Table of Contents2 3

In the Middle- Emily Lorneli

Uptown Charlotte- Emily Lorneli

Writing

p 4-5 Stars- Megan Wongp 6-9 Santa Claus- Nadia Nemanp 10 -11 Footprints- Lucy Gendap 12-15 The Flower of the Archer- Anna Lasleyp 16-17p 16-17 A World of Mirrors - Anna Lasleyp 18-19 The Sun's Rainbow- David Benja-min Knoblep 20-23 STICK- Sandra Wiktorp 24-25 Crumble - Kristina Matap 24-25 The Point of Truly- Molly Weisnerp 26-29 3 Seconds- Jin Kangp 30-33 To Those who Crushed our Dreams- Vaishakh Kallattilp 34-35 Thou Art Wordless- Andrew Dalyp 36-39 Prince of Darkness - Molly Weis-nerp 40-41 Wall- Arya Patelp 42-43 To those I have Led - Jin Kangp 44-45 Only a Test- Rebekah Nowackyp. 46-47 Across the Street - Mackenzie Urciolip. 46-47 Tristesse - Denene Woodyp. 48-49 Storm - Thyme Hawkins

Art p 1 Refraction- Autumn Yarmoshp 1 Free to Fly- Christine Dangp 2-3 Uptown Charlotte- Emily Lomelip 2-3 In the Middle - Emily Lomelip 4-5 Sunset - Megan Wongp 6-9p 6-9 Two for One- Jin Kangp 10 -11 Forest Sky- Nidhi Murlidharp 12-15 Another World- Tori Vinsonp 16-17 Denial -Autumn Yarmoshp 18-19 Seals - Isabel Zhaop 20-23 Reclaimed- Jacob Demockop 24-25 Expulsion - Maggie Trumpowerp 26-29p 26-29 Supra Lineup - Mark Calvertp 30-33 See Beyond - Emily Lomelip 34-35 Dancer of Heart- Monica Youssifp 36-39 Lost Childhood - Jin Kangp 40-41 Decoration of Winter- Megan Wongp 40-41 Niagra Falls - William Zhangp 42-43 A Naive Spirit - Angel Santalocip 42-43p 42-43 Hexacara Katie Suppap 44-45̀ Colorful Fishing Boats at Rest - Albert Smeraldop. 44-45 Castle View - Denene Woodyp 46-47 The Good Hound - Jennifer Listerp 46-47 Passing By - Deeksha Mishrapp. 48-49 The face behind the trees - Lindsay Kappiusp. 48-49 Hidden Beauty - Lindsay Kappiusp. 51 Looking into the Future - Lindsay Kap-piusp. 51 Ocean - Grace Kimp. 51 The Following - Evana Wang

Sunset- Meagn Wong

4 5

I thought that I could touch the stars,and travel far away,I thought the burning brightness would take my fears,bury them, hide them in the blackness of the sky.But when I reached for them, I burned myself every time.The great expanse above my head, so vast, so cold, so distant,it loomit loomed and swallowed all the light,it took the guardians of the night.I gazed upon that space above, listened to the silence that started hurting, as there were no crickets chirping;it seemed to have taken all I loved.The world ceased its turning.

StarsMegan Wong

Then, as the darkness all became too much,the light appeared in the East, its rays shooting West.The stars had gone, the morning was cold,but the sun was gaining strength,it was climbing the horizon,the brightness of its glowing light stung my eyesthatthat were used to night.

There was a chorus in the trees, the shadows were chased away.A bird shot out in the morning light, casting its own shadow on the ground,but it was ee to spread its wings and soon lest this place behind.I stared again at the sky,looking for a twinkling glimmer, but there were no lights besides the one,the simmering pothe simmering power of the sun.I might have spent my day like that,siing on the dewy grass,watching the sun take its course.Observing the shedding of the leaves,the snow that fell with each small breeze.

There is no darkness here, there is no darkness in this day,the shadows that had come this morning all faded at midday.But, the cold is creeping back it is waiting for the night,the weather will be changing when the stars come back to life.

I can kill gnats. Not the bigger bugs. If I can feel a little crunch, it’s too much. Gnats are small. I can’t see their faces. I don’t ever want to see one magnified. I’ll feel like a murderer.

You see, the question I always ask myself is: at what point is a life insignificant enough? Do gnats matter that much? Am I disturbing something?

I think I’m losing my mind.

But that’s what someone sane would say.

It’s all sentiment. The gnat thing. A lot of things are sentiment. I once aspired to be a musician.

However poor and self-loathing it made me, I wanted to play music. I also wanted him. He made However poor and self-loathing it made me, I wanted to play music. I also wanted him. He made me feel anxious. I thought it was romantic.

