Magpie

The Bryn Mawr Middle School Literary Magazine

2014

Front Cover: Alexandria Miller

Editorial Staff 2014:

Jordan Brice, Alice Carnell, Charlotte Crawford, Ana Earle, Lydia Eastman, Zoe Leonard, Lillian Naill,

Sage

Okolo, Mason Philippe-Auguste, Elizabeth Sacktor, Leah Timpson

Contributors:

Hannah Grace Agudo, Alice Ball, Serenity Bennett, Jordan Brice, Alice Carnell, Elizabeth Cavallon,

Charlotte Crawford, Ana Earle, Lydia Eastman, Charlotte Edwards, Frannie Esposito, Gabby Forbes,

Anabelle Franks, Maddie Grant, Grace Harlan, Catie Huey, Lucy Kaufman, Anna Killingstad, Zoe

Leonard, Alex Marino, Alexandria Miller, Leah Mitchell, Maggie Hopkins, Lillian Naill, Sage Okolo, Julia

Philippe-Auguste, Mason Philippe-Auguste, Liza Plant, Elizabeth Sacktor, Maggie Smith, Leah Timpson,

Maddie Weinfeld

Middle School Faculty:

Claire Hruban, Beth McDonald

Vices

As ice my eyes are cold, yet my hands shoot fire. Never do my worlds grow old, for with the earth I do conspire.

Once my fire meets my ice, you surround me as dark steam. People say deceit’s my vice, but its truly my regime.

If my ice melts, how long will I burn?

And if the flames die, will I be frozen?

I know it is soon my turn, that one will become my poison.

Oh when will I, myself, learn, that only for one, I will be chosen?

by AoCarnell

Fahrenheit

Sometimes the fire is not warm enough

To thaw my frozen soul To bring light to my frosted heart

While I shiver in the cold

Sometimes the water is not cool enough

To drown my burning fire

To quench my smoldering eyes as they

Blaze with hatred and desire

Sometimes the sunshine is not bright enough

To beam upon my cheer

To brighten those around me

And extinguish every fear

Sometimes the darkness is not dark enough

To hide away my shame

To camouflage my eyes as I

Swallow all the blame

Sometimes the room is just not big enough

To carry all my cries

To warn others of the coming storm

Of deception and painful lies

Sometimes the room just isn’t small enough

To make me feel I’m loved

To be the comfort that I need

When I know it’s never enough

It’s never enough

It’s never enough

I know it’s never enough.

by Zoe Leonard

By Alice Ball

by Maddie Grant

The Dragons of Sowka

The Clan of Sowka had always been close. Never had anyone been mean, or rude to another. That all

changed when Malspar joined.

I was sitting at the lip of the Clan’s cave. Our Hoard was in the back, to keep it safe from predators. I

had been trying to figure out how I could get my fire. I had been born without fire, which was not good when

it came to hunting and defending. Off in the distance, I saw a bright red shape moving towards the cave. I

knew it was a dragon, but not from the Clan. All of these dragons had green to blue scales, often with a few

patches or a stripe of white going down the back. I warned the others of this unknown dragon. That was my

job, because in all other areas of work, I was deemed useless. I crept back into the cave, as dragons of bright

green to dark gray-blue zoomed by, out to the small red shape in the distance, which was, actually, getting much

larger with time. I was hidden with the younglings and elders in the hiding cave, while the Defenders went off

to fight. Night grew, and I soon fell asleep.

* * *

When I woke up, everyone had left the hiding cave. I silently crept out, only to see a large red dragon

standing in front of the hiding cave entrance. He was turned away, talking to a dark green dragon known as

Eterment, the head of Defense. I hid in the hiding cave until he was gone. Seeing him up close, I had noticed

that he was actually close to my age, just much stronger, and about twice my size. I started to walk back to the

Cave entrance, when he saw me. I continued and pretended not to see him, when he stopped me. At first I

freaked out, as would any small, flameless dragon who has just seen an intruder talking to the head of Defense.

Then, he said to me in a gruff, slightly annoyed voice, “Why are you not in training?!”

I replied, stuttering a bit, “T-Training for w-what?” He glared down at me sarcastically when Eterment

came over.

The dragon turned from me instantly and saluted Eterment, when Eterment said, “He isn’t in the De-

fense, Malspar. He has no flame.” The dragon, Malspar, looked down at me and started laughing. My face

burned red underneath my turquoise scales. I sulked off over to the mouth of the Cave, trying, unsuccessfully, to

forget the encounter.

As it grew darker, I went off to the eating cave. The eating cave was already crowded with blue, green,

and the occasional gray-ish dragon. I sat in my usual spot, when a bright red dragon came in. He was being led

by a few other dragons in the Defense, looking around the high-ceilinged cave, when his eyes landed on me. He

stared at me for a few seconds, before walking to the special Defense table. There was also the Hunter’s table,

the Crafter’s table, the Younglings’, Elders’, and the Healer’s tables. I sat at a small table in the corner that did

not have a name, alone. For dinner, the Cook dragons were serving roast elephant, a feast much enjoyed by

many dragons, including myself. By the time one of the elephants came to me, there was not much left, just a

few morsels. This is what always happened, but I did not complain.

I was midway through dinner when I saw Malspar get up and start to approach me. I looked for some-

where to hide, but it was too late. “I see you get to have elephant,” he said gruffly, with a bit of sarcasm in his

voice. I nodded carefully. “At the Defense table, there is only venison,” he continued. “I see they serve the de-

fects here the best food.” With that he snatched my plate and went over to his table without another word. I sat

for awhile thinking about what just happened before leaving and going to my sleeping place, near the lip of the

Cave.

* * *

This went on for awhile. Malspar calling me names, taking my food, insulting me, etc. One day I woke

up, ready for yet another day of misery, when, to my surprise, Malspar was nowhere to be seen. I looked

around, and none of the Defenders were in the Cave. At first I assumed that they were in early morning train-

ing. Then, I looked outside the cave, when I saw an army of knights marching towards the Cave. I flew out, to

go warn the other dragons, when I saw the Defense already flying above the knights. The Defense flew down

towards the knights in a great, swooping motion. The knights paid them no mind and just held up their

shields. They marched on, closer and closer to our beloved Cave. I was frozen in fear as they steadily came

closer and closer. Finally, I passed out.

* * *

When I woke up, fighting had broken out. The knights had invaded the Cave, and I had been moved to

a different part of the Cave. I left the small area of the Cave, walking towards the Hoard. When I reached it, I

saw the scariest thing that I believe I shall ever see in my life. Knights were swarming the Hoard, picking up

every piece of gold or jewel that they could find. Dragons lay bloodied and dead on the ground of the Hoard,

staining the treasure with red blood. Blue fire spread through the air, and the sound of dragons roaring echoed

throughout the Cave. They were trying to defend, but without much luck. I sat there in a mix of awe and terror,

when a knight came up to me, seemingly unnoticed. By the time I noticed him, he had already raised his sword

ready to strike. I froze in terror and waited for the end. He started to bring down his sword when a flash of red

zoomed in front of me, knocking the knight off balance. Another flash, and the knight was gone.

* * *

After the fighting, the dragons had won. Unfortunately, though, many were injured and killed. I went

into the Healing cave, and went up to where Malspar lay, with a large cut in his upper front leg and several deep

gashes along his flank.

To him, I said,“You saved me.”

He looked up at me, and said back, “I know.” Then he smiled a warm, red smile at me.

by Charlotte Crawford

Come With Me

Come with me

and let us flee

from the absurd idea of insanity

We fly and leap and soar and dream

lying in the light of the cold moon beam

We run from prejudice, fear and hate

forget the ideas they create

forget the judging, taunts, and jeers

continued on for years and years

But for now let us run wild

remember when we were but child

when times were simpler, easy and loose

when life was of painless use

We run and laugh and think and ponder

of all that lays beyond the yonder

Come with me and we will see

the true meaning of insanity

by Elizabeth Sacktor

Eero’s Funeral

The mourning cries of the A’ledanyi people echoed across the plain. The stronger members of the tribe, men and

women alike, carried the wood to the huge funeral pyre. A tiny nine year old girl, draped in a flowing red dress

that was blowing wildly in the wind, stood among the mourning crowd. Unlike the throng behind her, she was

completely silent, and not a tear fell down her cheek.

“Young one,” murmured the gravelly baritone of Solon, the head of the Elder’s Council, “You do not

have to watch.” She turned to him, hazel eyes wide and glazed, like a doe.

“No, Solon. I must stay.”

“They would all understand if you did not want to watch, Dari.¹”

“They would think me weak,” she replied. “If I am to rule, they must respect me, almost fear me. My fa-

ther was too kind.” She turned away, leaving Solon with a troubled expression. Heaving a deep sigh, he lightly

grasped her petite shoulders. The young queen’s head only came up to Solon’s paunchy stomach, but she was al-

ready so fierce, he thought.

“I will be behind you if you need, Ahee.”

When the corpse of her father, wrapped in a scarlet burial shroud, was set on fire, Ahee did not hide her face.

The reflections of the flames danced in her eyes.

¹“Dari” is an A’ledanyi form of endearment

by Ana Earle

by Elizabeth Cavallon

by Julia Philippe-Auguste

It wouldn’t surprise me

An Alliteration poem

It wouldn’t surprise me, If seas could fly,

If skies could sink, If sunny days were filled with clouds, If snowy days were warm as summer,

If sweet candy was sour, It wouldn’t surprise me if surprises weren’t sur-

prising.

by Liza Plant

by Frannie Esposito

No Such Thing as a Lifetime Guarantee

I wish I lived in Paris, but with the beauty of a Caribbean paradise to my left, New York’s taste to my

right, and London’s people in front of me. Instead, I feel like I’m trapped in a cage with two backdoors and no

windows. I could leave easily, but where would I go without a heart to follow? Until I find an unbroken heart

to replace my current one, I will have to fake a smile like I have since I first longed for somebody who would

love me.

