“Flower Buds”

by Maz Selby

You should not pick the May buds ‘fore their time,

so kindly give them time enough to bloom.

In Summer’s days, they’ll flower with design

I know that Summertide will be here soon

The seeds have lived through winter’s coldest night

When ice had conquered ev’ry root and leaf

When little Hope had left in southern flight

And cold would lurk outside with bared teeth

So now, allow warm rains to reach their roots

Allow the sun to feed them golden rays

then give them time to grow new leaves and shoots

And let them blossom in the summer days

Oh, spare the young spring buds and let them bloom

I promise summer time will come so soon

Rosemary Cottage by Emma Eubank

“Humanity”

by Olivia Panzer

How tender

we as humans are.

How delicate and frail.

How easily we can get hurt, but

how hard it is to

understand that we are causing the

hurt.

Soft tongues create

hard words.

Simple minds create

complex situations.

How easy it is to take love,

but give poison in return.

Greed controls us, but we

make the greed.

Equal humans living in an

unequal world.

We are the creators.

We are the only ones to

blame for the toxicity and

prejudice.

We possess a power and cure

inside of us that so

desperately wants to be released.

To heal and create love.

With so many eyes glued to

political debates and

news reports,

we cease to see the damage in humanity

that we cause.

We look to others for solutions

instead of finding them ourselves.

Receiving but never giving.

Looking but never seeing.

Hearing but never listening.

We were created to give love.

Receive love.

Make love.

We so often take for granted the beauty that

surrounds

us.

We were born as art forms, but so easily we

lose

our sense of creativity.

Stop silence. Stop ignorance.

Start living.

Untitled by Martha Rose

“A Sestina”

by Kashera Anderson

You’ve got monsters under your bed

I just didn’t know you were working with them

You kissed me so I wouldn’t see their hands

And I could never look another way

All of your words are burned in my mind

What does it all mean now

I guess I’m not what you want now

Because you’re not afraid of the monsters

under your bed

They started to creep into your mind

Somewhere along the line you listened to them

You started loving me in a different way

I know because I began to see the hands

After a while I thought I could feel their hands

I know just what that meant now

Your eyes didn’t light up the same way

Even if I was still the angel in your bed

I tried to fight the monsters, to slay them

Because I couldn’t let those thoughts slip into

my mind

I could hear the whispers growing louder in my

mind

I could feel you slipping from my hands

When what I wanted was for you to hold them

Things are different now

Same monsters, no angel, new bed

I never knew it would end this way

Do you really want it this way

Are my kisses still etched in your mind

Can you tell me that you miss me when you lay

in bed

I miss the feeling of your blissful hands

Are they all over her now

She can’t feel the same under them

Of all my thoughts this is just the start of them

Because you broke me in a new way

So I want to feel it all now

The words are quickly flying out of my mind

I want you to read them all over your hands

Tell them to the monster no longer under your

bed

Every exchange played out in my mind, I want

to scream them

When I put my heart in your hands it wasn’t

supposed to be this way

But you have the monster from under your bed

now

Untitled by Mackenzie Krason

“Pain is like a Rubber Band”

by Alexis Nichols

Pain is like a rubber band, you see

Pain hurts, just like a rubber band

When it snaps back at you

Pain is like a rubber band

I know that both

pain and rubber bands

Coincide with one another.

Everything hurts at once.

Because when you let it go

“Hurricane Season Came Early”

by Kashera Anderson

"The sky is blue" isn't supposed to be a lie you tell

I can't be blindsided because when something hits me I shake like there's an earthquake in my

heart and a tornado in my head

I'm a natural disaster with an unnamed hurricane taking over my body

I can't swim and there's so much water that when I say I feel like I'm drowning I mean it

Waves keep crashing and they haven't in years and when my mouth opens so do the floodgates

and suddenly all my words get trapped with the tornado again

I should have known better than to build my happiness on an island

But the warm air and palm trees kept me daydreaming just long enough for the clouds to roll in

Someone asked me when hurricane season started

I told them one struck today, just before spring

Maybe that hurricane has your name

Urban Day by Makayla Harris

Hands by Asia Miller

“Hook Moon”

by Jack Gannaway

The sun had set outside, taking with it the last chances of escape. Town was miles away,

through the shadowy forest, made even darker by the absence of the sun. When the woman stood

by the kitchen window, she could hear the leaves being dragged over the road by the icy fingers

of the wind. At night, things moved in the forest. During most nights, the house kept the woman

safe. But tonight, the house alone could not save her. Above, the hook-like crescent moon hung

in the night sky. The woman abandoned her position by the kitchen window and headed to the

house’s basement.

As she walked down steps, she felt the house breathing around her, with loud sighs and

creaks as the autumn wind whistled outside. Entering the basement, she could smell rotting meat

from the meat cooler which combined with the natural mold and mildew to create a noxious

airborne cocktail that caused the woman’s eyes to water. She walked past the meat cooler at a

higher clip, trying to avoid looking at it. Behind a cabinet in the back, a pumpkin and a long

butcher’s knife rested against the wall. The woman breathed a sigh of relief. It was the pumpkin

that would keep her safe.

With the knife and pumpkin in hand, the woman returned to the kitchen. She then set

down the pumpkin on the counter and headed over to the light switch. Click. Nothing happened.

She tried again. Nothing at first. Then, the room was filled with a soft glow that melted the

darkest shadows in the room, replacing them with the eerie light that flickered with a candlelight

like glow. Cautiously, the woman approached the glowing pumpkin, holding the knife at arm’s

length. Her breath, which had grown rapidly, began to form a mist before her eyes. She moved

the knife towards the pumpkin, which glowed more intensely as she got closer. She brought the

knife away, and the glow faded. Outside, the things in the woods began to come out from the

trees. Time was running short. The glow played over the woman’s face, exposing her fear.

“John, are you in there?” she asked loudly. From downstairs, the meat locker rattled. He

was there, and she knew it. Quickly she began carving the pumpkin. At times, her jabs were

violent. Other times, they were slow and precise. Just like last time. As she carved, the details of

the face displayed on the wall by the flickering internal light of the pumpkin. First the eyes

appeared, followed by a mouth in the shape of an “O”, stuck forever in a silent scream. “John,

Honey… it’s ok! I carved a pumpkin, See? They won’t get in!” She shouted, unable to keep the

fear from her voice. The doorknob rattled in response. With that, the woman lifted the Jack O’

Lantern and fled the kitchen. Within seconds, she arrived at the front door and saw the glowing

yellow eyes of the people from the forest. At first, the people from the forest said nothing. They

just stared at her, her dress covered in pumpkin innards. In a last ditch attempt to frighten off

the forest people, the woman tensed up, clasped the pumpkin in her hands and bolted towards

the door, flinging it open. She took two steps on the front porch, and flung the pumpkin towards

them. The pumpkin seemed to float through the air, soaring over the driveway, until it landed

with a splatter on the ground before the forest people.

“Oh my god” Said one of the forest people. “What the heck is that?” said another. “I think

I’m going to… to… be sick.” Said a third. A sneer formed on the woman’s face, and with a flourish,

she withdrew the butcher’s knife. Though the glow of the porch light illuminated the woman, her

eyes remained enshrouded in shadow. “She’s got a knife!” cried one of the forest people. From

behind the great yellow eyes of the forest people, the sound of rustling could be heard, followed

by a heavy metallic clicking. With a scream, the woman dashed forward, holding the knife aloft

over her head. As she started running, the porch behind her exploded with gunfire, ripping

through flower pots and deck chairs. Through it all, not a bullet touched her. With drastic dodges

and weaves, the woman flung herself towards the forest people, kicking up dust and leaves into

the crisp fall air. She passed the forest people, swinging the blade wildly in the dark, and missing

the forest people with every swipe. From behind the yellow lights, stepped the chief of police,

weapon drawn. “Did any of you see where she went?” He asked.

“No sir,” said one of his lieutenants, standing by the cars. “I think she ran into the forest.”

“Alright Lt., I need you to sweep the surrounding area for her...And for the love of God,

someone cover that thing up,” said the detective looking at the pumpkin.

“Mystery Man”

by Trent Daly

There was once a man of great wonder and mystery

Everyone believed his intentions were despicable

Every day he walked the streets giving money those in need

He walked around in ragged clothes with a cane and looked pour

His generosity confused everyone in town of where he was from

They believed he gained his fortune through immoral practices

Still, the man went through the streets everyday carrying out his normal practices

People began to ponder his fortune, and searched for the answer to the mystery

They never knew the treasure he found while fighting for the country they’re all from

The way the citizens started to ridicule and taunt him was despicable

Witches by Alyssa Mendoza

“Rainy Days”

by Anna Beck

Opaque shadow.

Lyrical sorrow.

Torrent discern.

Monotone moment.

Questioning conformity.

It Can’t Happen Here: Literary Review

by Jack Gannaway

Title: It Can’t Happen Here

Author: Sinclair Lewis

Summary: It Can’t Happen Here chronicles the rise and fall of fictional American dictator

Berzelius (know as “Buzz”) Windrip through the perspective of New England newspaper editor,

Doremus Jessup.

