attention. He would constantly change the radio station to find the perfect
song, then swerve back into his own lane. His friends didn’t think much of his drunk driving. It was dark, no street
lights up ahead. They were getting close to Watervale. The boyfriend twisted the dial, swerved into the other
lane and jerked back. Then there was a thwadump. The car bounced and the other waiters silenced.
“What the heck was that?” A girl from the backseat of the van asked.
The car continued down the road, the driver responding, “How should I know? I didn’t see it.”
“You probably just hit an animal. There’s woods everywhere ‘round here.” Someone else from the back
said. “Just keep going. We’re almost home.”
The boyfriend shrugged and sped down the road. He turned and past the “Welcome to Watervale”
sign next to the park. After parking the car, the staff climbed out and hustled to their cabins. The girls kept the
Hen House’s lights off so they wouldn’t wake their waitress friend who went home early, so they didn’t realize
that her cot was still empty.
Breakfast in the morning was just as crazy as dinner in the evening. You have the early birds who come
in at eight o’clock sharp, still in their clothes that smell like bonfire smoke, rubbing their tired eyes. Then you
have the late risers who roll in wearing clean new clothes with their hair actually brushed. All of them come in
hungry and expect fast service and coffee right when they sit down. So when the staff was one waitress short
the morning after the Big Apple party, everyone was hurting. They assumed she must have been really
smashed from last night and just overslept. When the waiters and cooks had asked where she was, one of the
other waitresses said she hadn’t noticed her that morning and thought she already left for work. Breakfast
continued on without her. After the dishes were cleaned, the girls went back to the Hen House to look for the
missing waitress. They opened the creaking screen door, called her name, and checked her room. Nothing. She
wasn’t at the Hen House. Her bed was just as she had left it, made up nice and neat the way the staff makes
the beds in the cottages every week. The girls sprinted outside, meeting up with the waiters from the Music
Box.
“She’s not there!” The waitresses panicked. “Nowhere to be found.”
“Alright.” The boyfriend said. He tried to remain calm. “We’ll head back up to Arcadia. Maybe she
stopped at a motel or something.”
The staff piled into the vans and bolted out of Watervale. All of them glanced nervously out each
window. The waitress was nice, liked by everyone. Where could she had gone?
The boyfriend slammed his foot on the breaks, the cars behind him jerking to a stop. He jumped out of
his car, flinging the door shut. The other staff poked their heads out the window and eventually got out. There
she was, the missing waitress, laying on the side of the road. She was dead. Hit by a car.
Over the following years, many guests have
reported seeing a ghostly woman in a white
dress wandering Watervale late at night or just
before dawn. Guests reported seeing her
stagger down the sidewalk in front of The
Margaret cottage, heading to the Inn. Today,
she is commonly known as the Watervale
Woman.
The Margaret
By Stephanie
Schoenlein
we thought we were siamese
(though we weren't always conjoined)
and when we realized our necks had molded
we slumped on to my pleather couch
and pretended our nickel eyes
saw the same silver in between its cushions.
my lips were metallic, but you didn't care:
your mouth was locked on a straw-flavored boy.
you liked that the straw pricked your lips
enough to draw blood, and it wasn't until
the guillotine severed our neck that i realized
that's what i was tasting. i have never tasted love
and i can see in your eyes (in your contact photo
that lit my phone with green when you
called) you think i never will.
but we were conjoined once
and though you scattered that boy to the wind
none of those who warmed you have made you
anything more than a cheesecake girl with leather
boots
and a raven-feather heart.
(i think that's why i answered
when you lit my phone with green
sunday before last.)
i too long to fly–but i sought solace in paper wings
tales of cinnamon loves that lasted long as Nokias
or shriveled like my diligence on that sunday when
you called.
i think i wouldn't care if my heart was cleaved
like our neck: so long as i could taste berry blood
as i kissed the raven who made my paper wings fly.
you claim you've been there, but all you've kissed
are
bluejays (though there is a mottled one
that heaves twigs on to your shoulders).
but you've never wept robin's eggs because the
blood
you've tasted has never been made of berries.
(but my phone is green again.) i know this is
about
the bluejay who makes your raven-feather
heart race to the edge of the mulberry cliff.
but you've never wept robin's eggs because the
blood
you've tasted has never been made of berries.
(but my phone is green again.) i know this is
about
the bluejay who makes your raven-feather
heart race to the edge of the mulberry cliff.
(you don't know what i know–
his feeble wings won't catch you
on the way
down.)
but birds chirp in the air. (my phone is still
green.)
and as i answer, i pretend when the screen
against my ear
glows red, you won't forget the way my name
tastes–
you will remember not to leave; you will
remember we were siamese.