Maybe I could steal that somebody’s heart and tuck it away in the place of mine. Would they like the

pieces of mine own? I wonder if they would. Should I tie them up in a bow and hang them from the rafters to

be found in hide and seek? Did he do the same to force my labor to win it? Why is life never easy like a fairy

tale with a Fairy Godmother who says a spell to fix it all? Instead it feels like the clock chimes midnight every

time goodness peeks its glowing smile.

I will pray for the someday that I live in Paris with the beauty of a Caribbean paradise to my left, New

York’s taste to my right, and London’s people in front of me. Dreams would cascade lazily down the rivers,

catch the sun’s shining light as it tumbled down a waterfall, and be captured in my cupped hands for me to

keep close to my crumbling heart. Dreams would curl up in my palms and purr like a kitten before drifting off

into sleep. When dreams wake, I won’t be able to breathe because all air is sucked from the world as the dream

flourishes into a monarch butterfly and takes flight, soaring to the kingdom of the clouds.

Before I have taken flight in a plane, but never like a monarch does upon its orange and black wings.

Each time I take off I miss the clouds, yet I never seem to reach the sun, the moon, or the stars. Constantly, I

seem to fall straight down so quickly that when I fall, I fall out of it all. If I could find somebody with wings,

would he fly with me to the sun, the moon, or the stars? Or would he drop me so that I fall straight down so

quickly that when I fall, I fall out of it all and forget my own name. If I forget my own name, would I just

mumble his and be blinded by my fake love? Would my heart ache? Or is it shattered and broken enough for

this big world. Oh damn, I wish I lived where hearts came with a lifetime guarantee, and somewhere where

when I broke, you could return me. When I came back, good as new and all shiny too.

I wish I lived in Paris, but with the beauty of a Caribbean paradise to my left, New York’s taste to my

right, and London’s people in front of me.

by Lydia Eastman

When I Leave You

when I leave you

don’t cry

when I leave you

don’t sob

when I leave you

don’t regret all that you did to me

when I leave you

smile

when I leave you

laugh

when I leave you

remember all the good times we had

when I leave you

think

when I leave you

reminisce

when I leave you

don’t forget about me

by Elizabeth Sacktor

On Loving You

You said we’d travel the world together

feeding our insane obsession to travel You repeated wanderlust a word so delicate, like paper dolls, crumbling with touch

You did a lot of wandering for our age

finding some sort of pleasure on the comfort of pavements

those laced fingers filled with desire

this was our beginning, getting ready for our middle and inevitable end

by Sage Okolo

Sunset by Maggie Smith

Tiger

From the shadows of the cage stepped the beast, her tail swaying back and forth,

her eyes focused on mine. They gleamed with allure. Unlike most tigers, her eyes were

green and not yellow. They were big, deep, and glistening. Her whiskers wilted like dead

flowers. The fur on her back seemed to shine and glow in the light that was not there. Her

pelt was all black streaks along an orange ocean. These vertical bands blended into the

shadows of the bars that contained her. Her face was sad and sorrowful. Sitting there

trapped, confined in this prison, wasn’t natural for such a strong, powerful creature. She

pulled the pity from my heart like a magnet. Every time she took a step, her big paws fell

to the ground like heavy burdens. I could not have felt more despair. Like a beautiful but

cursed queen of the jungle, she sat imprisoned in this circus cage while her kin frolicked in

the jungle to their heart’s delight. You saw the power she had in those muscles that she

was just aching to use. I couldn’t see her like this; those big sad eyes, those burdened

paws, those dead-flower whiskers. Everything showed me how lifeless she would become

if she stayed here. by Elizabeth Sacktor

by Serenity Bennett

Giant

I am a Giant Not size wise

but spirit wise

Yes I make mistakes

but that means I am a Giant-in training

I am still growing

but when I am ready I will be a full grown Giant I will not let bad spirited people bring me down

Yes I am a Giant and you can be one too

By Gabby Forbes

by Maddie Weinfeld

Untitled

Don’t you hear the blood curdling shrieks around?

Don’t you hear the sickening cackles that surround?

Don’t you feel the icy, dry air on your skin?

Don’t you feel that cold emptiness within?

Leaving is the goal.

Which costs a great toll.

Get out of the way.

Open your eyes!

Before it’s just too late.

Don’t you hear the dead silence of all the voices lost…

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

by Maddie Weinfeld

Oh the Poor People!

Oh the poor people

Who have to listen

To our insanities

Our insanities

Insanities!

Oh the poor passersby

Who have to listen

To our talk

Our talk

Talk!

Oh the poor children

Who have to listen

To our thoughts

Our thoughts

Thoughts!

Oh the poor friends

Who have to listen

To our chatter

Out chatter

Friends?

by Elizabeth Cavallon

Oh the poor innocent Who have to listen

To our fighting

No one is innocent What friends?

Oh the poor listeners

No one listens to you

Together we’re together

Everyone does something wrong

You’re delusional

Oh the poor people

Can you shut up?

I don’t have to talk to you

At least we have each other

Lunatic

Oh poor me

I have to listen

To myself

To yourself

To me!

by Zoe Leonard

The Locket

You wonder if she’s ever gonna be here, if your brother is crazy. Simon, with that fire in his eyes

and the warm assurance of his smile, bent on the floor with the sickness in his mind and his hands crusted

in salt. The sickness stole your mother, your father, and now it’s got its claws sunk into your brother. The

storm rages on outside, the clap and beat of the thunder matching his spasms in a twisted tempo, the wind

matching the howls torn from his mouth.

You’d scream and you’d cry if it was still in you. You’d shout and run and break the circle. You’d

gather him in your arms and never look back. You might even break these bonds, whisper into the carvings

until they melt and drip into oblivion (but you know that it isn’t the metal shackles keeping you in the high

backed chair). Above all, you’d smash that damned locket. Crush the cursed object beneath your heel (you

could’ve done that by now, the voice whispers in your head, but you couldn’t, you are far too weak).

But it’s too late now. The clock is stuck, time has paused and stretched into this one very moment,

tearing down the middle. The dust and cobwebs swirl together on the floor, making her shape. Her hair

isn’t as shiny as you remember it, something dark lurks in her eyes (perhaps it was always there, maybe you

just ignored it), and her collar bones stick out like sharp knives. Her dress looks like an extension of the

carpet, floor length and made with a corset, from a style long past.

Your brother is foolish to think of her as she was. You cannot tear your eyes away as she swishes

forward, cradling his face in her hands. He turns to you, his smile wide and childish. You don’t even flinch

at the crunch, wondering why it took her so long to kill him. You feel a door close in your heart as your

brother’s broken body is dropped to the floor, that same stupid grin fixed on his face.

The bonds on your wrist break open as the life leaves your brother’s body. She goes for you as you

roll out of the chair, shrieking at you as your hand closes in on the locket. You burn a hole through the

floor, letting the fire light make the chain gleam before you drop it. She really screams then, a horrible

wicked sound that makes your flesh want to peel off your bones and pitch itself off the side of the moun-

tain.

She tries to claw at you as she is sucked into the hole, gouging your arm with her overgrown claws.

You can only hear the echoes of a scream when the floor heals itself, when the fire springs back to life with

vigor. The house styles your brother’s body in an elegant pose on a chair, as it does with everyone who dies

in here (as you shut the door behind you, you pretend as if it’s gonna stay like that, not like it’s going to be

lying in a stories-deep pit, staring up at the square of sky forever).

It’s stopped raining as you make your way to your car. You flip the heat on as you peel down the

mountain track (you’d like to think because it’s cold outside, rather than the icy sweat making it’s way

down your back), tapping your finger on the wheel. The migraine sets in when you get far enough from the

house. You have never liked Mother’s Day.

by Jordan Brice

By Maddie Grant

by Elizabeth Cavallon

Don’t Complain When You End Up Dead, You Followed Me

I can tell when you are lying. I can read it on your face.

Everything you do, You say

Just seems to leave a trace.

I see a hardness in your eyes, Or a waver in your voice,

You think that you have fooled me. I think it was my choice.

Was that a laugh I heard from you?

Something you don’t believe?

Well believe me when I tell you, You are no match for me.

Can you see me when I’m lying?

If you do you never say. And if you did,

(I know you don’t) You’d likely run away,

Because I’d break and steal and lie and cheat and gamble any day. As long as I end up on top

And you’re in disarray.

But I smile when I am lying! You know when I tell lies!

Oh honey, I think it’s time I told you, It’s all just a disguise.

It’s honor among thieves

One thief

That’s me. But you know I’ll never take the blame.

Because by my side are me, a fence, And the criminally insane.

I’ll set a trap and watch you go, And smile as you lose.

Because sometimes psychotic people like me

Just need to be amused.

My honeyed lies and silver tongue

Will always come of use, But really the thing you should fear the most

Is my mind when it’s let loose.

Does my narcissism impress?

Oh yes, But maybe that’s just me.

I’ve got poison in my pocket, And a dagger up my sleeve.

Just look into my eyes

And think, Of all the plots I could conceive.

You think that I am dangerous?

Well, you know what?

So do I. Because every word I say to you,

Could easily be a lie.

I don’t purse my lips, Or have my secrets in my eyes.

I don’t have that telling trait My honor must abide

But don’t think you don’t know me, I mean, I’m an open book!

Oh yes, I spill my blood and guts

If you just know when to look!

When I was sane, I was lying. But I lost that one thing I had.

Now half the time I’m completely honest Because that’s when I’m completely mad!

Oh woe is me! But what am I?

A criminal, a madman, or simply alive?

But I’m tired now, And so should you be.

I don’t know why you even listen to me.