Characters:

- Doremus Jessup- The main character of It Can’t Happen Here, Doremus is the

editor of a small town newspaper in New England, and has a keen interest in politics.

- Emma Jessup- Doremus’s wife

- Cecilia “Cissy” Jessup- Doremus’s daughter, who is also interested in politics.

- Berzelius “Buzz” Windrip- The main antagonist in It Can’t Happen Here, “Buzz” is

a power-hungry politician who promises to revitalize America after the deep economic

turmoil of the Great Depression.

- Shad Ledue- Doremus’s spiteful gardener who later gains rank in the local chapter of

Windrip’s personal army (known as the Minutemen)

- Lorinda Pike- a longtime friend of Doremus, and sympathetic to many of his political

views.

Opinion: Sinclair Lewis’s It Can’t Happen Here is a chilling and engrossing read. Despite

flaws with dialogue, Lewis creates a likeable (or deplorable, in the case of the dictator and his

lackeys) cast of characters. Lewis excels at making the dictator's regime feel real, with jarring

scenes of brutality by Windrip’s Minutemen. Lewis gives more credibility to his scenario by

including real politicians and public figures, as well as fictional ones. Though Lewis’s dictator is

based on European dictators of the time (Hitler, Mussolini, Etc.), Lewis takes inspiration from

power hungry politicians such as Huey Long of Louisiana to create a dictator with a uniquely

American edge. In conclusion, It Can’t Happen Here is just as relevant as the day as it was

written, and is a must-read for those interested in history and politics.

Recommended for: Political enthusiasts, especially those interested in the politics of the

Great Depression era, will find the book’s eerily realistic depiction of American Fascism

gripping from start to end.

Rating: 4/5 Stars

Untitled by Jessica Richards

Untitled by Burgess Edson

“Untitled”

by Emma Eubank

You do not have to be exactly what I wanted

From all I’ve seen, from entertaining,

You’ll shine too

Tell me about heading home again

Clear pebbles

Firelight flickers

Promises you can’t keep

You posed a danger of falling

Your imagination, like the wild

Drifts through the family of things

How can I hate that paralyzing body

Wherever you go, as the light catches,

It scatters pools of cool, blue light

One after another, colors especially bright

Unseen, unheard, but always near

“I am a Writer”

by Chloe Bain

The ink is my weapon

my pen is my sheath,

these pages are my army,

with wounds between the sheets.

“Seasons Haiku”

by Graham Padgett

seasons change yearly

plants grow, plants die, some survive

beauty in nature

“Blue”

by Sierra Hays

Lyrical Rings Inward

Blue Ocean Wind

Piercing pulses

Charmed truce

“The House”

by Anonymous

The house was there when a girl metaphorically

buried one of her own.

It heard thundering feet and the silence

between

She asked if it had added her mother

The house replied, How would I know?

I'm made of wood and clay;

there's no room for individual thought

She replied, So it is true.

Two hands cupped the carpet

a blanket shook during the night

Can a house give comfort? she asked

I can feel her arms squeezing my shoulders

from sleeping pills two rooms away

Why would a mind reach out to its own?

The wallpaper curled and turned yellow

in a confused response

Whispers coated breath in the air

Faces formed in corners and drapes

asking the right questions

Compassion where pity was due

I'm sure my mother is part of you, she affirmed

You act just like her

And you can't leave us

And she fell to the floor, sinking through

As like mother like daughter

Untitled by Alyssa Mendoza

“It”

by Chloe Bain

It soothes the lonely

with its bittersweet melodies.

It plays the right keys

in the wrong order

on an untuned piano.

It sings the song of the night,

lulling those with tired eyes

to sleep.

“Stuck”

by Jordan Dyer

12 years we’re stuck

Stuck with stress

Stuck with anxiety

Stuck with the overwhelming feeling that we

won’t succeed

Stuck with the fear we won’t be good enough

Stuck with the idea that everyone is better than

we are

Stuck in the moment when you are wrong

Stuck with the feeling that you’re a failure

These thoughts of being stuck are caused by

many things

But the main thing is

The educational system and

The expectations of families

It makes you feel like you’ll never escape

Like you’re stuck in a whirlwind

Of assignments and grades

Of never ending work

Of never ending stress and anxiety

This feeling of being stuck

We can relieve it

But you have to believe in us

You have to believe we can succeed

Without a load of work and tests

Tests that define what we can do with our lives

These tests only define what we can remember

Not what we can do

Not our ability to do what we love

Not our ability to care for others

Not our ability to succeed

Lessen the work, but keep expectations high

Don’t let us be failures

But don’t pressure us too much to succeed

They say pressure makes diamonds

But too much pressure and the diamonds will

break

These feelings of being stuck

They aren’t great

They won’t let us go

But if you give us space

And give us the chance to prove ourselves

Without having to take tests,

We wouldn’t feel so stuck

And we could feel more than anxiety

More than the stress

More than the pressure

Because we all can be diamonds,

But diamonds can break

And once they break, there’s no fixing it

And you should be more worried about the

breaking

Than the shine of the diamond.

Cathedral of John the Baptist by Jessica Stump

“The Traveler”

by Momina Awan

¨Bang!” The traveler knocked at the door even harder. He had been knocking at the door

for an hour and nobody from inside the house had replied. Nor had anyone poked their heads

from the window. The house looked deserted and yet had a strange atmosphere. The traveler had

finally given up on his patience. He set his feet in the horse's saddle and rode away.

This traveler was James. James was born in a very rich family who lived in a deserted place.

They did not want to work with people, and so James grew up to be the least social. Once, he was

wandering in the woods when he saw a woman carrying a child. When the woman saw him, she

tried to run away from him, but she was caught by a bush and fell down. James ran towards her

and helped her to stand up.

The woman was weeping. Her bare legs were bleeding. The baby was crying. She seemed so

scared. James comforted her by saying that he lives near this place. She can come and see his

parents and ask for help. This was the first woman James had seen other than his mother, and

he immediately fell in love with her. They walked towards the house. Meanwhile, the woman,

who looked as though she trusted James, and started telling her story.

“My name is Rebecca. I lived happily with my husband and my son in the midst of a

populated city. Our son was born with a disability. He can never walk again unless he is given a

special kind of herb. That herb is only found in the northern mountains. My husband made the

decision to make this long journey to get that herb. But he never returned. My friends told me

that he has died. I couldn’t sustain this, so I ran away from the busy realities of life. I want to live

in peace for the rest of my life!”

They finally reached James’ home. James told his parents all that happened. His parents

said that Rebecca could stay in the house until she found a place for her to live. They actually

intended to make Rebecca work for them.

That night, James could not sleep. He could not stop thinking about Rebecca. He thought

that she was really beautiful. He wanted to marry her. But he knew that Rebecca would not marry

him because he was useless. He didn’t work. All he did was wandering in the woods. That night,

he made the most important decision in his life. He decided to bring that herb from the

mountains and remove the disability of her child. He knew that this was a life risk but he couldn’t

think of something else to impress Rebecca.

The next morning, as soon as James woke up, he rushed to Rebecca’s room in the cellar

and told her what he had planned. Rebecca became so happy. She had tears in her eyes.

“I have never seen such a gentleman like you!”

These words were enough to raise James spirits. He knew that his parents would never

allow him to go for this reason. He needed to find an excuse and soon he came up with a very

good one.

That night, he went to his mother and said, “Ma! I was thinking about something.”

“What was it my little boy?”

“I am not a little boy now! I have grown up. I am a man. I want to see the world now. I

want to go to the city for a week or so.” His mother was surprised by this because he had never

expressed a desire to go into the city. But she couldn’t do anything other than letting him go.

The next morning, James set out for the journey towards the mountains. He had a white

horse who he adored a lot. The journey wasn’t over after a week. But he strongly wanted to get

that herb, It took him days to get out of the woods. He would spend his nights up in the trees.

Having grown up in the woods, he could shelter himself from the wild animals. He finally crossed

the woods after a week. His parents had already started worrying about him.

Now, James had to go north. He needed to go on the top of mountains and go to the place

where the herbs were. Rebecca had told him that the herbs were beside the river. It took him

ages to get to the mountains. On his way, he met a number of people who laughed at him.

“Are you kidding? That place is forbidden. It is the home to the worst beasts!” James

thought that people were only trying to be funny and continued his long journey. He was already

out of food. His mean of survival was hunting. He was quite good at it. Months passed and he

finally reached the mountains. He then started to climb the mountains. It wasn’t easy. With the

cold weather and the blowing wind, he often got ill and needed to stop. But he continued. Despite

all the difficulties, he finally reached the top. What he saw at first was disturbing. He saw human

skulls lying on the mountain. He could also hear a weird noise. He decided to ignore it and

started off towards the place where that herb was located. He hadn’t gone far when he noticed

that somebody was following him. He turned around and saw the most massive animal he had

ever seen. He ran from that animal and tried to kill it but it was just too huge. He ran and ran.

He finally saw a very long tree and climbed it. He stayed there the whole night.

In the morning, he crept up to the place where Rebecca said the herbs were. There were

no herbs, only mud there. He knew that Rebecca had lied. He got back on his saddle and began

that big journey back to his house. It took months and months. And then, he finally reached

there.