But that was all sentiment.

I like books now. I like books and him. The other him. The one that doesn’t make me feel anxious. The one that reads Orwell and tells me I’m crazy for taking my coffee black.

Maybe I am crazy.

Maybe I’m losing my mind.

But thatBut that’s what someone sane would say.

Black coffee isn’t bitter to me. It’s sharp, and it wakes me up. That’s the point, right? To be awake?

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been awoken. Spiritually, I mean. You see, God is like Santa Claus to me. I feel childish if I believe. I don’t believe, though. Did I ever believe? I feel like I did, at a young age.

When I went to Catholic School.When I went to Catholic School.

Catholic school is expensive. I don’t go anymore.

At the same time I still believed in Santa Claus. Maybe that’s what disillusioned me. If Santa Claus wasn’t real, then how was this funny man flying in the sky, probably with a bushy beard and always watching, real?

Parents shouldn’t tell their kids about Santa Claus. It ruins God. The two are too similar.

Two too two too two too two too.

Too similar

Losing I’m mind think my I.

Sane but what thatSane but what that’s someone say would.

My words are jumbling like my God and my Santa Claus.

These things happen, you understand.

You understand.

When he, the first he, sat next to me in the symphony—not that symphony; the other symphony—he would beat out whole measures with his foot. I’d always tap the quarter notes. Was that Santa Claus telling me to get out?

Good thing he did. Good thing he did.

I’d have lost my mind, otherwise.

I used to tell him—the same him; the first him—that I loved him.

And I did. I loved him—most ardently.

I did it because I was afraid he’d crash his Hyundai. He was awful proud of it.

It was awful, that pride. He reminded me of my fatheIt was awful, that pride. He reminded me of my father. But I love my father. He told me God was watching. Only in December, though. I think he wanted me to be good. I was mostly good, except when I wanted to stay up and watch cartoons. I don’t even know why they show cartoons at night. I suppose they were only re-runs.

Anyway, I always told him I loved him. I didn’t want to regret my last words to him. They could have been something awful, like “You’re toxic and I don’t need you in my life.”

Wait.

Oh, Santa Claus.

I think I’m losing my mind. I think I’m losing my mind.

But that’s what someone sane would say. 6 7

Footprints

Walking down the cobblestone steps I kick up a beaten path So I start to walk between the twoOnto the morning grass.

Wet and slick as I step on the bladesI resist stopping to pick a fewReaching down, stooping lowReaching down, stooping lowLonging for something new.

I haven't thought of this oftenBut how is one supposed to seeThe footprints left on the grassThat I leave behind me?

But still I trot across the yardHeading past green landHeading past green landAnd I notice that my footprintsWill now turn to sand.

What I once made with my toesWill be long gone the next dayBut somebody else will come alongPave a path that will decay.

My path washed long awayMy path washed long awayDeep past the shoreI worry they’ll be forgottenBut I will create so much more.

Lucy Genda

Forest Sky Nidhi Murlidhar 10 11

Another World- Toni Vinson

The Flower and the ArcherAna LasleyHyacinthusThe beautiful oneBeloved by the godsApolloAnd ZephyrAnd ZephyrWho could not bearThe jealousy boilingAs Apollo embracedYoung HyacinthusThe flower of the gods

PerhapsZephyr musedZephyr musedHe had gone too farManipulating the discus of ApolloBut no HyacinthusWas much betterThan one who spurned his affectionsOr so he thought

No remorse overcame himNo remorse overcame himAs Apollo's tears soaked the groundMingling with the bloodOf wounded HyacinthusFrom the lacerationOn his scalpOn the head lollingOn the swanlike porcelain neckOn the swanlike porcelain neckNone at all

Only after Hyacinthus crumpledDid Zephyr realizeThe boy had made the right choiceAnd chosen the oneWho loved him mostAnd never truly admitted itAnd never truly admitted itJust gazed upon himWith affection in his eyesWaiting for his flower to notice him

12

Zephyr watchedAs Apollo laid the limp bodyOn the freshly stained grassThe discus the last thingOn his mindFar away, the metal circleA cast-offA cast-offNever to be gazed upon againAs long as anyone lived

He watched tears fallIn glistening silver rivuletsDown the archer's cheeksSting the full lipsRedden the pensive eyesRedden the pensive eyesAs he mourned the passingOf his flower HyacinthusMore dear to himThan CassandraOr DaphneOr Coronis

At onceAt onceSomeone had mercyPerhaps DemeterOr Persephone or evenAphroditeAnd as Apollo's broken tearsSoaked the groundA flowerA flowerOf purple, light and darkSprang into beingJust as beautiful as Hyacinthus