You may hold me in the light, Of whatever I have said,

But remember I’m immortal. Immortal in my head.

And I’m freer than most. I’d be freer than free.

But today I’m weighed down

By a chain of worry

So don’t follow me

I won’t follow you

Please

I worry that you will end up like me too

by Zoe Leonard

by Elizabeth Cavallon

Stress

Stress, You are a horrible thing,

But sometimes you are a great thing. You can make me want to cry

But you can make me get things done

You can make me feel like there’s no time, But you give me comfort once everything’s done.

Stress, I can’t imagine a life without you.

by Leah Mitchell

Mother Nature by Maggie Smith

Good Girls

Good girls don’t die young. I suppose that’s why fairy tales are immortal. Yeah, immortal. Right now

forget everything you know about fairy tales. Because this is the after ‘happily ever after.’ Snow White leads

witch hunts for her evil stepmother, and Cinderella gives out free witchcraft lessons to those needing to get even

like she did. Little Red (well, not that little anymore), and the Wolf are head of ‘Help The Starving Werewolves

Association.’ Let’s not forget about the villains. I am one. Well, legally. Being the daughter of the Snow Queen

ain’t so cool. I mean you have ice powers, and mind control, but it’s not as fun some kids. It’s not very helpful

when anger management classes at school are required. I froze the last guidance counselor. Way too perky for

my taste. I still don’t get why I’m here and the point for me being here. Just target the villains kid. No matter

how many times I apologize to Kai about my mom’s stupid idea, it never works.

At least I have friends to get me through this. There’s Em, short for Ember. She’s half dragon, and Lo-

gan’s a Werewolf. But not just any werewolf. He’s the son of Lycaon. The first werewolf. Evil too.

Without them, I don’t know how I’d survive high school. It’s hard enough with the actual academics. I

mean it’s the same thing every day. Music, Mythology Through The Years, Magic And Charms, Advanced Pow-

ers, Monster Combat Training (which is a lot like PE, but you know with monsters, and demons) and Math.

Ugh, Math. Then there’s Crisis Support-which is the hero’s support group. Like SB (Sleeping Beauty, if you’re

new to this whole fairy tale thing), whose immortal age of sixteen has left her hormonal, has got serious issues.

Her prince didn’t come until 1943. While her castle was being bombed. Which was better than any alarm clock.

Her soldier left her for another girl which totally scared her for life. Every time I think of her, I get kind of an-

gry. She’s waiting for her Prince Charming. I’m not waiting for mine. Just look at Rapunzel: After her seven-

teenth, she couldn’t wait any longer, even if her Prince Charming was stumbling around the woods blind as

Grandma Z. She escaped, which is why she’s my favorite fairy tale. She leads feminist rallies now. I’d gone to

a couple before my mom charged in and gave me frostbite.

I remember when I met her. She told me that when we’re children we listen to the stories our mothers

tell us. The ones about princesses, and we so desperately wanted to be them. We wanted to be loved by all

and loathed by the wicked. Sometimes for our beauty. We want a prince. So we’re locked in a tower with the

comfort of books and animals. But soon we realize old princey can’t always be relied upon. We’re armed with

our wits and devices we make. We learn old princey has run off with another girl. We unlock the doors and

fight off the dragon that the Hero slays. But we can to do it. We’re twice as capable as any man. Especially a

prince. It’s time for these stories to get new Heroes.

Let’s do a little erasing.

by Sage Okolo

by Lillian Naill

The Underworld

Tartarus

And

The Fields of Punishment

Deep, deep down

Underground

In Gaia’s depths. Even beyond the reaches of death

Lies Tartarus. The land of the evil. The land of the dead.

Where corrupt souls lurk. And everyone’s just a reminder of the past.

Waiting for the torture to end.

The Fields of Asphodel Those who have sinned,

But have done good deeds. Spend forever wandering in the fields.

Never knowing, Never showing

That they remember

Their past lives.

Elysium

Not as deep into the ground. Lay the fields of Elysium. Where the dearly departed

Sit happy as can be. As they spend all life after death

In eternal bliss. If three times

They strike Elysium

in the happy game of chance. To the Isle of the Blessed they go

To spend in never-ending delight.

by Lillian Naill

Graveyard Girl

combat boots once pretty with fresh laces now stink like the corpses

black hair pony-tailed hair that deserved washing

and in the crevices of her nails dirt found a home

an amateur grave digger

silly graveyard girl out to dig up love

just a skulled shadow, she drifted over evanesced love

the ground wailed as it ripped apart dig! dig! dig!

And she bundled the earth in her arms

bed it back to the ground

and tucked it in

the stars buried themselves in her eyes

understanding each piece of her iris

she thought about the broken love

cars, drunk, and a careful blond boy

sew him back together

follow through with the blue thread

keep it steady

a red thread lined the hole over the heart she breathed in the resurrected air

its grim and bitter taste fired in her throat And she liked every last bit it, savoring in its flavor

she bit the thread and pulled it apart Gasping to breathe

he swallowed her life, slowly

Don't leave me She twiddled her fingers and combed his blond hair

Don't leave me again

All she wanted was his heart beat

his chest grimed in dirt

and once again, they breathed

tied hearts and withering breaths

they fell through the earth

bonded to new sewed limbs

Isis and Osiris

Resurrection and Death

She sewed him back so he could live again

and again

and again...

by Sage Okolo

by Anabelle Franks

Pavel’s Prologue

Pavel the Gatekeep was huddled as far away from pelting rain as possible. He sat hunched under the

stone archway of Ayon’s Gate, waiting for travelers to inspect and then let through into the city, but he knew that

none would come. Not in this weather, not at this time of night. Because of this, he felt safe enough to sink into

his thoughts, and was considering a rumor he’d heard from his wife, Reta, who chatted about all the gossip she

heard at her stand in the marketplace. The Night Terror, she’d said, They come when most people are warm in their beds and

have the city in an iron grip by first light. Marva the grocer’s wife told me her sister’s town was taken by them. A figure on a black

horse, and a small army already within the city walls. Of course, he believed this to be ludicrous, and it only served as a

reminder of the warmth and liveliness of his wife, rather than a chilling herald of what was to come. Pavel was a

simple man; he didn’t believe in rumours and gossip, just the rising of the sun and the rising of the moon, and the

routine of gatekeeping at night.

Still wrapped in these thoughts, he barely heard the harsh clop and slide of shod horse hooves against wet

cobblestones, the soft breathing of the broken-in leather saddle, the gentle collision and wrinkle of well-used

leather armor. He was unaware, that is, until the figure was at his gate.

Shambling up to the wrought iron, joints made creaky and stiff from sitting in the damp cool, he said

tiredly, “Inspection. Please dismount and provide your papers and all weapons you may be concealing.” The fig-

ure didn’t come down, though. The huge black mare stamped her foot and snorted steam into the night air, but

no other movement was made. Only a chilling voice, cold and flat and distinctly female, emanated from the hood.

“Step aside, peasant. I do not wish for you to regret this night. Then again, you will not live to regret it if

you do not move.” Pavel heard the faintest brush behind him, and the world narrowed to a point of starlight.

by Ana Earle

Newspaper Blackout Poem

by Catie Huey

Lights: An Avengers Fanfiction (unfinished)

Chapter 1: Nightmares

Our story begins in a journal. Not just any journal though, but the journal of a ten-year-old god. But not just any god, a Norse god. But not just any Norse god, no no, a particularly mischievous one with a dark past. And it is being read by two other gods, one who had the knowledge to step back, and another who has discovered the consequences of opening the journal of someone who knows spells. The two gods reading the journal are, of course, Thor, and Sif. In case you do not have an image in your head of what they look like already, Lady Sif is a tall skinny warrior, with long golden locks literally made of gold. At the moment she is yelling at the other god, Thor, quite loudly. Thor, on the other hand, has a tall, muscular figure, long blond hair and a clean-shaved blonde beard. But, instead of what you may think, he is covered in a orangey goo, which will not get off of him no matter what he does. That is why Sif is yelling at him.

“Thor, you idiot! We do not want your brother to find out about this for as long as possible, and your in-credible amount of stupidity is not helping!”

“Lady Sif, my brother will find out about this whether or not we want him to, no matter what we do.”

“Well, that is what he is known for.”

At this Thor gave Sif a glare, which was not at all taken seriously. Partially because of the orange goo still running into his eyes. “Just start reading,” Thor grumbled.

“Are you sure you do not want a towel first?” answered Sif, unsuccessfully hiding a tiny smile. ~-~-~-~-~-~

about two o’clock in the early morning, Freya’s day

So, this is Father’s idea of controlling my anger. Sometimes I just wish he would leave me alone. Anyway, if he expects me to write down my feelings in here, he’s wrong. I guess I could use it as an idea journal. Or a dream journal. Not that kind of dream journal, but one in which I write my true dreams and daydreams. And nightmares.

about eleven o’clock in the late night, Moon’s day

I realized that if I had a journal, the journal should know my name. I am Loki, and my occupation is, at the moment, god of mischief and trickery. I have been having nightmares. It is the same every night. I wake up in an icy place. I know it cannot be actually happening, but my mind says different. I look around. Everything is made of ice. I cannot feel it, but I know that it is extremely cold. It is also very des-olate. Nothing living is visible, but I am curious so I go closer, even though I know what will happen. A scream, a terrible, bloodcur-dling, scream tears through the air. Then an image flashes through my mind, it is father, without his eye patch. Where his eye should be is a bloody mess, and the eye itself is not there, and without the gore, would have looked as if it had never been there in the first place. He is looking down on me, or at least I think it is me. He is smiling, something I have rarely seen him do in my direction. about three o'clock in the early morning, Woden’s day

I do not think I was made to be good. I lose my temper all the more often, and have lashed out multiple times. It is almost as if every little thing annoys me all of a sudden. I cannot sleep. I do not want to sleep. Early last night, I slid out of the palace and off the porch. I was almost caught by Heimdall, but got away. I do not know where I am, but I will probably be in my room by late tomorrow. Heimdall is always able to find me.