He knocked at the door of his house. Nobody came.

Rebecca actually was a thief. She and her gang robbed the house and killed James’

parents. James left the place after getting no response and settled in the city! He married a lady

and now has four kids. Whereas, Rebecca was caught robbing and is now in a prison!

Untitled by Olivia Iott

“The Boy Named Josh Moors”

by Elizabeth Rhodes

As he walked down the hall of the ten-year-old boy’s house, he saw the pictures of the boy

and his family. Looking at them made his brain hurt. He could feel the pain that the boy felt. As

he got closer the pain in his head spread down to his heart. He knew when the soul was lifted out

of the boy’s body, the pain would stop for the both of them. He turned into the boy’s room to see

a ten-year-old boy sleeping. Death wondered how the boy could sleep with that much pain. Then

Death turned to see if his parents were coming up the stairs just be sure.

“Who are you?” a voice asked behind him.

“I am a friend of yours,” Death said quietly.

“I don’t remember you being my friend,” the boy said with a tiny smile.

“I am the friend to take you to a place with bright lights, no pain, and other cool things,”

said Death.

“Will it have toys and milk shakes?” the boy asked happily in a low tone still lying down.

“Yes. It will have everything that you love and want,” Death said with a small laugh. “Do

you want to see?”

“Yes, please!” said the boy said. “But how we will I get there?”

“Just take my hand and close your eyes,” Death said.

“Okay.”

The boy put his hand into Death’s hand. Death pulled the boy up and in, close to him. The boy

smiled up at him. Death smiled down at him and then looked over at the boy’s lifeless body.

“I have a question do you have a name Mister,” the boy asked Death. “My name is Josh

Scott Moors. If you didn’t know it already.”

“My name is Death, Josh.” Death said slowly and quietly. “Don’t get scared, please.”

“I won’t. I was just dreaming about you,” Josh said to Death with a smile.

“Really,” Death said in a confused way.

“Yup and mommy said that you might be coming. Before we go can I say good-bye to

mommy and daddy?”

“Yes you can.”

They turn for the door but the Josh turned to him room and said to it, “I’ll miss you room and

toys.” Then he turned back around and put his hand into Death’s hand. They walked down the

stairs that entered the living room and the kitchen. There was both of Josh’s parents sitting on

the brown couch watching the news. Josh walked around the couch and sat on the brown chair.

Death walk to Josh and sat on the arm of the chair.

“Want to say anything to them before we go,’ Death asked Josh.

“I will when we leave,” Josh said to Death. “Right now I am trying to remember them.

His mom then get up and then goes up the stairs. His father just sat and watched the TV.

“It’s time to go Josh,” Death said with his hand out.

Josh puts his hand in Death’s. They start for the door and then a scream spread through the air.

It pained Death to hear it.

“BILL,” Josh’s mother

screamed.

His father ran up the stairs for her.

Josh looked back and then said, “I love

you, Mommy and Daddy.” Death looks

at Josh with sad eyes. Josh turns and

looks up at Death and smiles at him

and Death smiles back. Then Death

opens the front door to the bright light.

“There it is,” Josh said with a

smile.

“Yup, there it is.” Death

answered with a smile.

Then they stepped forward and into

the light and never looked back.

Cross by Amanda Martin

“Immed: Part 1”

by Emily Raine

My life is a twister going round and round in circles. Every day is like a cycle. Going to

school, coming home, doing homework, going to bed, then doing it all over again. I wish there

was a way I could break this cycle but I don’t know how. After all, I’m just a high school student

who is completely average and not special in any way. I’m not popular or anything. I only have

one close friend, but she moved last year. I only get to see her when she occasionally visits her

family who is still here in this small town. So yeah, that is my life story. Nothing ever happening,

nothing ever changing. I am just an ordinary girl.

My name is Lisa and I’m a sophomore at Moore High School (hey, that rhymes). I live in

the tiny town of Lynchville with my mom and dad and my little brother. Our house is noisy

because my little brother is a spoiled little brat. He is always throwing tantrums if things don’t

go his way. I think that most younger siblings act like that based on what I’ve observed in my

friend’s family and my cousins. Enough about him, I should shed more light on who I am. I am

what you could call an emo weeaboo. A weeaboo is someone who not only likes anime but also

likes Japanese culture. Yeah, I’m not your typical nerd. My existence is one that feels like it's

meaningless because no matter what I do, no one notices except my parents.

It’s another day at Moore High School with preppy girls roaming the hallways, their look-

a-like boots clicking in rhythm on the tiled floor and the guys hitting each other with lacrosse

sticks for fun. Then there’s me, wearing all black walking alone in the halls, my dark brown hair

hiding one of my eyes. I clutch the straps on my black backpack which clinks with every step I

take, the anime key chains bouncing up and down held only by the latches. This is another

ordinary day. Nothing will happen. Life goes on. At least that’s what I thought. Boy, how wrong

I was.

I was sitting in my first period class watching the clock, the minutes tormenting how long

I would sit at this desk as the teacher droned on about Aryan supremacy in Germany a long time

ago. I already knew this stuff so why should I bother to listen to the teacher. I was about to fall

asleep on my desk when the door opened. A small girl with blond hair stepped in and presented

a pink slip to our teacher who was still in the middle of her lecture. My teacher took the pink slip

and read it, her eyes not missing a single letter. ¨Lisa Hayfelt¨ the teacher said in her partially

cracked voice. My head immediately snapped back to reality. Slowly I got up and walked to the

front of the room with all eyes staring at me. ¨Take your stuff with you,¨ the teacher whispered

as I looked at the pink slip. It said that I needed to go to the office. I immediately went back to

my seat, slung my backpack on my shoulder, and walked out of class.

As I started down the hallway, I noticed the same girl who delivered my note was standing

against the wall like she was waiting for someone. She then slowly turned to me, her eyes like

saucers. ¨Is something wrong?¨ I asked. ¨This is bad,¨ she muttered under her breath, her eyes

constantly looking around as if something or someone was watching us. ¨What’s bad?¨ I asked.

¨You need to get out of here immediately.¨ she said to me. She then grabbed my free hand that

wasn’t holding anything and started dragging me towards one of the school’s back doors. She

then opened the door and shoved me outside closing the door behind her. I was now locked

outside. ¨HEY!¨ I yelled, my fist pounding at the door. ¨ Let me back in!¨

The girl didn’t respond to my request to get back inside. Instead, she just turned around

and left me outside pounding on the door. I concluded that since school was still going on, no

one would be around to let me back in. ¨ What to do now?¨ I groaned while leaning against the

red brick wall. I knew this was going to be a long day. Then I thought to myself, I could just use

the main office entrance. Besides, they did request for me to come down there. I walked around

to the front of the building. Just as I was about to round the corner, I saw something in front of

the main office entrance. Idling in the drop off lane was a black car. Outside of the car there was

a man standing in front of one of the passenger doors. He had on a black suit and a tie, just like

secret agents in those action or spy movies.

¨That little brat is nowhere to be found!¨ I turned my head to see another man walking

down the steps wearing an identical outfit to the man standing in front of the car. ¨ That office

assistant must have told her about us!¨ said the man in front of the car. The two men then got

into the car and sped away. I immediately knew that I was not safe at school anymore, heck

maybe even this town if they live here. I realized that I had to leave school and get back home as

soon as possible. That way I would be safe at least for a little while.

I ran through the school parking lot not stopping until I had reached the sidewalk. With

sweat dripping on my forehead, I began the long walk home. I grabbed my book bag straps even

tighter, nervously staring at the cars on the road. I hoped that a police car would not spot me

skipping school. If they did, they would take me back to school and I would get a referral and a

phone call home. Picking up the pace, I trudged up a hill that led to my neighborhood. My

neighborhood doesn’t have a sidewalk so I have to walk along the curb. All the houses look

exactly the same, red brick buildings with blue rooftops. The only way to identify your house is

the number address or put up really weird Halloween decorations all year long like my neighbor

does.

I walked up the driveway once I reached my house. Trying to not look at the cheesy

Halloween decorations in the next yard over, I opened the door to the garage and walked inside.

My garage is surprisingly very empty save for my parent’s cars. The cars are not here right now

as both Mom and Dad are at work. I pulled the house key out of my pants pocket and unlocked

the door in the garage that leads to the house. I cautiously crept inside, no one appeared to be in

the house. I quickly took my shoes off and left them near the front door, running upstairs with

my backpack as fast as I could.

My room has anime and band posters all over the walls with lots of anime and band

merchandise scattered throughout the room. It is very neat with only a couple of books on the

floor. I flung my backpack on the ground and collapsed on my bed. I stared at the ceiling

wondering what I should do. Should I call my mom and tell her what’s going on or just leave and

not tell anyone where I’m going? I decided that I should probably just leave. My parents probably

wouldn’t believe me if I told them there were some guys out to get me. Reluctantly, I pulled my

phone out of my backpack. If I was to run away, I would have to leave my phone or else the police

could track me down. I quickly got up and dumped my school stuff onto the bed. All my school

supplies and paper would just be dead weight. I grabbed my wallet from my desk drawer and

emptied out my school ID card and my Hot Topic membership card. I stuffed my wallet into my

backpack and went to my bathroom.