Ying Yang by Samantha Jo Giesel
we thought we were siamese
Jessica Sommerville
By Katie Bill
Where My Heart is at
You can find my heart in the depths of summer,
When the sun sizzles and the cicadas croak,
Where the sun burns intensely through skin
You can find my heart in the silence of the outside world,
Where trees decorate surrounding barriers of the scene,
Where the birds softly sing sweet melodies
You can find my heart at the sandy shores of the beach,
Where the seashells are a treasure to observe and collect,
Where the soul can find peace and complete relaxation in the presence of the
salty waves and gentle breeze
You can find my heart at the serene lake far from the busy world,
Where the water wake waves softly sways,
Where the world slows down and time is just a number
You can find my heart floating through the fields,
Where the fresh flowers blossom,
Where the grass grows and covers the earth
You can find my soul,
My passion,
My inspiration,
My happiness,
My joy,
You can find me,
In these places,
Where my heart is
Forest Dweller
by Kate Mroczka
There are
always cheesy potatoes.
Always. Usually there are
two pans of them, made
and placed meticulously
by my Aunt Madonna, a
pious woman whose hair
is – unfortunately – stuck in 1971, along with her wardrobe. Even
though my mother, my step-dad, my brother, and I are always late,
the cheesy potatoes are always inexplicably warm. The perfect
temperature. Not hot enough for the cheese to be dripping out of
the sides of the pan, but not cold enough for it to congeal into
a school lunch-esque cube. Potatoes, cream cheese, and butter. So
much butter. And of course, bread crumbs, because who doesn’t
need more carbs? For some reason, (like Shakespeare) you just
Butterfly by Madison McConkie
can’t get enough of them. They’re like dessert potatoes.
Next to the cheesy potatoes is a crock pot of green bean great-grandparents -- my mom’s dad’s parents to be exact -- and
casserole, also made by the gifted Aunt Madonna. Not that no one the parents of seven children who are my great aunts and uncles.
else cooks -- they do. But it’s Aunt Madonna’s food that is
And no, they were not merely referred to as Dick and Mary Ann.
unchanging year after year. It simply wouldn’t be the same if
were one entity: Dick-and-Mary Ann, fused in my memory
anyone else made it. I have had cheesy potatoes other places, but They
like
the
foods we always ate together. As I avoided spilling green
they aren’t Aunt Madonna’s and they aren’t nearly as delicious. It bean casserole
on my frilly white dress one Easter, I listened to my
turns out the silly old adage is true; everything tastes better when great grandma and
discuss the time they spent helping
it’s made with love. The same green bean casserole that used to their friends build agrandpa
barn
from
ground up. It amazed me how
make me run wailing is now my favorite family staple. It’s always little I knew about them, and I the
loved
listening in on their stories. It
in the same crock pot – dark green interior with blue and pink
was
from
this
knowledge
of
their
past
that I gained a newfound
flowers around the outside. It’s always placed on the same hot pad, respect, not only for them, but for everyone
in my family, and for
burned on the edges. The green beans are always kind of mushy, myself, that lives on even though Dick-and-Mary
Ann are gone.
blending with the cream of mushroom soup. Don’t forget the
A
few
years
later,
I
remember
carefully
spooning
cheesy
French fried onions.
potatoes,
green
bean
casserole,
and
cranberry
sauce
onto
my
paper
I can always count on a heaping helping of warm cheesy plate in separate spots -- never touching -- while Rachel followed
potatoes and green bean casserole, even when I can’t count on an A me in line, waiting for me to finish so that we could scurry down to
in chemistry or delivering a smooth English presentation.
Aunt Madonna’s basement and work
Contrasting nicely with the
on our latest criminal investigation. As
cheesy potatoes and green bean
“I like to see people run to each other, I like
an only child at the time, hanging out
casserole is the year-round cranberry
with Rachel allowed me to explore the
the
kissing
and
the
crying,
I
like
the
sauce. It’s made by my Aunt Doris.
improbable and the impossible. She
impatience,
the
stories
that
the
mouth
Much like my Aunt Madonna, she has
taught me to ask questions about the
not changed her hair since she got
can't tell fast enough, the ears that aren't
things we can’t see.
married to my Uncle Ron. Unlike my
At the age of twelve, I was
big
enough,
the
eyes
that
can't
take
in
all
Aunt Madonna, she is not quite as
finally
“cool”
enough to sit at the table
pious and not quite as even-tempered.
of the change, I like the hugging, the
with
my
Aunt
Cara, who is six years
The cranberry sauce is gelatin – I think.
older
than
me
and
best friends with
bringing
together,
the
end
of
missing
I honestly have no idea. It’s made of
some
of
the
older
cousins
in my family.
little bits of cranberries in a semisomeone.” –Jonathan Safran Foer,
That
Christmas,
she
spilled
cranberry
gelatinous reddish sauce with miniExtremely Loud and Incredibly Close
sauce
all
over
her
brand
new
creammarshmallows floating around in it.
colored
sweater.
I
gasped
-if
it had
And it doesn’t really taste like
been
me,
I
would
have
cried.