Voice chokedEyes burningApollo pronounced the bloomThe hyacinthAnd thenOnly thenDid Zephyr turn awayDid Zephyr turn awayDisgusted with himselfHis impulsesFuming with the knowledgeThat he could not take the loveOf ApolloFor himself

13

Denial - Autumn Yarmosh

14

Anna Lasley

And the narcissist staresinto the mirrorgazing at her wondrous -to her -visage reflected in the glass,the bare skin shiningin the light streaming in.in the light streaming in.Her hair sheds crystalline droplets,beads of glass rolling down flesh,as she staresand smileshappy to be surroundedby herself.If only the world were made of mirrors.If only the world were made of mirrors.Then the narcissists would belike kings faced with kowtowed tributes:Pleased.Whether the world would be betterif it were made of the glass it feels like is up for debate,but at least someone would be happbut at least someone would be happy.

A World of Mirrors

15

This incense gives me a headache. I don’t know why I burn it. I also don’t know why I chain-smoke and burn my lungs. Why does anyone chain-smoke?

The doctors say it’s bad for you.

The doctors also say that privatized healthcare is good for you.

Want to know a secret?

It’s not.

But donBut don’t trust me. Trust the doctors.

After all, I’m losing my mind.

Even though that’s what someone sane would say. That someone could be a doctor, too.

Nifty!

I take the same country roads to symphony rehearsal every SundaI take the same country roads to symphony rehearsal every Sunday. I’ve never missed a turn. I always think I do, though. Every time I round a corner, nothing looks familiar. It’s all trees, you see. They all look the same. I always think I’ve missed my turn. I never miss my turn. It’s proba-bly because I let Santa Claus take the wheel.

That’s an expression. You’re not supposed to take that literally.

If you do, you’ll die.

You’re also not supposed to take The Bible literally.

One turn I make on the country roads passes an old church. It’s a good church. They donate money to the poor, there.

Their brick wall is crumbling. It’s ok though, because only the outside is brick. The structure un-derneath is really a concrete wall.

Nifty!

That turn always assures me I’m going the right direction.

I still think I’m losing my mind.

But that’s what someone sane would say.

I was also going to talk about the glaze over your eyes when you wake up, and how it keeps you dreamy and believing in Santa Claus, but I think I should save that idea. I have stories and poems to write.

I should really get on that.I should really get on that.

Van Gogh lost his mind, too. So did Hemingway.

They both killed themselves.

They were really good artists. Their lives weren’t insignificant enough, I don’t think.

Apparently they thought so, though.

Did they think they were sane?

8 9

Seals Isabel Zhao

The Sun’s RainbowsDavid Benjamin Knoble

16 17

Her energy gone, her eyes drifted shut as she relinquished what fight was left in her. As they closed, her eyes caught sight of a dim star. He dived in, swimming hard, struggling to reach her. She seemed gone, but he could see the light! Each stroke brought him closer, until she was almost within his grasp. She was almost lost to the darkness, but he took hold of her and swam to the surface. The light now blinded her. Her spark was now brighter, a reminder of the flames she once had and a precursor of their return.

--

She opened her eyes and found herself gazing into his. In them she could see the reflected sunrise, bringing color and life to the world around her. Smiling, she stood up and set off in search of a good spot for a bonfire without so much as a glance behind her. The tears were still damp on her cheeks, but they caught the light of the sun and threw rainbows under her feet.