My bathroom isn’t exactly the cleanest but it's also not extremely dirty. I reached

underneath the sink and pulled on the gold knob. The small cabinet door opened up to reveal a

mess of personal hygiene items. I reached through the mess to grab my hygiene travel kit. My

mom is one of those people that likes to buy those pre-packaged travel kits. I put that in my bag

and reached for my dresser. I grabbed two pairs of every item of clothing. Once I had packed

everything needed for survival in my room, I ran downstairs. I grabbed miscellaneous food items

and two bottles of water. I also took the money at my placemat that I had been saving for an

anime convention. I know I have been saving this money for a while but my own safety is more

important than an anime convention I told myself. Before I left, I took one last look at the

kitchen and the house. I’m sorry mom and dad but I have to do this. I promise I will come back

when I am no longer in danger.

Once I left the house, I proceeded to the subway station not far from my house. You might

be asking why we have a subway station in such a tiny town? The reason is, Lynchville is actually

not that far away from the big city of Gresspin Falls. Gresspin has an extensive subway system

that extends to many of the smaller cities and towns in the area. Once I reached the underground

stairs that lead to the subway, I pulled out my subway card and descended into the darkness.

Our subway line is usually very busy at all times of the day due to many people who

commute to and from Gresspin for work. But for some reason, there were hardly any people here

except for the people who work there and the few loners in business suits on their phones. At

first I thought it was because that it was in the late morning and most people have left for work

already. Then I realized that it wasn’t because it was late in the morning. It’s because those people

who were looking for me were there. I saw them just a little beyond the checkpoints where you

scan your subway cards. They were standing on the platform as if they were waiting for the train

to arrive.

I had to act fast. It was either be spotted or find another way to Gresspin. I didn’t want to

get caught by them but I also didn’t want to walk all the way to Gresspin. Seriously, that is

probably a two hour walk not including the fact that you have to dodge the cars. I just then

noticed the women’s bathroom. Maybe I should go hide in the bathroom and wait a little bit.

They might give up searching for me. Quickly and quietly I stepped into the women’s bathroom.

END OF PART 1

By the Window by Kate Ruehle

“Slave: Chapter 1”

by Susan Gibson

There is a small island in the middle of the Constan Sea. This island is all one kingdom,

called Mondant. The kingdom itself is poor, but only in comparison to the countries around it.

Historically, the government has been a figurehead, as the real power lies with the kingdom’s

clans. Law enforcement does what it can to protect the people, but it is not enough, so they turn

to these clans for protection. There has been little fighting in recent years, due to the fact that

most of the territory has been in the hands of the same clan, or clans, for generations now.

Most of these clans focus on protecting their people from slavers who plague the country.

Some of these clans let the slavers take a certain number of people each year. Others do

not even try to protect anyone except themselves, but most try to protect all of the people

between the ages of five and thirty, the prime targets for slavers. Anyone older than this

generally will not sell for a high enough price for slavers to make a profit, so they do not waste

the effort.

Slavers take those they capture and sell them in nearby rich countries. These rich

countries also want something that most people on the island kingdom of Mondant have:

magic.

There are many types of magic, and it is very rare to have it. Unfortunately for

Mondant, those who live on the island are more likely to be born with magic than those who

do not.

As a result of having magic, those ages five to thirty years old go to school every day.

They learn about their history, slavers, how to survive, anything to keep them in school where

it is easier to protect them. These schools are practically fortresses as a result. Every day, those

who live off campus are escorted to and from school by armed guards, to prevent them from

being kidnapped.

Most of these schools are attacked by different pirate groups, at different times, with

different rates of success. Often times, whoever runs the local clan has to choose which area of

the school to protect most, because even the clans are not always strong enough to prevent the

slavers from entering the school grounds.

This situation has been typical throughout Mondant for almost a century. Many

attempts have been made by Mondant to rectify the situation, but none of them have succeeded

thus far. Each time the problem seems to be coming to an end, the slavers either make a

concentrated attack, or the richer countries do. Over the years, the government of Mondant

has given up hope of ever permanently fixing the situation, but they still strive to do their best.

-Excerpt from The History of Mondant, author unknown

The world of Stella Terra, as the locals called it, was rather like ours. For one thing, those

who lived there are humans. For another, a lot of the local wildlife was the same. Now, they did

have some animals that we do not, like a creature that appears to be a monkey with wings, and

another that appears to be a horse with a wolf’s tail and ears. Unlike us though, these people are

believed to have had magic. Evidence of this is found in the building materials and technology

on their world. Whether or not there are any of these people left is unknown. However, most

believe that whatever caused them to leave their world will likely be a threat to us in the future.

Thus, extensive research has been and is still being conducted on their world. Surprisingly, most

everything is intact. Entire libraries full of books, whole buildings, and other such anomalies dot

the landscape. From what we have been able to deduce, most of the local wildlife is still alive.

There are many theories on what happened to these people. Some believe that aliens took them

all and are using them to experiment on. This is highly unlikely, as there is no sign of resistance.

At the same time, there are no signs of people packing in a hurry and leaving. Whatever

happened to them will likely remain one of the world’s great mysteries.

-Introduction to The Unsolved Mysteries of Alien Worlds, written by Nolan Jameson

What a day.

At first, it was like every other day. Get up, go to school, come back home, hide. Except

today the school was raided. Students were stolen, and I was one of them. Unlike most of the

others, I knew exactly what would happen to us, and that we would likely never see home again.

We were to be sold, like cattle, to the highest bidder. There was no way I would just sit

around and let that happen, but I know that in the end, most of my efforts to save everyone else

will go to waste.

How did I know?

This isn’t the first time I’ve been stolen. I got lucky last time. My older brother recognized

me at the auction, bought me, and brought me back home.

I was under no illusions.

My mom had died recently, and I would never see my father again. And this time, Kyle

wouldn’t be there to save me. He had left home several years ago, and I hadn’t seen him since.

No matter. Since I knew what was coming, hopefully I could use it to my advantage.

I had some hidden talents. Unlike most nineteen year old girls, I was tall, muscular, and

had extensive knowledge about the strategically dangerous and exhilarating form of

communication known as fighting.

Now, I didn’t want to get myself pegged as an Untameable. No, I wanted them to see me

the same way my peers did. Tough. Strong. A leader. Someone to be respected. The sound of a

man coming in and throwing us some food made me raise my head. The burly man left, and we

all heard the bolt click.

Getting up, I walked over to the food and picked some up. There was no way that the

slavers would poison it or anything, not after going through all of the trouble of getting us here.

The food looked perfectly good, too, nothing was stale or moldy, even if it was dirt cheap. If they

really wanted to drug us, they wouldn’t waste good food. I went back to my empty corner, leaned

against the wall, and slid to the floor. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but I’d

been in worse places. At least this one was clean.

While eating, I surveyed the room. It had blank white walls, and a rough wooden floor. In

one corner there was a water fountain, and in another there was a door leading to a bathroom.

I’d already been in the bathroom; there was no way to escape in there. A heavy wooden door sat

in the center of one of the walls. Obviously, that was the only way out, and the only way in. There

were about thirty other people in the room with me, all of whom were giving me space, just the

way I liked it. My crew was all here, and as I’d ordered, were mingling with the others, acting like

they had no clue who I was.

Perfect.

A few of the wiser kids also grabbed food, and soon there was a rush for it. Minutes later,

everyone settled down, and someone sat near me. I ignored the gesture. Making friends was not

something I could afford to do, not if I was going to survive, get out of this mess, and help the

others.

“Yo.”

I looked at at the guy who had spoken. He looked to be my age, maybe older, with black,

perfectly spiked hair, and ditch water brown eyes. A shiny black leather jacket, multiple ear rings,

and a couple tattoos completed his pretty-boy, tough, wanna-be look. Real toughs didn’t need all

that. The look in their eyes was enough to send anyone with sense running. Turning back to my

food, I finished eating.

“You mute?” he asked leaning towards me. I shook my head, then shut my eyes and tried

to sleep. He poked me, and I felt the tenuous hold I had on my nearly ever-present anger

weakening further.

“Do that again and you might just lose your finger.”

“Like you could do that,” he snorted.

Opening my eyes, I looked at him. “Do you know why no one sat near me?” I looked him

up and down, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. They could read body language, unlike this

guy, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Obviously not. They are being respectful, because they

know I like my space, and they know what happens to those who invade it.”

“What happens to them?” he asked, leaning closer.

“Move or you’ll find out.”

He didn’t budge, so I punched him. He slid across the floor to the other wall, and blood

trickled out of his broken

nose.

“That’s what

happens.” I called, and

then I shut my eyes and

went to sleep.

Bonds of Time by Burgess Edson

“Pots out of Mud”

by Momina Awan

One simply can’t deny the cycle of life. After nine months of being in their mother’s womb,

a person passes through a series of changes. The most significant one is from childhood to

maturity. Playing with mud is probably one of the most popular marks of childhood and one

seems to be mature when they stop that and start participating in the more complex matters of

life. But for me, you are mature not when you stop playing with mud, but when you start making

use of mud. When you start making small pots and then, you show those to others. This is what

maturity is in my views. It's about improving. It’s about getting positive changes.