~-~-~-~-~-~

“I had no idea what Loki was feeling,” Thor muttered, an amazed look in his eyes. “Maybe if you had asked him and been kinder to him he would have told you,”Sif replied, serious. “Well that is not important anymore. He is missing and we need to find him. I am starting to think you

brought me here to see me get covered in goo,” Thor said, a sad look in his eyes at the mention of his lost broth-er.

“I was hoping we would find something to help us,” Sif muttered, Thor barely able to hear her. “Let us go. Volstagg and the others are most likely waiting for us.”

Thor left the room, but Sif stayed behind. She read the last pages of the journal. When she came to the

last page, she noticed a page torn out. With a little bit of magic Loki had taught her, Sif was able to see the

writing clearly. She read over the page quickly. Then, she ran from the room, and in her haste dropped the

book. It was open to the last page, her magic still deciphering the hidden writing. What was written was why

she ran. It was the most recent and last entry;

I feel as if I am slowly being taken over. I cannot control my magic very well anymore, and I have noticed my eyes turning from

vibrant green to pale blue. Frigga says it is just a phase....I can sense something following me...This will most likely be my last

entry.....Happy Birthday to me.

~-~-~-~-~-~

The scariest part was it was written three months ago. Two months after Loki had gone missing. And

two months before Frigga, the queen, was murdered.

Chapter 2: Hints from a journal

Heimdall was worried. If Loki was missing, it was usually only for a of couple hours, and then you

would find him, or he would jump out from behind a corner and scare you half to death. That mischievous

one had been giving Odin and the late Frigga gray hairs since he was first brought to Asgard. He didn’t need

gray hairs as well! But just because Loki was missing doesn’t mean he was dead. After about half an hour of

trying to decide what in the universe he was supposed to do, he decided to visit the lost prince’s room.

~-~-~-~-~-~

As soon as Heimdall walked into the room, the god felt something strange in the room. As he looked

around, he noticed something; the door had been unprotected and unlocked. He looked around some more;

the table was overturned, there was broken wood everywhere, torn curtains, and the bed was unmade; either

Loki had struggled against a force stronger than the mischievous god, or he had completely lost his temper.

Heimdall stared down at the floor. “I should have seen this coming,” Heimdall thought. “I should have-” Heimdall

paused. He felt something. The watching god, now cautious, carefully and slowly walked over to the bed.

There was one part of the bed that lay untouched. In the small circle of perfect normality, there lay a book,

bound in a simple brown coat. When Loki was much younger, Heimdall had seen him carrying the book, mak-

ing notes in it, and keeping it to himself, no matter how much Thor pestered him. Heimdall then cursed him-

self getting lost in the good old days.

But one thing was wrong. He knew it more than he knew Loki and Thor had fought about just about

anything. The book. The book. The journal of prince Loki of Asgard. The journal the young prince had refused

to let anyone know what was inside for over two millennia. That very book. The simple leather-bound book

was glowing green. The green was incredibly important. Green was the color of objects that Loki had possessed

with his magic. And that particular book had never glowed before. In short, Heimdall decided to take a look at

the book.

Chapter 3: Loki’s mission

Loki dropped from the roof, knowing exactly what she was doing. She fell into a crouch and held her

breath, looking for security cameras. She was is Hydra’s secret headquarters, where the organization had stolen

and kept the most magical and dangerous items they could get their hands on. Her mission was to replace the

disks in the security cameras which gave the feed to Hydra with disks that would give the feed to S.H.I.E.L.D.

If she didn’t complete the mission, not only would she be caught, but she would also be the cause of possible

world destruction.

by Charlotte Edwards

by Anna Killingstad

Graveyard Angel

In the graveyard, where the ghosts roam and the demons lurk.

Where the nightshades play and bats fly.

Where the skeletons chatter and the ghouls groan.

A small little angel sits there on a grave.

To guard over the one whom she loved the most.

To guard him from the loneliness of the graveyard.

Where the crows call and the black cats hiss.

Where the little demons play in their little demon ways.

To sit on a grave, never standing, never talking.

How lonely the life of a graveyard angel must be.

To guard him forever, and ever to be.

What would it do to a little angel?

To sit on a grave,

In the dead of the night.

With the nightshades lurking ‘round.

And the crow’s cawing sound.

With the demons scattering bones

‘Cross the dirty ground.

With the moans of the dead.

Echoing ‘round and ‘round.

Would it drive you insane?

‘Till your mind bonkered about?

‘Till something just snapped

And you left?

You left your grave unguarded.

To leave him exposed.

In the loneliness of the graveyard.

To rot with the ghouls and the ghosts.

Of old tales and stories.

To be unguarded forever and ever to be.

How would you feel?

With the demons cackling ‘round.

At the evil of your actions.

To break a promise you promised.

On the river of Styx.

You would die.

But you can’t.

You’re just a block of marble.

With a reputation for staying.

Why do you leave him?

In the loneliness of the graveyard.

With the nightshades and the bats.

The crows and the cats.

The ghosts and the skeletons.

Not guarding a simpleton.

Who died in an accident.

Before you were made.

From a block of marble,

Meaner than the rest.

Not even filled with sorrow.

You left him.

by Lillian Naill

An Angel Should

I stepped down, and everything was heavy. My head felt like it had come to a sudden stop after rotating around my past like the moon around the earth. My wrists were as if golden bracelets tugged upon them, drag-ging downwards. My feet did not wear anything upon them, yet when I shifted they were as if stones had re-placed my skin and bones. This heaviness was around me, but my back still felt a stinging lightness. The weight I had carried upon it for all the days of my life had been lifted. And I felt heavy at heart due to this. My hands reached backwards feeling for the feathers that could not be there. Fears were confirmed when I grabbed for nothing and received exactly what I expected. Hope slipped through my fingers with the oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon.

I think that moment should have been when I realized what was happening, but what should happen is not always what really does occur. That is yet another thing that I should have known.

But what I thought I knew for a fact in that moment was that everything was a lie and everyone was a liar because otherwise I would be back up. Instead I could see the outline of brick and steel fingers reaching towards the side. Each cruel finger represented what humans thought of as achievement, but what is far too often just destroying other humans.

I had known I was there for a reason. I knew I had seen what I saw for a reason. I knew that I should have remembered why I was there, but I could not. I just knew that the human’s reaching steel fingers were call-ing me in their terribly human voices, and I began walking down the road of smooth gray before me towards them.

“Angels should fly.”

The wind flicked the words off her tongue and into my ears and all around me as she pushed me forward. “Angels should not die.”

She disappeared leaving me, and I walked alone again. I knew her words like they were tattooed upon my lips, “Angels should comfort those who cry. Angles should never lie. Angles should stay in the sky.”

But what should happen is not always what really does occur.

by Lydia Eastman

by Elizabeth Cavallon

In Their Eyes

He held the world in his eyes

a finger painted, funhouse palette of the earth’s colors

splurged upon his blank canvas

In his oceans, she was drowning

and in his earth she wilted

Chapped lip kisses

Cold floors, and closed basement doors

He brought her back to life

She held the moon in her eyes

silver splintering morsels of her

shot through him, like the mirror she broke, or the words she wrote

On her planet, he was suffocating

Starry nights, with forgotten breaths

Cheap Dollar Store lipstick kisses on gelid earth, never felt better

She breathed new life into him

In both of Their eyes they held the universe

some types of glittering infinities shone

his oceans were killing

and her moons were smothering

They were killing each other alive.

Young lust kills

When it breaks, it collapses in dolor

each piece a fragment, each fragment a piece of the universe

In the eyes of a broken boy, the world exploded

the oceans ceased to move

And in the eyes of young girl, the moon fell from orbit

by Sage Okolo

The Other Side

We’ve been shielded for all of our lives

From what is real, the other side

You must stay in your shell You must not tell Once you know

You must put on a show

They will always try to reprehend

So you must continue to pretend

You haven’t seen the other side

At any point in your life

You must learn to leave behind

Everything from the other side

Keep it inside of your mind

You must live an intrapersonal existence

There is no use of resistance

They hide us until we are out of sight

Until we escape into the night

And finally experience our harsh awakening

Into the world, that’s truly frightening

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

Mechanical Bird

Click, click, click

Tick, tick, tick

Chirp

Click, click, click

Tick, tick, tick

Flap

gears grind

they click and chirp

tick and flap

they rub against each other and interweave to create life

Click, click, click

Tick, tick, tick

Chirp

Click, click, click

Tick, tick, tick

Flap

slowly

cogs

connect slowly

gears

collide

wings flap

rustle

rustle

beak opens

creak

creak

Cage unlocks

kechunch

kechunch

gears work together

slowly

slowly

the bird flies away

wings up

wings down

goodbye bird

goodbye

click

click

goodbye

tick

tick

goodbye mechanical bird

by Elizabeth Sacktor

The Judges

Walk. Look down. Don’t let them catch your eye. If they do, you're done for. They like to catch loaners.

Like cats hunting on the savanna they find one straying from the group and attack. Not physically, not at this stage

at least. But if they find something wrong, they will dispose of it. Here differences are looked on as flaws. The

cameras help the judges spot the differences among the children. Everyone wears the same white button down

shirt. Boys wear grey shorts and girls wear gray pleated skirts. No color. Hair is kept short. Boys always have it cut

to their ears and girls have it cut just below their shoulders, wearing it pulled back into a ponytail. You continue

walking to class with your arms filled with books. Even though they are heavy, you stand straight up with perfect

posture. If your spine bends once, the cameras will catch it, and the judges will see, and you will be taken away to

the camp. The camp is where they put different children. Once there, children are trained to be normal again. That

is why everyone behaves. They behave so as not to be judged. Here everyone is judged. From birth you are judged.