He closed the door to his modest house, his shoulders hunched with fatigue. Despite the amusement of the day, work was exhausting. Barely managing to get the keys on the table and his shoes off his feet, he dragged himself into bed. Not even bothering with pajamas, he lay down his head to rest. She threw her purse down, slammed the door, and leaned back against the wall. All the energy drained out of her as the tears slowly began to fall. Crying out, she let the emotion bury her. Slowly, she carried herself to the couch and grabbed a blanket. Wrapping herself up in a bundle of hurt, she drifted off to sleep. Nothing is more disorienting than closing your eyes and seeing a sunrise. The sun rose slowly, bringing with it a new vibrancy. The trees stretched their branches ever higher, and the slow notes of the birds’ greetings began to ring out. The crystal dew caught the red light of dawn and threw it around, creating a rainbow underneath his feet. The soft warmth of the rising sun caressing her skin was enough to convince her to open her eyes. Finding herself curled up on the forest floor, she rolled onto her back and gazed up at the cloudy sky. The sounds of the forest, the only sign of life, added to the tranquil silence that absorbed her. He turned with ease to look behind him at the gently rustled leaves. He found a sight that no painter would ever be able to capture. The mix of quiet stillness projected by her body and the pain shining brightly out of her eyes intrigued him. Being careful to tread lightly on the gold and brown leaves underfoot, he lay down and wrapped his arms around her. She turned into his embrace, drawing comfort from this second sun. Such kindness was overwhelming. Burying her face in his chest, she almost couldn’t stop the tears from returning. But a single sob wracked her body, startling both of them. The forest creatures, unaware of the emotion contained by this single patch of sunlight, continued on with their simple lives. He felt the shaking of her body and squeezed tighter. Stroking her cheek, he whispered gently, “Shhh. I’m here. I won’t let go. Promise.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, wishing for all the world that he could swallow her now-flowing tears, her overwhelming pain. All thoughts of the beautiful sunrise gone, he thought he saw the forest turn a shade darker. Everything seemed grey, even with the oblivious scurrying of squirrels and the happy chittering of chipmunks. Her tears streamed faster. The small beads of emotion ran down her face and dripped onto the colorless leaves. Slowly, everything disappeared. The world spiraled inward, leaving only a small remnant of the meadow and a single flower. Its leaves drooped, and its petals yearned for a sun that did not shine. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to contain the frothing waters of her grief. He was lost, alone without a paddle, trying to navigate the churning ocean. What could he do but hold her there, in that puddle of grey? Where is the compass that can guide one heart to another? There was no sun to point the way. He would have to look for another source of light. She was drowning. Waves crashed over her. The rocks in her heart dragged her down to the bottom of the ocean. Her little air was fast escaping, and soon it would be gone. He turned away from the sky and looked into the waves. He searched amidst the anger and the crushing sadness, looking for hope. There was so much space in her large heart, but presently it was filled with an open ocean, black as night. He could see nothing. The blackness threatened to draw him into its cold embrace, and he began to lean into it. As his face touched the water, he saw a faint glimmer, a small spark of what remained.

18 19

StickSandra Witor

It was a stick. This was an irrefutable fact. They found it in a forest, by a gaping cliff, tucked away neatly below a tree. The most obvious assumption that one could gather from this evidence was that the stick was, indeed, a stick.It was gnarled. It was mean and uglIt was gnarled. It was mean and ugly. However, the subtle twists and turns that nature had worn into the broken branch were curvaceous and seductive. It was old and almost mysti-cal. At the top of the branch, there was a knot of branches that resembled the head of a grotesque, horned dragon. “You see that thing?” Jeremy said, motioning to the dead wood. “Man, that’s really something.” “I guess so,” Jeremy’s travel companion, Blake, said. “Let’s go.” “Okay, hold on. You know what, man? This is coming home with me.” “You know you can’t take things from the park. It disrupts the ecosystem.” Blake said. He smiled, but his eyes were bored. “And anyway, if you do, the spirits of this place will haunt you. If they’re angry, you’ll feel their wrath. They’ll kill you and everyone around you.”Jeremy laughed and slapped his friend’s back, causing him to lurch forward. Blake stag-gered a few steps and then regained his footing.“Yeah, sure, Edgar Allan Poe. You read too much horror, got it? That’d be way too cliche anyway. Let’s head back,” he said, grinning. When upright, the branch extended above his shoulders.Blake struggled to keep up with JeremyBlake struggled to keep up with Jeremy’s agile, graceful strides, but managed to fall instep with him after a few moments. The stick towered over his head. “Well, that legend is real, you know. People took things from this park and died within the next few days,” Blake said. “You see the head of that stick? It’s the symbol of Elbillug - Spirit of the Forests. Elbillug was a humble monk until he was killed by a lumberjack or something. Look it up. ”“Are you kidding me? Man, that’s not a real thing. I’m not stupid.”As they approached the outskirts of the hiking trail, marked by wrinkled sidewalks, Blake As they approached the outskirts of the hiking trail, marked by wrinkled sidewalks, Blake stopped walking. “Okay, this is my last warning. For Christ’s sake, don’t take take that stick.”Jeremy stepped away from the mounds of soil and leaves and tripped over the boundary between wilderness and civilization. When he regained his balance, he said, “Definitely. Okay, see you tomorrow. You’re a riot.” He once again thumped Blake on the back, and apologized after his friend tipped over.