I was once a baby too. I used to cry a lot. My mom says that I was the most annoying kid

among all my sisters! I used to chase my younger sisters, I used to cry when I had to go to school,

and I used to dirty my clothes again and again. Thinking about all that is strange because of what

I am now, completely different. I don’t cry because I miss my parents. I don’t cry because I am

in a completely different country. I don’t cry because I am mature.

Yes, I am an exchange student. I have been living here, in the United States, and it almost

feels like home. I think that this is the biggest improvement in my life. I have learned to be

independent. I have learned how to manage things on my own. I am not scared of going out alone

now. I have adjusted well into this completely different country and its people. I don’t cry when

I get lost somewhere. Instead, I use my GPS! I am able to communicate to different people. I am

able to express myself now. I don’t ask my mom to introduce me to her friends. I am now a

different person. I have improved a lot and I am mature now. I can feel that I have accomplished

a lot. I have improved a lot because now I have started making pots out of the mud which I once

used to dirty my clothes with.

Galaxy by Megan Brinkley

“Magnetic Poetry 1 & 2”

by Emma Eubank

1

A porcelain peace remembers kissing soft

marble

Poetry breathes a brilliant universe

Embracing a dark morning

Ferocious in ghosts and lingering

Eternity’s throb with wild fools

Women bring gods to heart and

Waking prisoners haunting desires

The ocean can only dazzle some

With steam and smoke and stars

2

Through summer a woman sings of lazy love

Delirious lunacy’s aching

Flaming words rushing upstream

Mothers whisper of frantic dreams

Being the diamond in a spray

His mad shining goddess

Repulsive and driven but raw lying in the sea

Though to stop a spring storm

Petals strewn above water

She swims to recall me

“Rainy Days”

by Anna Beck

Opaque shadow.

Lyrical sorrow.

Torrent discern.

Monotone moment.

Questioning conformity.

Music in the Outdoors by Kaela-Jean Smith

“My Amazing Life”

by Mary Catherine McCord

I have an amazing life. There is no doubt in my mind that I am among the most fortunate

of young women. I was abandoned at birth in Ukraine, and was immediately put at risk for

disease, malnutrition, and even death. As providence would have it, my mom had the courage

to go to Ukraine by herself and go through the adoption process there. It is a corrupt, costly

procedure that took her two months to accomplish. She adopted me as an underweight, sickly

six-month-old. When she met me I was a failure-to-thrive baby in a coma state and weighed

only six pounds at six months. My mom was patient, persistent, and faithful. Two months later,

we stepped on to American soil and I became a U.S. citizen, a gift I highly value. Due to my

mom’s deep love, special care, and kindness, I am healthy, I am loved, and I am treasured.

I have grown up in an extraordinary home where the arts all flourish and where

intellectual curiosity and spirituality are valued. My mom, a musician, probably wanted me to

become a great cellist; but when I began to pursue another creative field, filmmaking, she became

my most enthusiastic cheerleader. It was more than allowing me to follow my own interests and

became an invaluable life lesson to me about how important it is to nurture and encourage those

whom you love. I hope to share this same approach with my own children someday and allow

them the freedom to be their own persons.

I now know that I want to pursue a career as a screenwriter and film director. I am ready

for the challenges and opportunities that I will face as a young female director. Women are still

a rarity as producers, directors, and screenwriters and often fail to receive the accolades they

deserve. Former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill once said, “Success consists of going

from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” I find this quote to be rather witty and

humorous, while seriously defining the concept of success. Certainly Thomas Edison understood

this. He held over 1000 patents for different inventions. Along the way to inventing the light

bulb and the phonograph, he had quite a few failures. He has said that he didn’t fail; he just

found 10,000 ways that won’t work. He’s also quoted as saying that many of life’s failures are

people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up. That is why I push

myself on each new film project to get it right. It is important to me that my film career be

celebrated more for its courage and determination than its wealth.

So, yes, I have an amazing life ahead of me. I am full of hope. And I hope that I will fight

the good fight and stay focused on things that really matter to me — God, my family, friendships,

and a memorable film career.

Highways by Rebecca Plankeel

“Painted Sign”

by Sierra Hays

This is just to say

I have painted

The sign

That hangs on

The back door

And which

you’re

probably thankful

For not having to paint

No need to thank me

It was enjoyable

So calming

“Caffeine Buzz”

by Chloe Bain

The taste of coffee

will linger on my lips

for a few hours.

But your kiss

can give me a buzz

that will last

a lifetime.

And relaxing

“Racism Definition”

by Bryonna Elliott

There is a demon making a return attack on America. Many thought it had disappeared;

although, they failed to realize that it was only hiding in the shadows of the barrel of a .22 and in

between the lines on the job application…hiding in the folds of integration and color

television…hiding under the hood of the ambulance…hiding in the alleyways of mixed income

communities. It's hiding between the pages of history textbooks…hiding behind the plaque of a

white man’s name on the school building…hiding in plain sight. Racism has many facets. Racism

can be something subtly implemented by the society in which one resides, or racism can be an

unconsciously learned behavior based on what society has engrained into everyone’s brains.

Racism is a noun. Racism is a hatred or intolerance of another race.

Racism is systematic. Racism is going extinct. Racism is resurgent. Racism is taught.

Racism is learned. Racism is sneaky. Racism is conniving. Racism is cunning. Racism is toxic.

Racism is lethal. Racism is brain washing. Racism is degrading. Racism is forced. Racism is

begged for. Racism is accepted.

Racism is white privilege. Racism is affirmative action. Racism is student loans and

college tuition. Racism is #alllivesmatter. Racism is different prime times. Racism is

incentivizing black-on-black crime. Racism is subtly condoning acts that will weaken the black

community. Racism is prejudice. Racism is shooting the black man for jogging at midnight.

Racism is dismissing the case because of the white man’s skin color.

Racism is not race-to-race prejudice. Racism is not the common hateful person. Racism

is not helping someone pick up their books. Racism is not giving money to the poor black man

on the streets. Racism is not giving someone the job because they're qualified. Racism is not

holding the door for someone on their way out of the building.

Racism is reaching out to touch my hair without asking. Racism is not holding the door

for me with one glance over the shoulder. Racism is asking everyone else around the classroom

for a pencil except me. Racism is assuming that I’m not worth talking to because of the pigment

of my skin. Racism is saying that there is no way I can be “all the way” black. Racism is telling

everyone my shoes are fake just because it is assumed that my mother’s job isn’t good enough.

Racism is looking at me funny when I express my aspirations because they're not a “common

black girl’s” endeavors.

Racism is taking offense to being called black. Racism is congratulating me on something

that is mediocre to the white man. Racism is telling me to apply for jobs instead of empowering

me to create my own. Racism is telling me that I’ll never make it out of the community in which

I grew up. Racism is telling that me I have too many white friends. Racism is telling me that I’m

good enough for a black girl.

Racism is a noun that describes the hatred or intolerance of another race. Racism is the

institutional assistance in the weakening of a race. Racism is not being civil to an individual of

another race. Racism is something every black person must face. Racism is not being proud of

one’s race.

“The Things We’ve Been Told”

by Amanda L. Martin

"Forgive and forget and learn to let go"

They sound nice enough but it is just for show.

"The past is the past so focus on today"

But it is kinda hard when the past gets in the way.

"Never burn a bridge because you may need it"

But sometimes you need to burn the bridge to forget.

"Today is a gift, that's why it's called the present"

But if today is horrible, is that the kind of gift I get?

"A smile can change the way of a man"

But when that smile is made of hate, then is it worth anything?

"Love your neighbor as if it was you"

But if it is me I hate then can they be loved too?

"Turn your cheek and let them do to you as they please"

But I've always know to fight and never bend my knees.

"Respect everyone and show them who you are"

But if you don't give me respect we will never go far.

"Lies are bad and cruel to all affected"

But if a lie can make you glad, I'd rather have you protected.

Sayings we've been told since we were small can never be lived by when you're backed against a

wall.

Cathedral of John the Baptist 2 by Jessica Stump

Paw Print by Amanda Martin

“Electricity”

by Chloe Bain

You have a light socket running through your mouth,

you have lightning sparks in your eyes,

you have electricity cascading down your spine.

Every kiss jump starts my heart, causing it to jolt against my rib cage.

Every whisper shocks my skin, sending static through the air between your lips and my neck.

Every look into your eyes lets me stare into the lighthouse that is your soul.

But now… you’re no longer like that.

Your light socket has been unplugged, and your words are empty and your kisses provide me

no comfort.

Your lightning sparks are just thunder clouds now, and your whisper turns my shoulders to ice.

The electricity that once ran through your veins now only runs through your finger tips every

time you want to caress my skin with the sting of what once was and now there is an empty

void where your heart once was.

You are fried, electrocuted, shocked.

You twitch when you speak, you flinch as you move, you glitch when you smile.

You were electric,

but the power went out.

Storm Dances by Mackenzie Kreason

“Pianissimo Love”

by Anonymous

We speak in whispers

because our love

can’t reach it’s forte.

Piano keeps us hidden away

from what we aren’t really ready to accept.