Instead,
cranberries. Yes, cranberry sauce is usually found at most
simply wiped it off and burst out laughing. She has shown me
Thanksgiving tables. But this is not just Thanksgiving. Cranberry she
how
laugh at myself and have fun -- even when things aren’t
sauce is found at every single family get-together. Whether it’s a goingtomy
She’s a risk-taker. Fortunately, this has rubbed off
birthday, Christmas, or Easter, the same family is always there -- on me andway.
left
me
with some amazing memories and plans for the
crazy Uncle Tom, chatty Aunt Kathy, the whole gang.
future.
I could always count on my cousin Rachel, who is one
Cheesy potatoes, green bean casserole, and cranberry
year older than me, to help me solve the case of the missing Easter sauce. Dick-and-Mary
Ann, Rachel, Aunt Cara. Respect, curiosity,
egg or discover the forgotten family ghost. Except now, instead of risk-taking. All three perfect.
I can’t say for sure where I’ll be in
helping me navigate fictional life mysteries, as we devour our
five
years,
or
what
college
I’ll
end up at, or even what I’ll wear
second helping of cheesy potatoes, she helps me navigate the very tomorrow. But I can say with certainty
that I’ll be spending
real mysteries of senior year.
Thanksgiving
and
all
future
holidays
with
people I love,
And at the head of the table every time was Dick-and- listening to and laughing at the stories I’vethe
heard
million times,
Mary Ann. When I was younger, they sat in chairs side by side, and eating cheesy potatoes, green bean casserole, aand
-- of course both heading up the same end of the family table. They were my - cranberry sauce.
The Writer’s Dictionary
The
Writer’s
Maya
Malaviya Dictionary
Maya Malaviya
“Based off of a true story.”
(phrase.) get ready for a landslide of
feelings because this is the real life.
It is not just fantasy. They’re
caught in a landslide, no escape
from reality.
“This movie was based off of a
book.” (phrase.) the ultimate
destroyer of the pure image in your
head.
Analyze (v.) Run. Run away
immediately. Abort mission. Avoid
assignment at all costs.
Annotate (v.) scribbling your racing
thoughts in a fashion which has you
wonder why people don’t just
comprehend squiggles instead.
Assigned Novel (n.) the book
everyone complains about for lack of
plot and too much nothing. (little
do they know it’s 5% about the plot
and 95% about the character
development)
Author (n.) one who writes
experiences in hopes that it will
impact others.
Autobiography (n.) how the author
wants you to see them.
Blogging (v.) second-guessing your
reading thoughts.
“based off of a true story” • dialogue
“based off of a true story” • dialogue
Blurb (n.) paragraph on the back
cover which never fails to contain
and explain the largest spoiler of the
book you were almost interested in.
Book Hangover (n.) the result of
finishing a book, then realizing that
it’s all over, you’ll never interact
with those characters, and that
there’s actually an outside world
you’ve been avoiding.
Bookmark (n.) you own a thousand
of these little slips, but if you truly
need one, you look to your latest
grocery receipt instead.
Bookshelf (n.) display of books
where you realize: the more creases
on the spines, the more loved they
look. (often arranged alphabetically
and/or by color)
Bookstore (n.) overpriced library.
Bookworm (n.) the wisest and most
experienced of them all (or the one
who thinks so, anyway).
Character (n.) the messenger of the
ideas and the puppet of the author.
Classic (n.) the books neither
teacher nor student wants to admit
they hate.
Dialogue (n.) gasps for air in a sea
of details.
dictionary • writing
Dictionary (n.) words
attempting to explain words in
an alphabetical manner.
MLA Format (n.) format of
“essay” with thousands of
criterion. You always miss one.
Double-Spacing (v.) wasting
paper.
Mood (n.) see Tone
Dystopian Novel (n.) a preview
into the possible future.
End of Chapter (n.) cliffhanger
and the sole purpose for a
bookworm’s sleepless night.
English Teacher (n.) dictator of
diction and president of
punctuation
Essay (n.) Paragraphs? Timed?
Words? Oh my.
Fiction (n.) nonfiction in
disguise.
Hardback Books (n.) the
overrated version of paperback
novels which are impossible to
truly break in (although they do
come with lovely built-in
bookmarks)
Independent Reading Novel
(n.) a book within the fourth
grade reading curriculum that
you remember enough to
analyze for blogging.
Library (n.) horrendously
underrated save haven
containing free books.
Nonfiction (n.) sequence of facts
or events which have been
proven true.
Paranormal Romance (n.) a
book or series, containing
vampires, werewolves, or both.
Often supports the theme “age
is just a number”, even if the
cute male is 1,542 years old.
Plot (n.) when original, the
greatest component of a book.
Teen Fiction (n.) cliché
romance novel featuring the
non-traditionally beautiful,
unrealistically smart, sarcastic,
yet somehow still independent
girl.’
Tone (n.) see Mood 
Topic (n.) recurring person,
place, or thing in a book (seldom
original)
Word count (n.) encourages a
whole new way of using 100
words to say what could’ve been
said in one sentence.
Writing (v.) can’t help but love
it.