As soon as you are born, they take you away to judge your appearance. If you look normal then you can go back to

your parents, but if there is something different they dispose of you immediately. Few children make the cut. You

are lucky to be one of them, right? Sometimes if someone isn’t behaving properly, they might have a trial with the

judges. If they are found guilty of “disturbing the System,” they can be put away in camp temporarily or even

placed into permanent camp. These places are supposed to teach you the rules of the community and the punish-

ment of disturbing the system. But you know better. After all, no one who goes in ever comes out.

In class you sit down and take out a pencil and paper for taking notes. Up on the board are the Notes for

the day. You write them down. It takes up exactly one sheet of paper. Next, you put the sheet of paper into your

binder. For the rest of the period, you study the sheet until it is memorized. You repeat in the next class and the

next, and the next. It is then time for lunch. This is the scariest part of the day. Most children are sent to the camp

at lunch. Differences in preference of food, where to sit and who to sit with. You always sit at the same table with

the same people and the same meal so as not to get into trouble. Eating is tough work as well. To try and not spill

one drop on In class you sit down and take out a pencil and paper for taking notes. Up on the board are the Notes

for the day. You write them down. It takes up exactly one sheet of paper. Next, you put the sheet of paper into

your binder. For the rest of the period, you study the sheet until it is memorized. You repeat in the next class and

the next, and the next. It is then time for lunch. This is the scariest part of the day. Most children are sent to the

camp at lunch. Differences in preference of food, where to sit and who to sit with. You always sit at the same table

with the same people and the same meal so as not to get into trouble. Eating is tough work as well. To try and not

spill one drop on your uniform and to continue with perfect posture. You eat your meal at a normal pace. And

when lunch is over you get up and take your tray to the cleaning station. And continue on with your day. It is al-

ways like this. No changes. Ever. Not until today. You are walking down the hall when everything stops. The

doors from the end of the hallway open and in walks a girl. She has never been there before. You know this. This

is strange, but not as strange as what her attire is like. She wears a loose navy blue shirt and bright red pants. Her

hair is cut as short as boys and is the same color as her pants! Resting in it, is a pale blue bow. Her legs are long

and she is quite tall. She walks down the hall everyone stares at her. There is something wrong. Girls aren't like

this. That isn’t how it works! She should be sent to a camp if not disposed of. She is different from everyone else.

She stands out. She is an imperfection from others. Everyone can see her and notices. Everyone including the

cameras. They all spin around and look right at her as she walks down the hall. They are programmed to see even

a quick change in tone or color, and this girl is sending them on red hot alert. Whispers start to fly. Usually the on-

ly noise is the clap of children’s shoes hitting the ground, but today the whispers buzz like the sound of bees. They

rise and rise until they are almost deafening. Girls and boys alike bend towards each other to tell their opinions of

this new girl’s appearance. “Why does she looks like that?” “Where did she get those clothes?” “She should be put away in a per-

manent camp!” “Why hasn’t she been disposed of by now!” All the questions and observations fly across the hall like flies.

The noise continues to grow until a loud beeping blares at us from the speakers. An electronic woman’s voice

sounds, “Children, please continue to your classes, or you will be sent to the discipline room” The discipline room

was where children who behaved naughtily go. There are chairs, and children sit in the chairs until they have un-

learned the behavior that got them there and proved that they won’t do it again. It isn’t fun. Feedings are only

once a day with unappetizing food. All the children immediately stop the whispers and continue on with their day.

The odd girl walks down the hall. People see her and keep walking. No one likes her; it is clear. She is different

and almost got you to the discipline room. You go into your next class, Mathematics. And do the notes and exam-

ples. After class she is sitting on a bench outside the judges’ chamber. She is reading a book. It is quite long. The

next day she is still there. But this time she is eating a sandwich. Her hair and clothes are the same. She has obvi-

ously been there all night. There is a scratch on her arm. And she has a black eye. She has been fighting. You don’t

understand this girl.

As you walk, you overhear a classmate whispering, “I heard that she is part of the resistance! That her entire family

goes into places like that and refuses to leave until the cameras are taken down! That they are trying to abolish the judgment!”

The other child whispers back, “I know! My father told me to stay away from her, that she is bad news! He told me the

judges are about to give in. Apparently there have been attacks on judgment houses and escapes from camps!” You have never

heard of these things. But the sound of not having to fear the cameras all day long and striving for perfection eve-

ry second sounds nice. You want to stand with the girl but are afraid of the punishment.

The next day she is still there and the next. She is there for three weeks, and somehow never runs out of

food. Every morning that school starts, she has a sandwich in her hand and the same outfit. One day you walk in-

to school, and a strange sight awaits. One other girl is wearing a pale blue bow in her hair blond hair like the odd

girl’s instead of the regulation ponytail. The cameras go off, and she is summoned to the judges’ chamber. As she

walks in, she smiles at the odd girl on the bench. The next day she isn’t back, but instead two other girls have tak-

en action. They both have pale blue bows in their hair. They are also taken to the judges chamber. The routine re-

peats itself again each day, and the amount of children at school goes down. Boys start doing it too. But instead

they wear pale blue ties. After about two weeks of pale blue bows and ties, and children being sent to the judges’

chamber. It stops. Not the blue, the punishments. Children keep wearing the colors but are no longer punished.

The judges aren’t caring. They’ve given up. Because of this children start wearing more than just bows. They wear

full outfits filled with pale blue. Some children dye their uniforms the blue. You want to participate with the rebel-

lion. You hate the rules, but fear rules your mind. Soon there are other kids wearing more than blue. There is red

and green there are combinations of other colors. Soon there are patterns. Sometimes there are stripes or dots of

floral prints. Soon everyone is wearing something. You walk out of class in your navy blue striped shirt with green

floral leggings and look around. There are millions of colors and patterns around you. There is chatter amongst

your friends. The buzz of people talking fills your ears. Everything is how it should be. But something is missing.

You look around the hallway and look for whatever is wrong, and then you see it. The bench is empty.

The bench outside the judges’ office is empty. The girl is gone. Where is she? You look up and down the halls but

don’t see anyone. But there, among some of the younger kids, she is. You run over to the girl. Your mind doesn’t

know why. You have never talked to her in your life. You don’t know anything about her. But you run over,

through the bunches of kids talking and laughing. She tries to open the doors, but your grab her arm. She flips

around at you. Her eyes are big, and her lips are pursed. She stares right at you with her piercing green eyes.

When she sees you, her face softens, and you see her fingers relax. She is a couple inches taller than you, so you

have to look up.

Millions of questions and words pound against your head, but only one reaches the tongue, “Why?” the

words leave your mouth and she smiles.

Her lips begin to speak but she holds herself back and stops. “Why Not?”

by Elizabeth Sacktor

Why Do You

why do you criticize me

everything I do

why do you tell me no

that it’s you I must look to

I have my ideas

my own beliefs and plan

but you have to put me down

making my life bare and bland

I don’t put faults in you

nor do I point out flaws

it’s like you are controlling me

filling my life special laws

Someday I will leave

Fly away and break free

someday you will know

all you did to me...

by Elizabeth Sacktor

Stop

Start. Perfection.

Success. Idyllic.

Everyone is just the same, And yes, I’m a part of them.

But do I want to be?

Pause. Look around.

Everyone is just the same. Everything is just the same.

Torturous. Conservative.

Sticklers. Rewind to the memories.

Fast forward to the rest of my life. Stop. I can’t be like this.

by Leah Timpson

My Everything

My Everything

Eat, Sleep and Live for you

My Everything

Grow, Laugh and Play for you

My Everything

Do whatever I can for you

My Everything

Go across the world for you

My Everything

Love and care for you

For only you

You are

My everything

Know That Cherish That Love That

By Hannah Grace Agudo

Forever and Ever

There was once a girl With dark blond hair

Who would get off the bus

At the same stop

Every day

Forever and ever

And there was once a dog

With ticked gray hair

Who would sit at the bus stop

Waiting

Every day

Forever and ever

The dog would wait For when the girl came

they would walk

Walk together down the road

That stretched on forever and ever

There was once a girl Who loved a stray dog

Took care of him

Nurtured him

Loved him

Forever and ever

And there once was a dog

Who loved the little girl Took care of her

Nurtured her

Loved her

Forever and ever There was once a day

When the girl did not come

Did not get off the bus

At the same bus stop

Like she had

Forever and ever

But the dog still stayed

At the lonely bus stop

All alone

Waiting

Longing for the little girl Forever and ever

The dog did not know

Yet would he ever want to

The girl had died

He never knew

He still waited

Wishing for the little girl The one who loved him

The one who cared for him

Forever and ever ago

The wind blew cold

And the sun burned hot Yet he waited

Faithfully

At the empty bus stop

Forever and ever

by Charlotte Crawford

Julia Philippe-Auguste

by Maddie Grant

Our Universe is Made from Tiny Stories

Ever since I was little, I’ve told stories. Of course they weren’t really my stories. They were just fairytales

or books I read or heard with different faces and different names. They looked different. They loved different

people. Once I had a black Snow White. So my childhood was basically one big fan-fiction. That is until I

watched my first movie. The Titanic was apparently one of my favorite movies growing up. Right next to the Day

After Tomorrow. I must’ve had a life-ending, apocalypse thing going on. For a little while, I stopped telling stories,

but still loved movies. I often yearned for that escape to Wonderland. Or for the thrill of staying in Bates Motel.