And Jeremy went back home. He ate dinner, brushed his teeth, put on pajamas and began to study for his exam. Though, in the faded day shrouded by a persistent dark-ness, thoughts of the stick plagued him and he couldn’t focus on much else.Of course, by the very nature of cliche horror narration, Jeremy’s subsequent days were not satisfactory.The first misfortune manifested itself in the form of a test result. He found a smiling red F at the top of the paper. A big, bloody F - as traumatizing as a bloodstain. The teacher was as surprised as Jeremy was to find it staring up at him.“Jeremy, what happened? This is your worst grade so far,” Ms. Swan said. She walked away without waiting for an answer that Jeremy could not provide.He drifted through the rest of the daHe drifted through the rest of the day, shaking and demanding answers. Jeremy’s thoughts frequently traveled to the innocuous branch that lay against his bedside table. How could he have gotten such a terrible grade? Could it be a curse? Despite his uncertainty, he eventually convinced himself that Blake’s story was just an urban legend. But he was nervous.The next daThe next day, Jeremy called his sister. The day was still drowsy and too tired to sweep up the fog sprawled over the land. The sky yawned in the form of a navy sky and turquoise horizon as he spoke to her. “What is it, Jeremy? I’m driving.” “Hey girl, listen. I just wanted to talk to you about something strange I found the other day.” “What? Now? Okay, what did you find?” His sister never found out that Jeremy had stolen a stick because a monotonous tone suddenly replaced her voice, signifying the end of a call. Jeremy found out half an hour later that his sister had just gotten into a car accident. She was in critical con-dition, and the doctors had no way of knowing if she would survive. Jeremy was numb the entire time he waited in the hospital, and when he returned home, he noticed the stick again. The day after he had found it, he had gotten a bad grade for the first time. The next day, just as he was trying to tell his sister about the stick, she sustained grievous injuries...sustained grievous injuries... Jeremy refused to believe that the stick had anything to do with his sister’s accident or his test result. However, the possibility that the stick caused these misfor-tunes poisoned him. He could think of little else. Soon after he returned home, the desperate boy threw the stick out of his window. His neighbor was kind enough to return it to him several minutes later. Fear coerced him into keeping the it, and it grinned at him all night.

On the third day, his father did not come home on time. The plane he had traveled on landed in schedule, and his father should have taken thirty min-utes to drive to his house. Six hours had passed, and his father still did not return. This had not happened before. After being suffocated by panic for a distorted period of time, Jeremy called Blake and explained what had hap-pened within the last three days. “I’m spooked, man. What do I do?” “Bring it back to the forest where you left it. Maybe the spirit will take pity on you.” “I don’t remember where I took it from!” “I do. I’ll take you there. Just drive to the mountains, and I’ll meet up with you. I’ll give you thirty minutes. Go.” Jeremy then drove to the mountains within twenty minutes and got out of the car, holding the branch with a reluctant fist. His eyes darted back and forth across his field of view, as if expecting death to leap from a tree and claim him. Blake noticed that his friend’s head was bowed and that his fingers fidgeted with the loose bark. He smiled in greeting, and led Jeremy to the cliff where he had torn the stick from its decomposing haven. Jeremy was decom-posing, too. Once they arrived, Jeremy immediately tossed the toxic medium back the earth, as if in doing so, he absolved himself of whatever sin he had back the earth, as if in doing so, he absolved himself of whatever sin he had committed. In triumph, he stepped onto the cliff, as close as possible into the oblivion he so narrowly avoided. He looked into the mountains, submitting himself to the mercy of the rolling sunset earth. “Is it over yet?” Jeremy asked Blake. Blake stepped toward Jeremy, and Jeremy instinctively stepped back and he was gone. “Now it is,” Blake replied and he smiled.Blake went home after that and sat at his table, giddy. He opened a text file and typed “Self-Fulfilling Prophecy,” at the top of the document. Then, he replaced the title with something else.At last, at long last a story bubbled in his brain. A fantasy he concocted, blos-somed into a fabricated reality. His vision became the vision of the world; did that mean that he was now God? It must. This is what he wrote on his paper:“It was a stick. This was an irrefutable fact...”

20 21

It was only a door, yet it seemed so intimidating. She hadn’t returned home in years- never had the thought to, really. It felt like such a poisonous place when she was younger, and stress had always weighed down on her shoulders, a heavy, suffocating burden. All those expectations… she hated it.Her hand shook as she Her hand shook as she reached out to the doorbell, but she squashed her fear, pressing it with no hesitation. The bell chimed with the two notes she had heard all throughout her childhood, lling her with nostalgia. The door swung open almost immediately, and she had to resist the urge to jump back. There her mother stood, hand reaching out and dancing on the air in apprehension.She She felt her lips move, saying, “I’m home,” but she wasn’t sure if any sound came out. Suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore. Her mother was embracing her nd crying and saying the words she had longed to hear all her life:

“I’m so proud of you.”TThey had a heart-to-heart afternoon, discussing their past together and their time apart. They laughed at the pictures from long ago, and planned on adding new ones to the collection.

The wall between them had crumbled.