Forte would be too daring,

too loud,

too bold,

too known.

Let us stay in the shadows

with our pianissimo love.

“The Hand” by Catherine Conlon

“Dear Friend”

by Anonymous

Dear Friend,

Do not love someone

They told me

Who tears down the walls you built around

yourself

Without mind of who they hurt with the debris

Love someone who takes it apart slowly

Brick by brick

Allowing you to evolve from the scared thing

you were

To the loved thing you are

And I believed them

Dear Friend,

I love him

I know this because the first time I saw him

He smiled at me through a space in my wall

Made by a brick

That he gently removed

Dear Friend,

The moment between a flash of lightning

And a crash of thunder

The seconds that seem to stretch on for all the

lifetimes you might live

The instant when you’re on the edge

And you’re slowly tipping forward

As if attracted to the vast unknown below

And you know there’s no one to catch you

That’s what falling in love with him feels like

Dear Friend,

I am not weak because of him

I am not strong because of him

I am

Because of him

And he is

Because of me

Dear Friend,

I felt it before I saw it

The distance between us grew

Like a tumor

Violent

Merciless

There was no diagnosis

So it stayed hidden

There was no cure

So it stayed

And he didn’t

Dear Friend,

As I lay draped in a heavy shroud of emptiness

They wonder aloud

How are these weak bones

They point

How is this marred skin

I shield my scars from their eyes

How are these broken heartstrings

I gingerly place a hand

On my chest

So I don’t break any more

How is this girl

Alive?

Like a mountain

I rise slow and strong

Shedding the weight of his absence

I am alive

I tell them

Because I know

I am more

Than my pain

And this, my dear friend

Is what I wish you knew

You are more than your pain

Untitled by Tess Deddens

Delicate Love by Olivia Baker

“Those Who Suffered”

by Faith Cuevas

Many died Few survived

Many suffered All were clustered Living off bread Many were dead

With no energy to fuel Fed pasty, gray gruel

Almost everyone starved All with a story to carve

Some cried tears Others suffered for years

People did anything to hide others never even tried

Tortured, beaten and struck Many came out due to pure luck

With nothing even to share

Many walked around bare Some suffocated by gas

People watched their loved ones pass Several couldn’t eat

Unclothed and in bare feet Some had to die by flame

All went through pain With no more hope Many couldn't cope All because of race

People were sent to this place Families went through separation

A time of unequal segregation Things were never the same

Only the Nazis to blame Don't let the memories be lost

Of those who suffered the Holocaust

Blue London by Emma Eubank

“Literacy Autobiography”

by Nuha Reza

We often find ourselves surrounded by people we like; these are our friends. Then, at

some points in life, we find ourselves in the midst of people for whom we have the utmost respect.

These are our friends as well- our educated friends. We hang around our educated friends not

because of their hilarity or personal traits, but mainly because they inspire us to better ourselves.

In my case, one such friend is the reason for the improvement of my writing. She is by far the the

most wonderful teenage writer and editor I've ever had the pleasure to meet. I have her edit

everything I care about, and I ecstatically express my ideas to her in the most random of

moments. It is because of her that I cracked down on my writing, that I started to criticize myself

more harshly. It is because of her that I grew more serious about my writing. It is because of her

that I actually felt inclined to finish at least one thing in my young, very unproductive life. That

said, I met her in high school, so I had already wasted most of my time for the past decade. When

I read her material, however, I learned that writing can be a way of expressing oneself without

fear of repercussions.

Growing up with two language settings in your head isn't easy. Though my parents know

English and I their mother tongue, I'm in the same position every week: I say something in my

language that would sound infinitely better in English, and I'm misunderstood and suddenly

offensive. When people say "language gap," nobody can understand what that means until they

one day text their mom, "I'm listening to Maroon 5!" and come home to a very upset mother who

is bombarding them with questions about what a "Moron 5" is supposed to mean. This language

barrier separates me from native English and speakers of my language. I have to gather my

thoughts and lay them down in the concrete in the clearest and sincerest way possible, which

takes time. Spontaneous conversations are a nightmare, especially if I’m not comfortable nor

familiar with the people involved. I have to be able to rearrange my words in my head so that I

can be my witty self, though this offers nothing but unoriginal answers and awkward pauses in

conversation. It’s much more convenient to jot down everything I think and feel at once without

having to be interrupted. I don’t have to rush to say something and end up saying it wrong. I can

say what I mean and mean what I say without being misinterpreted for once. It’s more

entertaining, however, to express ideas as a storyteller.

I discovered my first internet story in the seventh grade. Since then, my world has

expanded. It started with a single story, and over the span of four years my online library has

grown to about five hundred. I’ve read and written war heroes, perfect prats, psychopaths, and

immoral fools. My writing in seventh grade started out with an average vocabulary and flat tone.

Recently, I wrote a chapter of one of my stories that is entirely a stream of consciousness. I went

from all caps and twelve exclamation points to italics and a purposeful lack of punctuation.

School had a factor in my writing as well. I distinctly remember enjoying essays in tenth

grade, something I’d never done before. I’m a writer of fiction, not fact. Nonfiction bores me to

the point at which I start sniffing Sharpies just because they’re there (which has happened

before- please refer to 8th grade Civics). But I was given the opportunity in tenth grade to make

my essays as long, sarcastic, and scathing as I wanted. It helped me determine my views and

made me realize where I was on the weird scale (pretty far out there, apparently). I went on rants

about society and the people in society, and I channeled my emotions and thoughts into my

words. So like an ex-teeny-bopper Pete Wentz with a platoon of big words.

If I didn’t have writing, I’d still be the quiet girl in the back of the classroom. I’d be a drone of

society who listened to pop music (and only pop music- goodness gracious, I’m glad I started

writing…) and used excessive punctuation and small words. (Either that, or more of a psychopath

than I am now.) I’d be a close-minded, complacent little twit who didn’t know enough to be able

to carry a conversation on the LGBTQ+ movement. I wouldn’t have internet friends with

interesting views and debate buddies with infuriating arguments. I wouldn’t be able to state my

opinions as fact and drag my views behind me like a boss. I wouldn’t be able to own myself- I’d

just be society’s little marionette. And marionettes are creepy, man.

Nebula by Katelyn Barker

“Untitled”

by Sabina Sabat

With a flourish in the air such as that of the quill, with a feeling in the heart such as the

eternal dread of generations, with a clean swoosh such as that of a scythe at work - time passes.

It is the same for everyone, for everyone mortal; time drones, seeping through cracks in the

windows and doors, sloshing up through the sewers, on and on and on and on. Where life goes,

time goes; where life ceases, time remains. There is nothing more fluid or more set. And Time?

Well, Time prefers not to discuss it. It’s just a job. Time prefers to creep through shadows, hiding

its slick and flexible body in the corners of generations, accumulating cobwebs and lost bobby

pins. Time gives little, but when it gives, it gives its whole self.

---------------------------------------------------

Board meetings purr with the very essence of boredom - even to the immortals.

Particularly to the immortals. The table is set, the sentences to be drawn. It is a game they will

play, where none know the rules and none reap the benefits.

Death ultimately takes all, greedy Death with voracious claws and teeth. Its voice is a

sultry hum, smoky with the seductive plague of ephemerality. From under the cloak of shade,

Death’s speech exhibits the same wave-particle duality as the electron.

Pestilence is next, a sickly creature curled in on itself, made of chipped nails and brittle

bones, skin stripped of oils and molested by open sores. A thin rag covers its hair; its voice,

cracked and groggy as the worst of early mornings, nasal from mucus.

A faint scream carries War wherever it saunters; when it speaks, the same sentiment is

shared. Vague and distant as if from the mountaintops, War follows Death most closely, fitted

clothing flexible yet torn with the restraints of undeniable carnage. At each footfall, the ground

beneath it shuddered.

Famine, too weak to hold conversation, shudders in the corner. Only when the air is

crowded with frantic argument does the emaciated finger lift and the faint voice place a few

words within the ears of the near. Famine sleeps in the shade and cries with pangs of emotion,

enveloped in the gloomy shadow of Death.

The Forgotten Fifth rarely offers much. Time is a content wallflower, sitting heavily on its

chair with eyes littering its face, ears large for the gathering. Rarely does Time speak, voice

smooth and dark as velvet - it is resigned to the dominance of Death. Death does not know that

while it is fleeting, Time is forevermore.

The issue on the table, Death intones, Great Britain. Pestilence, what say you?

Pestilence, to this, A plague.

Of course, of course. Plague, always plague, whines War. There is nothing more to you

than plague?

And is there nothing more to you, War, than senseless bloodshed and violence? snaps

back Pestilence.

Time.

The word is the name, an address. A nonpartisan view.

Time. What say you?

How difficult it is to avoid falling into the smooth embrace of Death. Death had none to

say of Great Britain; ultimately, it would garner the souls.

Time blushes; a clock jumps more quickly. I know not much of Great Britain.