For a long time, I thought I was going to write. That’s all I did. That’s what my brain was constantly

thinking about. 85% writing, 13% breathing, eating, etc., and 2% homework. I forced myself to do it, day in, day

out. To expand my ability, I went to a writing course at CTY. I spent three weeks there, learning how to grow

my writing skills. I’d wake up and write, and go to bed working on my personal writing. Although I loved writ-

ing, it didn’t feel right doing it. I could see myself, doing it day after day of my life. I didn’t get it at first, but I

realized that writing wasn’t going to be my career. It was like I had this part of me missing, and I hadn’t even

noticed. Like a chain reaction, another thing hit me. My best friend was moving away. To commemorate my

friendship with my friends, I made my first iMovie using videos I’d recorded on my phone, or on the camcorder

I’d gotten for Christmas. My friends loved it. I loved doing it.

Skip forward to this school year. I still wrote, just not as avidly as I did the year before. I still watched

movies, same as I always did. I hadn’t made another movie in the past two months. That was until I was asked to

make a movie. It was for science. An air pollution project. I’d spent a solid two nights editing and editing it. It

was my first time working in iMovie without using 100% pictures. Tutorials became my best friends. I used,

and found clips that addressed the subject, and incorporated them into my movie. With the right music and with

the clips edited the way I wanted them to be, I had made my first movie. My science teacher was impressed. Like

really impressed. My class was too. It was then I realized what I wanted to start doing. Make movies. It wasn’t just

a phase I was going through. This was something I wanted to do. Maybe even for the rest of my life.

I had created several more movies for science, and one or two for other classes. All positive comments,

and reactions. So far I’ve won three minor school awards for my films, lots of praise and encouragement to go

farther with it. I’ve also been asked to create some for special events. I haven’t received any special training. I am a

self-taught filmmaker, using sources like Youtube, or how-to books from the library.

It wasn’t until very recently, that I was asked to broadcast my video in front of the entire Bryn Mawr

School. I had a time limit of three days, and with my partner out with a concussion, I had to do it alone (with the

aid of Fudi). I dedicated one day to filming, which meant filming the statistic section, and three individual sec-

tions. I only had forty-five minutes to complete this. There was no rescheduling, just those forty-five minutes. An-

other day was left for me to find clips, and music, while the last day gave me time to edit the whole thing. With

minutes ‘til my deadline, I finished it. At first I was terrified to present, but once it happened, all the fear melted

away. I’d given people a story. I’d found that drive again. This is one thing I definitely see myself doing. With the

right tools, and the right mindset, I can help people with my films.

Out of life, there is that one thing we want. I want the chance to tell stories again. We can all change peo-

ple, but I want to inspire. I want to give people that escape from reality that movies give. That chance for people

to disappear into the rows of red seats, being comforted by the souls of those there before. If I can do just that

one thing, I know I can make a mark on the world, and that’s I all I really want to do.

Thank you for reading, Sage Okolo

Mirror

I step to the mirror. I check my reflection. It’s not me there. That’s not me. She has long, loose red hair. She has short, brown hair. Her tank top is light blue. She’s wearing a blue vest on a black t-shirt. She has long blue jeans. She has long brown leggings. She’s wearing red sneakers. She’s wearing blue boots. She looks adventurous. She looks smart. Her hands look rough. Her hands are dainty. Her skin is pale and freckled. Her skin is tanned. Her nails are painted. She holds a book. Her ears are small. She has her ears pierced. Her nose is pierced. Her nose is small.

But those eyes... They’re mine.

by Liza Plant

Matryoshka

Beautiful, Delicate, Unique.

I could go on for ages about you

and your attributes, and your loveliness,

and the frustration you cause me, but you’re just so special,

Matryoshka.

by Leah Timpson

Broken by Maggie Smith

The Guide To Being A Porcelain Doll

I am a porcelain doll. A perfect model to the young girl of society

Don’t forget to smile! Make sure your face is painted on. And remember eating is bad!

We are porcelain dolls, ready to produced by the masses. A porcelain doll remembers to keep her face clear, No cracks, no splits. because the slightest imperfection is smashed and leaves a girl broken. Now we don’t want broken girls, do we? Or need them.

Fix that smile! Broken girls are unwanted. Happy girls are always wanted. We’ll fix those raw emotions. Replace them with synthetic, won’t we? Much easier to be that way. Don’t eat! Suck in your stomach. Keep smiling. Fix your hair. Paint your face.

We’ll revolutionize the young girl. We are the revolution! We are going to make her perfect! Curl that piece of hair. Stop crying. A porcelain girl doesn’t cry. Mask the emotions keep them inside with the weakened heart A porcelain doll doesn’t cry They die inside.

by Sage Okolo

Popularity Ends

You embrace the attention

Piled high in adoration

You flaunt your perfection

In every possible direction

When you look in the mirror

You always see her

The girl with no flaws

When you leave, you receive applause

What if that all went away

What if you no longer had it after today

What if you were left alone

What if you had to do things on your own

What if you stopped to take a pause

When you’re taken into fate’s claws

What if there is no one to hear your cries for help

What if you scream until it turns into but a faint yelp

What if you missed all of them who adored

What if you knew what it feels like to be ignored

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

Before

Have you ever felt that moment... Before the sun sets?

Before the curtain falls?

Before the tears roll?

Before the clock chimes?

Before the jump?

Have you ever heard the silence... Before the music plays?

Before the bird sings?

Before the party begins?

Before the child laughs?

Before the barking starts?

Have you ever seen the wonder... Before the stars disappear?

Before the tower falls?

Before tragedy hits?

Before the gift is opened?

Before the show starts?

Have you ever had that feeling before the story is done?

by Liza Plant

By Maggie Hopkins

Spotlight

This story is 100% true. Not one word of this entire story did not happen. Every horrible thing described in these few sentences happened to me.

I couldn’t breath. Is it hot in here? I listened to the boy on stage recite his lines clearly and formally to the audience. I cracked my knuckles. One finger at a time, wanting me to remember my lines with every pull, push and crack. My costume was a large trench coat. I had put it on about half an hour ago. Is it hot to anyone else? Man my throat’s dry...

Suddenly, I was on stage. I was supposed to look at everything in wonder, the search for the ghost. My character is a cook who just adores ghosts. She took the job just to have a ghostly experience. I stood there. The boy finished saying his line. My head was swirling, with every line but the one I was supposed to say. I ad-libbed. I said I loved ghosts. I wanted to meet one. I urged the boy to say the next line under my breath. He quickly recited his next line. The swirling of words in my head settled to help me see clearly what came next. It’s so hot. Man, when was the last time I had some water? The spotlight must be doing this to me. I was off stage... I saw black dots. I ripped off my trench coat. I quickly ran into the dressing room that leads onto the stage. I walked over to the trash can. I felt like throwing up. I spit into the trash can. Come on, you’re needed on stage soon! You can do this! The director rushed over to me with a small bottle of warm water. I took two sips. I pulled on my apron and grabbed my rolling pin.

My cue... I had to walk onto the stage right then. I took a deep breath, and plunged back into the spotlight. The words in my head strung a timeline of each sentence. The scene went well... enough.

Intermission. Sweet, sweet intermission. I had 15 minutes to not puke, pee, drink two and a half bottles of water, pee, sit down, and go over my lines, and not puke.

All too soon, I was in the wing, waiting to enter. I realized that I had drunk too much water and had to pee.

I found myself on the stage again. The words made sentences; the sentences made lines, I was reciting them carefully when I found myself back in the wing. My character was off. I was finally finished until curtain call. I sat down, and smiled.

by Liza Plant

by Elizabeth Cavallon

Dancing

An Assonance poem

I can’t imagine life without dancing, I love prancing on stage,

Though people think it a labor, I think of it as a vacation from worries and doubts,

The spacious stage lying before me, Waiting for me to race upon it,

Dancing takes me away from troubles, Dancing makes me weightless.

by Liza Plant

The Poet

She sits

on the

beach, with no

means

to write, but still the words

fly…

from sand to sea, from sea to sky.

By AoCarnell

by Anna Killingstad

Creativity

You are the one helps me see more views

You are the one who helps me pick and choose

You are the stars that glisten in the sky

You are the one that keeps me asking why

You are everything that I want to be

You are creativity

You can be both careful and careless

You are both strong and fearless

You make me let go of all worry

You remind me that there is no hurry

You are everything that I want to be

You are creativity

You are the ocean that sings such beautiful songs

You are the one who knows no doings of wrongs

You are the one who takes care of all troubles and doubts

You are the one who reminds us to scream shout

You are everything that I want to be

You are creativity

You are the one that can be a child’s toy

You are the one who knows both sorrow and joy

You are the one who encourages us in our worst of times

You are the one who helps us think of the next rhymes

You are everything that I want to be

You are a world that I have yet to see

You are the one who gives us individuality

For you are creativity

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

by Alice Ball

How to Build a Strong Community

I couldn’t believe it! My mind was buzzing with excitement and thoughts were swimming all around my

head in disbelief. It was finally happening!

I did a happy little jig as I reread the note that was waiting for me, taped to my locker. It read:

You have been chosen. Meet us

in the girl’s bathroom at lunch.

Make sure you’re alone.

~ M

M as in Mackenzie. Mackenzie is the most popular girl in school. She sets the trends, eats at the cool table at lunch

and wears the best clothes. Not to mention she looks like a model. Everyone looks up to her and her wannabees,

and they are an exclusive group; it’s hard to get in. And she had chosen me! Me!

But I still had one more period until lunch. How would I be able to concentrate? I hurriedly shoved my

books into my bag and speed - walked to class. I would’ve run, but the school has a strict no-running-in-the-halls

policy.

I literally almost fell asleep as I listened to my science teacher, Ms. Jaffe, drone on and on about the sci-

ence of snow and ice. The bell snapped me back to reality with it’s obnoxious ringing. I silently cursed that annoy-

ing bell.

The bell! Lunch! I packed up my books and practically sprinted to my locker, ignoring the school’s policy. I

frantically threw my books back in my locker. An envelope fell out. On it, it said, To Future Me. At first I was con-

fused, but then I understood; last year, we had a day filled with activities on how to build a strong community.