The Point of Truly Livingby Molly Weisner

The Point of Truly LivingWhat is the point of living,If she hesitates to take a riskThat might make herFall in love?

What is the point of living,IIf his office becomes his home?And his children beg to see him

But phone calls shoo them off.What is the point of living,If he never gets his second chance,From those who shut the door,Before they see his eyes?

WWhat is the point of living,If she looks at him from afar,But never spills her love,Like water spills out of cracks?

What is the point of living,If drowning weights are never liftedBy thoughts so sweetTThey sing lullabies?

When we nd the point of living,Our dignity takes a hikeAs we take a dose of laughterAnd nd no time to mind.

22 23

ExpulsionMaggie Trumpower

CrumbleKristina Matt

Supra Lineup- Mark Calvert

walked to the edge of the walkway and puts its hand up to hail a cab. One mustard yellow slowly crawled to a halt. It entered and the cab crawled away.As a last resource it slips back into the crowd. Regaining its composure it matches the pace of the rest of the crowd, a seamless blend. The hustle and bustle continued as feets shuffled. Colors of black, white, evergreen, and grey pass by. The cars were rushing by while towers loamed. It

The crowd seem to move in a blur as the cab passed by. The musty air was a hinderance in disgust but it’s heartbeat finally slowed; it’s guard was eased. It stared at the ceiling then toward the driver. It’s eyes squinted something...something… then the eyes popped. The cab crawled to a stop. The driver stepped out the flash of a grey jacket slid with books clicking on the road. A phone was pulled out and a clock app was opened. The stopwatch was stopped at 30 minutes. “Oops, I guess I started it wrong.” She walked away the cab a lump of coal on the road.

24.25 26.27

3 SecondsJin Kang I walked through the alley as the wind picked up its pace again lifting the stench of trash once more. I bundled up in my long grey coat pockets filled and ready. My boots lagged across the concrete yet define, click click, as if they echoed. The alleys were empty unlike the busy street just to left. I clutched my phone and check the time. I got my timer ready. Then I caught a glimpse slip by the corner to my front right. Accelerating I made a sharp turn to the corner. The pursuit was on. 30 seconds 30 seconds

Its tail slipped to the main road. Locked on I stepped back to society in haste. The streets huddled with people scurrying away fromt the chilly frost. I weaved my way through the crowd. Fast enough to a brisk but not as fast to bring unwanted attention. It was still visible I give it about 15 feet ahead. Dodging through the mass I kept moving. 13 seconds

It stops only for a soft pause before crossing the street slow with traffic. I slide to my right away from the sidewalk to the street.9 seconds

It quickens its step once again but now to a stride. It tired so hard to move unseen too quick but I would not lose sight. I hugged my coat tighter heels still clicking to the cement. Left turn. I joined it in the alley. 3 seconds. Running. LeftRunning. Left Turn. Leap. Right Turn. Running. Sharp Left. I walked heels forward right at its heel. My brain scrambled to remember where it was. My hands searched wrapped around my choice. It runs with all its might whipping around tight corners. It slides past all the trash cans as it stretches over all the puddles. It avoids anything to trace where it moves and where it will go.

28

To Those Who Crushed Our Dream

s

Vaishakh Kallattil

I was twelve years old when I wi

tnessed my first

murder.

My older brother Sayid and I we

re just leaving a small

My older brother Sayid and I we

re just leaving a small

pharmacy along the southern bo

rder of the Syrian city

Aleppo, with a bag of herbal rem

edies for our ill

mother. We didn’t know what the

disease was, but the

doctor had said it was fatal and

that there was a

chance that she would pass away

in the near future.

This didn’t surprise me. Half the

town had contracted

the same illness that our mother

did, and half the town

the same illness that our mother

did, and half the town

had died from it.

As for our father we didn’t know

where he was or even

who he was, but over time I figu

red out that he had

died fighting in the rebellion.

Our daily lives were pretty bad, f

or lack of better word,

but the one thing that soothed us

and told us to push

through was that one day we wo

uld find solace in

America. We heard stories from

our mother ever since

we were young about the endless

opportunities and the

comfort and safety that came fro

m living in America.

This was what Sayid and I would

talk about when our

mother couldn’t tell us these stor

ies. I had my own

mother couldn’t tell us these stor

ies. I had my own

aspirations, but my mother and

I both knew that Sayid

would be the star of the family. H

e was absurdly

talented in math and he just love

d to build. We often

talked about living in an apartm

ent in a city called

Atlanta, where I would become

a writer and Sayid an

Se Beyoned- Emily Lomeli 29

30 31

How doth one describe thee? My words escape

Into the vast unknown, afraid to tell.