Go, then. You are dismissed. We will speak of Egypt next; you, go to Great Britain. Find

yourself an opinion in the Channel. Death hesitates, a life drags for a half second longer. There

is one in England. Newly born. This is the one on whom we hinge, on whom the cornerstones

are built for the country. There is a battle raging, and the benevolent forces of Love and

Justice...could not make it today. As is known. (this is to the seats across the table, as it was

apparent: Love, with emblazoned eyes, skin the color of smoke, was unavailable; Justice, slow

and peaceful, symmetrical, serene, had not joined - fates would certainly turn for the worst) An

unbiased view. Let us know what you know, upon your return, my dear companion.

A chosen one? This is Famine, weakly wavering in halfhearted hope..

No. Not today. But a leader, no doubt.

The aura of the table shifts, electric excitement standing thickly. A rare occurrence, of

Death’s timers, to locate a strong leader.

War blinked unevenly, too excited for the impending battle to hold it in.

A cloak on the marble floor of the gods, and Time is gone - yet, in the crevices, it lingers.

-------------------------------------------

After Time pursued the name on the timer, Miriam was unavoidable.

Justice drifted in twelve hours, eighteen minutes, and forty-five seconds late, Time noted.

Great Britain was spared on its scales, but Miriam remained an issue of debate. War would have

the leader be a rebellious, revolutionary soul; Love hoped for a philosopher or psychologist.

Pestilence and Famine claimed a hope of disease, as always. To win influence would be to become

the dominant idea of a generation, it would be to win power, it would be to add physical strength

to the ethereal essence of the stars which made the gods. Justice and Death called for balance.

Time found itself enamored.

Not an extra second or minute would pass without a checkup - Miriam’s graduated fifth

grade, now seventh, now tenth. A volunteer at multiple organizations, a blood donor, a youth

leader. Age twenty-four, a graduate with a major in political science and minor in ethnicity and

gender studies. Twenty-seven, a professor, imparting knowledge and changing lives.

The fascinated Time followed Miriam through the facets of life: marriage at thirty, no

children; two cats and a dog instead. Death claimed the husband two years later.

An immense and immeasurable grief found its way into the ribs of time, where the secrets

of the universe hid, stabbing at nothing and everything. With Miriam’s sadness increasing,

Time’s did as well - when it waned, Time’s found itself fading like lingering unspoken

punctuation.

Time fluttered when it floated by the object of its attention after long period of absence.

Miriam was in the House of Commons.

It protected Miriam as thoroughly as could be, from then. A shield went up, against

Pestilence and Famine and even Love. As much as was possible, Time managed. Miriam

consumed its thoughts like disease consumes civilizations - not entirely, but pronouncedly.

This one led movements, this one created equality and prosperity for a nation plagued by

mortal dilemmas like greed and thoughtlessness and hatred. A whirlwind political career - a

leader, for sure - was the remainder of Miriam’s life, leading to the position of Prime Minister,

ending abruptly when Death stepped in.

Unwilling to wait, anxious to accumulate, crafty Death asked fair Justice one favor: carry

the work of Pestilence, with a brain tumor, a quick yet painful end for one so young - only forty-

nine.

When Time learned of this, it screamed loudly enough to stir the souls in Death’s cabinets

and shake the oceans of space.

A susurration as overwhelming and authoritative as the sweet bumbling lips of Time could

manage, a fury as deep and sadness as paralyzing as existed in the partyless spirit.

Death only smiled stonily; Justice offered an icy shrug.

How is this Justice? How is this Justice?

Justice does not require every human getting what is fair, stated the god without

embellishment, Justice requires an equilibrium of right and wrong. I have facilitated much

right. This was the wrong.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Cruel Death and Cruel Justice; Cruel Famine and Cruel Pestilence. Cruel world whose

innocence is forever soiled by the fancies of the gods. Cruel Love to curse Time, Cruel Time to

fall to Love.

Justice does not discriminate between the upright and the fallen, nor the promising and

the leeches. And Death takes and takes, never stopping to look. Famine swipes at joy and

Pestilence drains hope.

These days, Time finds itself quieter and more resigned. Dreary, time passes on in

disputative existence for Time. The joys of human life are unavailable to a god.

------------------------------------------

A silent spring at the beginnings of life. A swoosh, a cool and impersonal inception leading

to warm and unique civilization, an inhabitation with issues of personal depth and vague

ambiguity. Some regard and some disregard, some love and some hate, some create and some

destroy. Empires rise, empires fall. Cultures find themselves assimilated in contradicting places.

Above and beneath and beside it all, within its very core, intertwined in the very atoms which

synthesize and decompose living compounds, is a binding force that keeps alike together through

bickering and fickle feuds.

Among it all, Time sits. It waits. It binds itself to every piece of matter in existence, hoping

to become mortal. Hoping to escape a transcending continuation.

Horse by Catherine Conlon

“Untitled”

by Olivia Deddens

With a lifespan as long as mine, it’s easy to forget. I’ve watched over hundreds of children

during the most crucial years of their lives, the years where they grow up and discover who they

could be, and after forty or so the names and faces start to fade. They pull apart like dust in the

wind, like dreams in the morning, and no amount of grasping at them will restore them to their

former state. It breaks my heart sometimes. How does the child who once occupied every second

of my time become nothing more than a shadow of a name?

There are certain memories that remain. The ones who stood out, the ones that made a

difference. The children who taught me something, rather than the other way around, have left

their marks, and none have persisted as well as hers. In all of the sixty-five years, I haven’t found

a single person, child or adult, who can match her innocence, her grace. She was unique. And

like with all fragile things, I felt the overpowering desire to protect her, burn away anything that

threatened her peace. If a mountain stood in her way, I would have moved it for her. Given the

distinct lack of mountains, however, I settled for an obstacle of even greater menace: people.

At first, I tried to keep myself out of it. That’s how it’s done with my kind: we watch and

we counsel, but ultimately we let our children make their own decisions. I can see the wisdom

in secrecy; my kind have been mistaken for rats, even raccoons, far too many times to count. The

results are needless casualties and homeless friends. Still, when a little girl is crying all alone, I

challenge anyone to turn a blind eye. I couldn’t. After spending countless hours battling the

same unbeatable nightmare, I was desperate to do anything to help her, even if it meant

betraying the principles of my kind.

It was a warm day, the first in a long time. She was so excited that morning when she

noticed a tiny bud on the flowers out front. While she was at school, I tumbled around her home

thinking of wonderful dreams to send her that night, full of grass and sunshine. That was

undoubtedly where her mind would be. I was surprised- alarmed, even- when she came tearing

home ten minutes early, so I was less than stealthy in bounding down the hall and slipping back

under the bed. I think she heard me, because when she pushed open the bedroom door she was

silent, like she expected someone to hear her. For a long moment, both of us held our

breath. Then, softly at first, she began to cry.

This wasn’t the first time she’d returned home on the verge of tears. She often burst

through the door, shaking with emotion, her clothes even more disheveled than they usually

were when she left the house in the morning. It was almost commonplace. Before, I would just

stay quiet, simultaneously plotting fantastical dreams to cheer her up and nefarious plots of

revenge to make sure I didn’t have to, but ultimately I did nothing. At least, nothing that fixed

the problem. Anything I did was always a temporary solution.

I remember one of those human sayings: ‘The definition of insanity is doing the same

thing over and over again, but expecting different results.’ If good dreams weren’t going to help

her, it was time I stopped repeating a failed experiment. So before I really knew what I was

doing, I was creeping out from behind the bins of winter clothes, fur matted with dust, and out

into the daylight.

When she finally noticed me, I was afraid she would recoil, scream, or at least to look

alarmed by my strange and rather ragged appearance as I crept out from beneath her bed. To

my surprise, she did none of those things. This girl, who was scared of dogs that were bigger

than her, wasn’t the least bit bothered by a six-legged, dust-covered creature crawling out from

under her bed. For almost three years she had been convinced that a terrible skeleton lived

under there, one with a habit of eating children who got out of bed in the middle of the night. I

was prepared for the worst when she suddenly lunged at me and wrapped her arms around my

body.

“Why are they so mean to me?” she wailed. I made a deep rumbling sound in my throat,

not unlike a purr, hoping it sounded at least a little comforting. Usually my kind can’t purr unless

our forms are vaguely feline- and mine, assuredly, is not- but I can replicate the noise well

enough for the effect to be the same. Her shaking subsided as we continued to sit and her sobs

were soon replaced by quiet sniffling, possibly a side effect from hugging a creature with an inch-

deep layer of dust coating its fur. We sat in a turbulent silence for a few minutes, until at last she

leaned back and, blinking rapidly, turned to look down at me.

“You’re dirty,” she said in an almost accusing manner. I flopped my ears apologetically,

which only contributed to the grey cloud floating around us.

“Mommy doesn’t let me go to school if I don’t take a bath. Maybe she’ll give you one too.”

Looking up suddenly, I shook my head forcefully. Lifting one finger, I held it at the end

of my snout and pleaded a little with my eyes. Ssh. I had to be a secret.

She seemed to understand. Sniffing, she began to wipe her face clean while I bounded across

the floor, shedding dust with each shiver of movement. I felt a pang of regret when I looked back

at the trail I’d left; I’d have to clean that up later, which could be a couple moments I didn’t

have. Well, it was too late now.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was notably stronger; I think my strange appearance

distracted her. Pleased, I turned back to her and shook myself. More dust.