One of the activities was to write a letter to our future selves about our goals to accomplish building a stronger

community. The idea is that we can go back and read it to see how much progress we’ve made. I opened mine up.

It read:

Dear Future Me,

I want to build a strong community by reaching out to others and including others.

I want to be supportive of everyone else and build a friendly community. I think this school

has too many cliques. I want to try to break them up, so different people can hang out. I wish to accomplish

these goals in order to bind our community together.

Sincerely,

Past me

I threw the letter back into my locker and giggled. Sure, I may have thought that last year, but this was

now. I was about to be accepted into the popular group! Forget not having cliques. I’ve never had a real group of

friends, except for my best friend, Joe, who is a total dork. Speaking of which…

“Tori! Tori!” Joe came running down the hall to meet me. “Hi!” she said brightly.

“Hey,” I answered halfheartedly.

“I’ve been looking for you! Where have you been?” Joe asked, out of breath.

“Oh, I’ve been around,” I said casually.

“Oh, well are you ready to head to the cafeteria?” asked Joe, already going for the door.

“Actually, I have something I have to take care of,” I said, rummaging through my locker, hoping she would

take the hint and go to lunch without me. But she just stood there.

“What do you have to take care of?” she asked suspiciously.

“It’s not important,” I said, heading to the bathroom. I heard Joe giggle.

“If you have to go to the bathroom, you can just tell me, you know!” she said, laughing.

“Um, yeah, the bathroom. See ya later,” I said, hurrying to the bathroom door.

“You’re late,” said a voice. I stepped further into the pitch black bathroom. Why were all the lights off?

“Well, do you talk or not?” The unmistakable voice of Mackenzie wafted from the shadows.

Finding my voice, I manage to choke out, “Um, yeah, I got your note. Sorry I’m late,” My voice is so

hushed it’s basically a whisper.

“So, you really want to do this?” Suddenly I’m surrounded by all of Makenzie’s wannabees: Quinn, Julia,

Jamie and Zoe.

“Yes,” I manage to squeak out. Mackenzie stepped out from the darkness and takes my hand.

"If you’re going to be one of us, you’ll have to follow some rules: You can’t hang out with anyone other than

us. You have to sit with us at all times. Dress cutely. If you’re going shopping, never leave us out. Don’t make a fool

of yourself; it’ll damage our reputation. Think you can handle those rules?” Mackenzie goes through all of them so

fast I find my head spinning.

“Yes,” I said nervously.

“Good. Everyone, please welcome our new crew member, Victoria!” Mackenzie lets go of my hand.

“Um, actually, I go by Tori,” I said, my voice still hushed.

Mackenzie leads the group the lunch table smack dab in the middle of the cafeteria, otherwise known as the

“cool table.” I sat down, amazed of how different the perspective is from this table.

“What do you think you’re doing?” snaps Mackenzie. Oh man, have I done something wrong already?

“That’s my seat. Sit over on that side of the table,” she says, pointing to a chair next to Quinn. But Quinn shoos

me away, too.

“This is Jamie’s spot.” Jamie comes over and shoves me aside. “Move,” she says pushing me into the table.

Um, ow? I try to sit next to Zoe next. Luckily she’s fine with me sitting there. Phew. I looked around and found

Joe glancing my way. She was sitting alone. I almost felt bad for her.

“Don’t even think about it, Tori,” said Mackenzie, reading my mind. I immediately looked away.

When I got home I was exhausted. Lunch was not as I had planned, and the rest of the day wasn’t any bet-

ter. I considered texting Joe, but thought better of it. I didn’t find any new messages from her, which hurt because

she always texted me first.

The next day wasn’t any better. I found my letter to my future self again in my locker. This time I didn’t

just laugh it off. I reread it several times. As if on cue, Mackenzie, Zoe, Quinn and Jamie walked past me. I reread

the line about not wanting any cliques in school. I asked myself: Is this the right way to build a strong community,

ditching my best friend and going off with some clique?

I rushed to Joe’s locker. “Hey Joe!” I said brightly.

“Hey, Tori,” she said weakly. I realized then how bad a friend I was being. I apologized for everything and

begged for forgiveness.

“Oh, alright,” said Joe, after I cleared everything up.

Mackenzie was furious. She turned and left me in the dust with Joe, which was fine by me. After that expe-

rience, I learned to reach out to people in their time of need. I branched out and started my own group. I ignored

Mackenzie and her group and the icy stares they always seemed to be giving me. I learned to be tolerant of that. I

learned to be supportive, reliable and respectful, too. I love my new friends in my group and once a week a reach

out to someone else. Things couldn’t be going better! I’m finally in a group where I’m not judged for whomp I

talk to or what I wear. I’ve learned the true meaning of building a strong community.

by Grace Harlan

Wait for Me, Augustus Waters

I feel like we have a choice in this world, about how we tell sad stories. On the one hand you can sugar coat it. That nothing is too

messed up that it can’t be fixed with a Peter Gabriel song. I like that version as much as the next girl does…It’s just not the

truth.

-The Fault in Our Stars

Hazel Grace closed her eyes. The world around her was alive. Lush and colorful. Phillip was gone, and of

course she missed him, but without him, she felt incredibly liberated. Like she could somersault down this hill,

stick the landing, and score a perfect ten. But she couldn’t. She was waiting. Five more minutes.

Recount the moments.

How many songs…over a billion maybe

How many literal heart of Jesus support groups…probably forty.

How many times would I fall in love?

With a boy, with dark hair, and a sexy smile that sold her on the first intense staring contest they shared. A boy

who only feared oblivion, but that’s not all. She knew that. Four more minutes.

How could I be so lucky?

To be part of the life of Augustus Waters. He was so amazing. How'd the universe come up with him? His

ability to find the goodness in something totally wicked, or the darkness in an empyrean moment. A sweet con-

trast that filled a hole in Hazel Grace’s chest. One of those holes that even family can’t fill. Not even a friend.

That thought made her heart flutter, and not in a bad way like before.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

It was like being forced to wait for a bomb to explode. I’m so close now. Without really thinking, Hazel’s parents

popped into her head. They were just as excited for her as she was. They'd even cried tears of joy. They’d

bought her flowers. It was just a lot. Isaac visited her a lot before she left. It was fun. Hazel Grace stretched

herself on the earth, her fingers spreading over the fuzziness that the moss had. Her flowy white dress made

her feel prettier than ever.

One minute.

She could barely contain it anymore. She twirled on the earth beneath her. Sometimes the best moments can be

expressed through movement, or words. The only words that came out of Hazel Grace’s mouth were shouts.

Really, really happy ones that crawled all over the universe. Her feet provided the movement, dancing like no

one was judging.

Twenty seconds.

Her body jumped a little, jerking out in awkward movements. Almost like it was her body who was choreo-

graphing the frolics, and not her mind. Then all of her memories flashed before her. Remembering when she

was told about her cancer, and then getting her invitation to womanhood. The countless cancer-support

groups. Her desperately lonely swing set. The skeleton playground. Van Houten. Period. No going back there.

Her parents. Oh, how she loved them for letting her leave. Isaac breaking trophies.

And last but not least.

Falling in love.

With a boy, with dark hair, and a sexy smile that sold her on the first intense staring contest they shared. A boy

who only feared oblivion, but that’s not all. She knew that. Four more minutes.

How could I be so lucky?

To be part of the life of Augustus Waters. He was so amazing. How'd the universe come up with him? His ability

to find the goodness in something totally wicked, or the darkness in an empyrean moment. A sweet contrast that

filled a hole in Hazel Grace’s chest. One of those holes that even family can’t fill. Not even a friend. That thought

made her heart flutter, and not in a bad way like before.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

It was like being forced to wait for a bomb to explode. I’m so close now. Without really thinking, Hazel’s parents

popped into her head. They were just as excited for her as she was. They'd even cried tears of joy. They’d bought

her flowers. It was just a lot. Isaac visited her a lot before she left. It was fun. Hazel Grace stretched herself on the

earth, her fingers spreading over the fuzziness that the moss had. Her flowy white dress made her feel prettier than

ever.

One minute.

She could barely contain it anymore. She twirled on the earth beneath her. Sometimes the best moments can be

expressed through movement, or words. The only words that came out of Hazel Grace’s mouth were shouts. Real-

ly, really happy ones that crawled all over the universe. Her feet provided the movement, dancing like no one was

judging.

Twenty seconds.

Her body jumped a little, jerking out in awkward movements. Almost like it was her body who was choreographing

the frolics, and not her mind. Then all of her memories flashed before her. Remembering when she was told about

her cancer, and then getting her invitation to womanhood. The countless cancer-support groups. Her desperately

lonely swing set. The skeleton playground. Van Houten. Period. No going back there. Her parents. Oh, how she

loved them for letting her leave. Isaac breaking trophies.

And last but not least.

Falling in love.

“Ah, there she is, Hazel Grace.”

“You waited for me Augustus Waters.”

The two hugged each, in hopes of never being pulled apart again. She kissed him. Without any interruptions, or

bumps from her tube. It was just even more perfect than it had been in life. When he touched her hands, her

memories surged through her again.

And last but not least…

getting unplugged from life…

“You coming Hazel Grace?” Augustus asked. He half smiled and reached for her. Hazel paused for a mo-

ment. She hesitated before making any movements.