Such splendid sorrows to ask of thy shape;

If only I would be saved by the bell.

Such words in the English language can not

Tell of thy appearances so dearly.

YYou are like Helen- for you, Trojans fought

But could not tell your beauties so clearly.

Perhaps it is best that words do not catch

What thy beauty doth truly mean to me.

For if it were just as simple to snatch

Up the words, it would be such a pity.

But because thou believes thou art worthless,

TThat makes thou mine, and forever wordless. Dancer of the Heart - Monica Youssif

32 33

34 35Lost Childhood

Jin Kang

Prince of DarknessMolly Weisner

Once upon a time, long ag—hold it. Before you think I’m about to tell you another redundant damsel-in-distress story utterly lacking in the department of daring female leads and pungent with the flowery odor of chivalrous “pretty boys,” let me tell you a real fairy tale. Do not mistake my virulence for the whiny whims of a rich princess; it really is to once and for all close the discrepancy between sappy Cinderella stories and what really happens.

Surely I should revel on the day I embark on adulthood and consequently, monarchial leadership, right? Wrong. Because this day means one thing and one thing only: The Royal Courter’s Ball. My father and mother have the clemency to use the idiom “courter’s ball” when we all know that it’s just a ploy to marry me off and get me off their royal chests. Assent from my end was not only brushed off, but frankly unnecessary considering no amount of indomitable obstinacy would change my parents’ mind.

It all started on my eighteenth birthday.

So it was that I was to be stuffed like made-up meat into a sausage casing of taffeta, satin and tulle. Chains of blood red rubies encircled my neck, which I thought was terribly ironic considering at least there was some form of blood-resemblance in this ritualistic sacrifice of beautiful young girls. As I plodded down to the ballroom, I was so disgusted with my garish femininity that I made a point of slouching in hopes that my father’s benefactors would avert their son’s eyes in disappointment and leave me alone. Alas, I should’ve known I would not be so lucky. Perhaps they mistook my lack of enthusiasm for piteous dimistook my lack of enthusiasm for piteous diffidence, for out of the corner of my eye I saw clucking mothers urge their equally as reluctant sons to approach me. I turned my eyes away and slunk over to the refreshment table, pretending to busy myself with the olive tapenade. A dark-haired young man, whom I now admit was pretty decent looking, strode over to me. Quickly, and as unladylike as I could muster, I stuffed an alarmingly large piece of bread with olive tapenade in my mouth. Then, wiping my hands on my bodice, I grunted “oh hi” with unfeigned disinterest. To my absolute surprise, he did not turn on his heel or contract hives from being exposed to such a case of barbarism. Rather, he laughed. And then I, who could not hold it in any longer, also laughed…with a mouthful of (delicious) olive tapenade. This time, I really wasnreally wasn’t trying to gross anyone out by spewing a mouthful of food, but it could not be stopped. Sensing that I was on the brink of real humiliation, he neatly wove his arm through mine and led me swiftly out to the balcony opening from the ballroom. Once outside, I reposed on the bench to catch my breath and swallow my remaining mouthful of food. As infallible as my pride usually tends to be, I could feel a little heat rise up my neck as I truly took in my escort’s sharp jaw line, calm blue eyes and handsome build. A playful grin still danced on the corner of his lips. At this point, I gave up on formalities and extended my hand (I always hated the At this point, I gave up on formalities and extended my hand (I always hated the ridiculous curtsy and eyelash-fluttering). “Well thank you for your quick thinking. I’d…uh…be in a tough spot right now if not for you. I’m Mavis.” “I’m Kian. And it was my pleasure. Now I half expect you to drop to your knees begging me for my hand in marriage.” Kian responded with a wink and another jovial laugh.

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4342

A NaiveSprit- Angel Santaloci

Hexacara- Katie Supa

To those I have ledJin Kang

To put me in a place where I will leadwill not be told in books that I can read. No matter what advice it's told to meto go head on is how I learn this deed.

I must be wise and strong and fair to all.I must be wise and strong and fair to all.To gain the trust of those so I won’t fall.For they will follow me and have my backso I must persevere to stay on track.

I need to support the group as one whole. but to look after everyone, no holes.

To teach and promote them to do their bestBut grow my skills not to fall from the rest.But grow my skills not to fall from the rest.

To not be tied and let it take overto manage other things and not go lower. It’s hard when it is your passion your carebut the joy is something i want to share

Although I seem like plain and boring toosomeone not fit to lead and can’t be true.I try my best and make up for my flawsI try my best and make up for my flawsTo work to do so I can help you all.