“Don’t you talk?”

I shook myself again, so hard that I rose into the air for half a second. As I floated back

down to the floor, she considered me with a hint of childish amusement in her eyes.

“Dusty. Is that your name?”

My actual name is very difficult to pronounce without the correct set of vocal cords- it

sounds something like Grraghahashjk, with a good growl to accentuate the G’s and H’s- but

Dusty would do. I bobbed my head, tongue lolling, and she giggled. It must be the tongue (it’s

pink, after all).

“You’re nice. I like you.” Encouraged by her lifting spirits, I bounded in a circle and up

into the air, managing to bounce to an admirable height of four feet before gravity noticed that I

was no longer listening to it. I landed with a thump in front of her, flourishing my first set of

hands in a ‘Ta-da!’ manner. She grinned and clapped giddily, the shadow of her tormentors

growing ever fainter in her eyes. Then, as if summoned back by my thoughts, they returned

abruptly, causing her face to go dark all at once.

“You’re nice,” she said again, in a sadder manner than before. Her eyes were welling with

tears again and I grasped desperately at something to cheer her up. “Why can’t they be nice to

me? I can’t help it if my clothes aren’t pretty like theirs.”

Those foul, sneering creatures. She couldn’t help her heritage, or the state of her

belongings, so why would they tease her for it? I fought the urge to snarl, as that would certainly

terrify her, and instead crept closer, ears drooping in concern. I wiggled up under her arm and

rested my head on her lap, humming in what I hoped was a comforting manner. She buried her

fingers in the dirty mess of my fur and whimpered until her mother came home, at which point

I slipped free, gave a final shake of my fur, and dove back into the safety of the shadows under

the bed. When she looked up, any trace of me was gone, except for a couple stray wisps of dust

that were quickly blown out of sight.

That night, I sent her enough dreams to tide her over for the night. I would have preferred

to be there myself to monitor the state of her whimsies, just in case one goes rotten, but I had a

job to do and I intended to do it. As I rambled through the bushes and across the grass, I left

behind me a solid trail of dust all the way down to the creek that ran quarter mile away. There,

I dove in and, despite the cold, didn’t emerge again until my fur was clean and

unblemished. Huh. It used to be a different color.

I shook myself dry in a couple moments and took up my unsteady gait again- it’s difficult

to maintain a pace when you have six legs. Regardless, I made excellent time to the upscale

development that lay a good ways to the east. I walked down the center of the well-lit street,

confident that any observers would think me a stray, and a very dirty stray at that. I was shaggy

enough that my extra pair of limbs was nearly hidden by the mass of my fur.

My sense of smell is rather heightened for one of our kind. Usually we can’t smell at all,

to protect our noses from the thick dust that permeates our narrow homes. This makes me one

of the few individuals with the ability to track, and better than any beast. I tracked that miserable

child all the way to his home, having found his scent on my girl’s clothes, and made my way

around back, where the pungent stench of dog was thick.

The creature was out back when I arrived. When it caught my scent, faint as it was, it

erupted into a furious storm of barking that would surely wake someone in the house. Leaping

up onto a post of the fence, I finally let loose the snarl I’d been holding in since that

afternoon. The sound echoed throughout the yard and the poor creature fell silent with a

strangled whimper. I dropped down next to it and touched one hand to its nose. Nothing

personal. It looked down at me with droopy eyes and watched as I ran across the well-trimmed

grass to the dog door. I had to struggle against its weight- the dog in the yard was much bigger

and stronger than I was- and as a result I was unprepared for the sudden give that sent me

tumbling into the house.

The kitchen I emerged into was immaculate, terrifyingly so, with everything in its

place. Not a single dirty dish was left out on the counter and not a single stain was neglected,

which was ambitious considering the numerous small bodies that ate dinner at the kitchen

island. The appliances that were deemed worthy enough to remain on the counter were

meticulously placed at right angles to the wall. Even in the dim moonlight, the refrigerator

gleamed with a metallic light when it wasn’t covered in crudely rendered drawings of ‘MOm’ and

‘daddY’. Even if the kitchen hadn’t looked like it was prepped for a Better Homes and Gardens

photoshoot, I would have felt uneasy. I’ve spent most of my life in a space that is barely large

enough for a cat to squeeze into, and this has the unfortunate side effect of mild

agoraphobia. This kitchen was far larger than its counterpart back in my girl’s home, and larger

spaces meant less places to hide. I was more than happy to skulk around the edges of the room

and into the hallway.

The trip up the stairs was easily the most exhausting. It was difficult to coordinate my

impractical number of legs into a rhythm that generated the power necessary to propel my body

up the many steps, and my stamina was… less than competitive. I had never been this thankful

that my girl’s house was a single story structure. By the time I reached the crest of the stairs, I

was panting and feeling rather hot under the weight of my fur. But I didn’t have time to linger

and recover. Shrugging the exhaustion off like a jacket, I padded quietly down the carpeted

hallway and into his room.

He was the ringleader, which I had gathered from her dreams. He was always the one

pointing, laughing, before anyone else. And if I’ve learned anything from humans, it’s that

undermining the foundation of an empire is the surest and quickest route to victory. If I could

make an example of the boy, the others would surely follow suit. Jaw set, I sidled up to the door

and pushed my nose through the crack between it and the doorframe. Slowly and silently, it

swung open.

The room was dimly lit by what looked like a Scooby Doo nightlight. I would have been

worried about being seen if I hadn’t been able to hear the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing,

a tell-tale sign that he was asleep. Alien eyes blazed to life in the gloom under the bed, cat-like

in nature, and they watched me as I hesitated by the door. My own eyes narrowed, I bounded

across the floor and leaped up onto the nightstand with a few light thumps, nothing more. A

warning hiss sounded from under the bed, which I ignored as I leaned over the boy’s sleeping

form. My body shook with a low growl, far below the range of human perception, and for a

moment I hovered there, puffed up with anger and hostility.

Something had to be done about him. This cruel child, who had caused so much damage,

couldn’t be allowed to get away with the things he’d said, nor the things he no doubt would say

tomorrow. I wouldn’t allow it, not anymore. My fingers tight around the edge of the night stand,

I watched him sleep, peaceful as a lamb. If I had to be the one to do something about this boy,

peaceful though he may be, then so be it. With six legs and a disregard for gravity on my side,

the monster under the bed wouldn’t be fast enough.

Baring my teeth, I got to work.

“Dusty, Dusty!”

At the sound of her voice, loud and anxious, I shot out from under the bed. I had reapplied

the thick coating of dust I used as camouflage and now it flew off in massive clumps as I ran. She

appeared at the far end of the hallway and, upon seeing me, in all my stumbling, flop-eared glory,

she stopped dead. I gave a deep trill- my way of expressing confusion- and padded closer,

hesitant. Was she angry with me?

“What did you do him?” she demanded of me, her voice high with tension. “Dusty?

Despite the fact that I was physically incapable of forming human words, she waited, her

eyes burning with the need for an explanation. When it became apparent that I wouldn’t be

answering her any time in the foreseeable future, she stepped closer. Then she giggled.

“He looked so silly. His clothes were all gross- did you do that?”

I shook my fur, which was perhaps a little thicker with dust than usual, and looked up at

her with the most innocent expression I could manage with a face as fantastical as mine. It had

been hard work getting all that dust into the boy’s clothes- and there had been a lot of clothes-

but I’d been in and out in under half an hour, which I thought was impressive. I even got into

the cleaner of his dirty clothes, but I drew the line at soccer jerseys.

My girl kicked at the floor with a worn sneaker and smiled to herself.

“I told him it was okay. I told him I’d still be nice to him. Even though he was mean to

me.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon telling her about her ‘new friend’- how the fancies of

children change- and showing me the best possible way to draw a fire truck with only a blue

colored pencil. What a precious girl. I was impossibly lucky to have her.

One day she’ll stop believing in me- they all do, eventually. The thought of monsters

under the bed becomes less of a ghost story and more of a fairy tale to tell their own kids,

something like Santa Claus, or the tooth fairy. No more surprise baths and cook-offs that end in

us eating the dough rather than baking the cookies. And eventually, she’ll grow out of her

bed. It’ll go to another little girl or boy and I’ll send him or her dreams instead. That’s my job. At

least I chose a child’s bed to live under. You would not believe the material adults give us for

dreams- it’s horrendous work.

The E.C. Glass Menagerie

2016 Staff

Editor-in-Chief Emma Eubank, sophomore

Art Editor Susan Gibson, junior

Faculty Sponsor Heather McCormick

The staff would like to thank those who made this year’s publication possible. We extend

our gratitude to the following: Art and English teachers for encouraging their students to submit

art work and writings, Mr. Yarbrough for the technical assistance, Dr. Richardson for proofing

and approving, and all of the creative students who submitted their work -- this magazine is a

celebration of your imagination.

We are excited about this publication and cannot wait to watch it grow in the years to

come. Students interested in working on the E.C. Glass Menagerie Staff in the fall or submitting

writing and artwork should contact Emma at eaeubank80@lcsedu.net or Mrs. McCormick at

mccormickhm@lcsedu.net.