“Yeah,” she said simply, and followed Augustus Waters off the earth.

by Sage Okolo

Fly Away

Wings spread apart Flying high

Soaring free

I wish to join thee

To the hill

Crashing into the window’s glass

You fall from the window sill I wish that you heard

Oh, little bird

That I wish to join you still

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

By Maddie Grant

Jumping

Thump, thump, thump, My heart pounds

Butterflies dance in my stomach

His feathery mane flies in the wind

His hooves pound the ground

Ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum

Grass rips from the ground

As his feet make their mark

And the jump looms closer

Ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum

My heels press into the stirrups

Pushing down to the Earth

Keeping me anchored

As they have, without fail, for so many years. My hands tighten around the leathery, braided reins

His feet pound faster

Ba-da-dum-ba-da-dum-ba-da-dum

I arch my back and stand out of the saddle

I’m his now

Whether we land

Whether we crash

It’s up to him

But I trust him

He’d never hurt me.

And we fly.

by Lucy Kaufman

by Maddie Grant

PaNiC! There’s a lot of people here. Are you going to dance or not? No, I don’t like this song. You can’t just stand here. But no one thinks I can dance. No one thinks I can have fun. That’s not what’s expected of me. You can change that. No, you don’t get it. I can’t change that. That’s what people think of me. People are looking at me. You need to calm down. People are going to talk about me. You’re going to cry. Not here. I need to cool down in the bathroom. Just until my eyes stop watering. I’ll just hide in the stall until I calm down.

Ok, breathe. In. Out. In. Out. There are so many people here. I can’t leave. It’s only 7:53. When does this end? 9:30? 10:30? That’s too long. I shouldn’t of come here. Stop, you’re crying. Why did I come here? I want to go home. There’re so many people here. You NEED to calm down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow down! Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout You’re hyperventilating. No, I’m not hyperventilating. I am NOT hyperventilating. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Too fast. Too fast. SLOW DOWN. Sobbing. I’m sobbing. Panic. Panic. No, no, NO. Don’t let this happen. Too late.

People are coming. Don’t hear me. Don’t hear me. Don’t hear me. I know these people. They’re looking for you. And laughing.

STOP LAUGHING, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET AWAY FROM ME! Cover your face. Good, speak calmly. Nothing is wrong. Go away. Now. Gone. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? I sound weird when I cry. Like a hysterical woman. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I’m okay. Good, open the door. Dear god. Back in the stall. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout No. More hyperventilating. Who’s out there? Leave me alone. They left. Come back. Help me. I can’t feel my legs. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout You need to open the door. I can’t open it. I literally cannot move my hands. My legs. I can’t move my legs. Or anything. I can’t move anything. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout You’re taking in too much oxygen. You need to slow down your breathing. I can’t! Someone PLEASE help me. How will punching the walls help you? GET ME OUT OF HERE. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout What time is it? About 8:10. My legs. Again my legs. It’s because you’re breathing too fast. There’s too much oxygen in your blood. I really can’t feel my legs. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout I need to sit down. No, you can’t sit down. You’re going to pass out. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Fine, just let me pass out.

I want to pass out. Let this be over. People are coming. Get up. I can’t. GET UP. On the count of three: One. Two. Three. I’m up. Get it together. I’m trying! Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe…Breathe…Breathe. NO. NO LEAVE ME ALONE. DON’T LOOK AT ME. How long has it been? It’s 8:30. Too long. HELP ME. So many voices. Here. Here? Can you hear me? PLEASE hear me. Don’t leave! Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Please… please, don’t leave. No, wait. Who is that? Does she know who I am? Yes. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout She heard me? Someone heard me? Thank God. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout I’m fine. Whatever you are, you are not fine. I’m f I’m fi I’m fine Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout I’m fine. She can’t hear you. I’m fine. That was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t want to open the door.

Are there people outside? I can hear them. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Are they here for me? Are they listening? Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Calm down. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout I can. Hear. Them. All. Look. She brought a teacher? Yes. Open the door. Open. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout NO NO NO THERE ARE PEOPLE Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout They came to watch me. It’s interesting. I’m interesting. You should do this more often if you’re going to attract a crowd like this. NO GET AWAY. I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANYONE. I DON’T WANT ANYONE TO SEE ME. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout

Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Calm. Calm. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Do what they tell you. Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout Breathe into the bag. Breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out You’re okay. Just breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out Don’t panic. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out It’s over. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out It’s over. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. by Zoe Leonard

Starry Sky

Dreamt did I

the starry sky

filled with lights

that shoot and fly

sparkles soar

and comets blaze

as I watch face to amaze

Oh starry sky

why

that you must leave

when dawn comes breaking in

oh starry sky

I do cry

when the blaze grows dim

My sleep did fade

as I shade

the daylight from my eye

I wake up I say

for a new day

goodbye my starry sky

by Elizabeth Sacktor

That Night

Just hoping, for a while

Holding on to sweet denial But the insensitivity

Falls from her lips, so carelessly

Not having the heart to grieve

I just did not want to believe

I felt the tears coming

I just felt like running

Alone in my room

With sadness and gloom

Losing another to a thing called death

I took another gasping breath

Although I did not want to begin, I gave up and let the determined tear win

I lay down in my bed

Thoughts and memories racing through my head

I wanted to see her one last time

And finally say a real goodbye

Time just wasn’t on my side

For now it is too late, she has died

My sister knocked on my door

She walked in, saying what she had not said before

There were tears on our faces, we were hurt to together

Both afraid that this was something we could not weather

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

By Alex Marino

Darkness

The dark absence of light Cloaked in the dark of the night No need to be corrected

For you feel oddly protected

Maybe darkness isn’t the absence of light

Maybe light is the absence of darkness

Day, the absence of night Some things cannot be explained

Yet superior knowledge, you think you attain

Walk through the tunnel with no light

In sight Focus on the dark, the cold, the bliss

Instead of assuming there is something to miss

For you have never escaped into the night

For you seem to only believe in light Seeing isn’t believing

Believing is seeing

So in the rich darkness see

See the beauty of the dark with me

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

Shadows

There’s a reason honey

why they only call us to come clean up

or why they never award us the shining metals

in front of our proud families

( probably cause none of us have any ) And there is certainly

a reason

why the things we do

never see the light of day

( it’s better that way darling, trust me )

And there is most definitely

a reason

why our “assignments”

are never discussed over a shiny wooden table top

in a building with a glass front

and a spot on the list of government organizations

but rather a back alley

with a hushed whisper

and a grubby hand

full of hundred dollar banknotes

But don’t worry

we’ll stay in the shadows

after all, where else could we go?

by Jordan Brice

Cold is Coming

It is cold and I hide

from the biting frost outside

it is coming

faster

faster

run

hide

smother in warmth

the cold is inside

make it last as I fast

from warmth

and sun

from warmth

and sun

by Elizabeth Sacktor

Frozen Breezes

bite my nose

take my gloves

frost does what it does

I want to fight I must take flight But I wait for the sun

for the sun will be back

and then the frost

it will attack

by Elizabeth Sacktor

Afraid to Fly

Oh, why yes I wish to fly

But I am afraid of the sky

And I never feel safe and sound

For I am afraid of the ground

I see the stars, constantly glowing

But I am afraid, forever unknowing

I want what is best for you

But I need more time to think it through

I see the tears behind your eyes

Underneath of your disguise

You are, too, afraid to fly

Because you are, shall it be I?

The one to soar up to the sky

For we are both afraid to fly

Yet here you feel safe and sound

And I am afraid of the ground

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

by Anna Killinstad

To The Sky

I rushed down the hill, feeling the wind blowing the opposite direction of me. The sun lightly shone down

on me, as i allowed the earth and sky to liberate me from all worry. “You’ll never catch me!” I shouted. Although

my friend must’ve thought that I was indicating her as the subject of you, i meant all of the things that I was free-

ing myself from. The stress. The worry. The doubt. The hardship. The despair. I just ran away from all of it,

never wanting to look back. “Wait!” Paige shouted. I stopped, as I began twirling around. I closed my eyes. I

spun, leapt, kicked and danced. I jumped, feeling myself getting closer to the sky. I opened my eyes, to see Paige

standing in front of me. “We should get going,” she said. I sighed. She, being the responsible one, was the only

one who kept me from escaping forever. Forever. The concept of it seemed as if something extraordinary should

come of it.

I opened the glass doors and stepped onto the balcony. Sunsets were too good to miss. I’ve always won-

dered which the sun preferred. Was it the sunrise, that time which it is ready to have a whole new beginning? Was

it the sunset, the time that it could end it all of a period of time? Or was it the middle of the day? The time when

the sun is at it’s highest point, the time when it can shine, and just be noticed. I sighed. Everyone wants an-

swers. No one can enjoy the sweet, wondrous joy of questioning. Answers are overrated. They keep us from see-

ing endless possibilities. They corrupt imagination. They crush the best of dreams.

I began running down the hill. “You’ll never catch me, world!” But that time, I meant it.

by Mason Philippe-Auguste

by Anabelle Franks

January Poem

A few years ago, January came in with mountains of snow. Frosty white blankets towered four feet high

My sister, our neighbors, and I wrapped ourselves in coats

And ran to the park to go sledding

We sped down the hills

The wind roared in our ears

Mingling with the sound of our laughter

And screams of happiness.

That was the best January

Snow decorated my hair

And all of our eyelashes

We looked like fairies like that. And when the cold finally seeped through our many jackets

And chilled us to the bone

We trudged inside and sat by the fire

Until the chill in our bones was replaced with a lovely warmth. And we went out again. That was the pattern of every day

Play outside, warm up, go outside again. Repeat. I never wanted it to end.

But the sun’s rays reached down

And turned the snow to water

And I watched everything

That I’d loved that month

Disappear

That year, my neighbors’ dad got a new job

That required them to move

To North Carolina

So we made the best of the time we had left But it just didn’t feel the same

As it always had. There was this knowledge among us

That this happiness couldn’t last.

Then they left. It’s OK. We still see them

Sometimes

Every year, I wait for the snow. But perhaps it left with them

Because it hasn’t snowed yet.

Not like that.

by Lucy Kaufman by Elizabeth Cavallon