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Castle ViewDenene Woody

Colorful Fishing Boats at RestAlbert Smeraldo

Only a TestRebekah Nowacky

Bubblesand the words that scream louder, louder, louderas I stare at my test

““Just focus, it’s only a test.”

“Only” serves to taunt mejust a testOnly a test

A simple, multiple choice answer, Test

So I bubble in something I can’t remember laterAAnd think to myself,

“Just focus, it’s only a test”

SimpleUntil it isn’t

Until it’s my gradeUntil it’s my collegeUntil it’s my career and

UUntil my whole life is riding on anAbsolutely moronicRidiculousStupidTest

Sadness is a memory of a time you looked down upon yourself or a regret that led you to guilt. It isn't guilt that creates that darkness, it's the realization that you didn't realize that sooner; sadness isn't a loss of happiness, it's letting negativity tear you down for a

moment. However, it happens to everyone. If we didn't have sadness, we wouldn't know the we didn't have sadness, we wouldn't know the true meaning of joy. But some feel better when all it does is tear themselves down. It is just to fill a void of silence when they think

nothing is left.

Tristesse Denene Woody

The Good Hound - Jenifer Lister

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Passing By - Deeksha Mishra

She stood across the street, blurred by the racing traffic,Her blonde locks were highlighted by white exhales in the brisk air, And green irises lit up the whole city,Putting the moon to shameHer eyelashes sent breezes across sidewalks Forcing the leaves to dance and swirlSnowflakes landed on her lips and cheeks decorating her pale skin with angels Snowflakes landed on her lips and cheeks decorating her pale skin with angels glitterHe stood across the streetDarkened by the towering buildings. The smoke from his cigarette shaded his faceDisorientated his features. The ringlets of his hair fell with the windRuRuffling itself into waves. His stance dominated the tallest structures in the cityGiving a dangerous auraSnow gathered along his shoulders and arms, soaking him to his already chilled coreWhen the second hand hit the clock once more eyes connected -Like magnetism

Dark met Light. Dark met Light. Heaven collided into Hell.

A pulsating current sent the air into still shock and Fire enveloped the Frozen city. The Broken crushed the fixed. The Crushed fixed the Broken. And under the same moon they found different paths -Across the same road. Across the same road.

Across the StreetMackenzie Urcioli

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The StormThyme Hawkins

Mind swirls in its own hurricaneMemories flurry through the windFacts pour down torrentiallyImages bounce around like hail

Mental photographs of timeMental photographs of timeSome drift happily around anywhereBring peace as they settle downEnvisioned smiles brighten a frownOthers blow wildly through the airDemanding attention and emotionBuilding up size to create a commotion

Tested to judge intellectTested to judge intellectIntelligence deems power

When in excess, the mind cowersPours out when unneeded

Leaving emptiness when needed

Flowers coated in dewDogs shake water at me or youBrief sensations of colorBrief sensations of color

Light and dark oppose one anotherThe mind’s visual filling

For momentary personal viewing

The Face Behind the TreesLindsay Kappius

Hidden BeautyLindsay Kappius

Designers:

Editors.....................................................................1Evana Wang.........................................................2-3Molly Weisner......................................................4-5Mariam Lukman and Nidhi Murlidhar............6-9Vaishakh Kallatti............................................10-11MonicaMonica Youssif ................................................12-13Angel Santaloci................................................14-15Autumn Yarmosh............................................16-17Editors..............................................................18-21Megan Wong....................................................22-23Editors..............................................................24-27Editors..............................................................29-31Isabel Zhao.......................................................32-33Isabel Zhao.......................................................32-33Lauren Migge and Anna Lasley.....................34-37Thyme Hawkins ..............................................38-41Andrew Daly and Sandra Wiktor...................42-43Editors...............................................................44-45Kristina Mata...................................................46-47Editors............................................................ ..48-49Brian Sanniota nd Jin Kang............................50-51Brian Sanniota nd Jin Kang............................50-51

Colophone

The Following- Evana Wang

Looing into the Future- Lindsay Kappius

Ocean- Grace Kim

Thank YouMrs. Nowacky, for your words of reason, dealing with every nitty girtty details, and dedicating yor time and effort to the magazine.

Mrs. GarrisonMrs. Garrison, for being a figure calm composureed who supported each and ev-eryone of us and dedicating your time and effort to the magazine.

Mr. Shefiled, for letting a random of people invade your room, helping us with technical issues, and dedicating your time and effort to the magazine.

Mr. Switzer, for giving us the opportuni-ty for this club to run and function

The student body, for sharing their liter-ary and art pieces with the staff

The Round Table 2015-2016 was created through the use of Adobe Photoshop. The magazine was published online by Issuu through issuu.com

No story lives unless someone wants to listen. - JK Rowling