Table of Contents
~"I Painted a Picture" by Lily Erb
~"Color Me Red" by Xavier McCreary ~"Forest" by Taliya Graves ~"A Match" by Shaniah Holloway ~"Curly" by Avril Escobedo ~"The Watchman" by Ethan Blackburn ~"The Writing Process" by Connor Lindsay ~"Happiness" by Kayla Crossley ~"A Cat Named Doodle" by Khaylah Hines ~"Searching for a Home" by Mia Rossetti ~"The Artist's Folly" by Allen Edwards ~"Grim" by Huong Nguyen ~"Friends on Which Side?" by Taylor Aldridge ~"You Appeared" by Shaniah Holloway ~"Staring At Me" by Asia Rizzini ~"Bumblebee" by Sydney Lusk ~"A World of Peace" by Kayla Crossley ~"What am I?" by Connor Lindsay ~"Untitled Watercolor Portrait" by Huong Nguyen ~"War Cry" by Ethan Blackburn ~"Little Blue Pills" by Connor Lindsay ~"Emily's Dogwood Flower" by Maggie Brown ~"Existence is Not Infinite" by Hunter Bonaparte I Painted a PictureBy Lily Erb
I painted a picture
So very long ago So far back I can't remember it It started out bright The colors contrasting A picture of joy Personified It remained that way For years after creation Colors never bleached Image never blurry But it started to change A decade after birth Chemicals unbalanced The paints clashing The colors dulled Monochrome and smudged Variants of gray Is all I can see The frame broke Fractured and gnarled Splintering and molding Changing how I view it The picture blurs Morphing and fuzzy Distorting my perception A picture of numbness I realize now What I never knew The painting is a window My world has changed Color Me RedBy Xavier McCreary
I looked around the classroom filled with mindless drones as they listened to a lecture they would soon forget. Bored out of my mind, I dragged my broken pen across my paper, observing the blots of spattered ink flow down the page like blood from an open wound. I saw colors of yellow and brown flashing outside from the corner of my eye. My attention averted to the window, and I was greeted by the sight of dying autumn leaves plummeting from the branches of barren oaks swaying in the breeze. A good way off was a tree downed in the road with red leaves all around it. It probably fell because of the hurricane a couple days ago that I believe was named after me… Hurricane Selena.
I could see Clay’s maroon car in the parking lot from the window as well. He had a black ice air freshener hanging from his rear-view mirror and an adorable bumper sticker that read, “RED HEAD: Proceed With Caution,” in bold, crimson letters. A shrill knell rang throughout the school, dismissing us for the day. I quickly gathered my things, slung my bag over my shoulder and shuffled out of class, clenching my journal tightly to my chest. I weaved my way through the crowd of wild dogs, all barking at each other with their moronic slang. Finally, I reached my locker, only feet away from Clay’s. Hiding behind my locker door, I stared at Clay, admiring his impeccable physique and his fiery curls sitting atop his head. He closed his locker and began to wander towards the big double doors leading to the track. I slammed my locker door shut and followed him like a baby duckling blindly follows their mother. I waddled into the stands to watch him. After sitting down, I studied Clay as he galloped around the track with great speed and elegance, passing everyone else. I managed to stop drooling over him just long enough to open up my journal. My pencil moved across the paper with much grace, dancing around, drawing every feature of his figure that it could. I captured his dark, almost soulless, eyes, his broad, toned shoulders and his blazing ginger hair. After encapsulating his image as best as I could, I finished the drawing off with my signature in the bottom right corner… Selena O. Smith. Clay stopped, and hunched over for a while, breathing heavily. Suddenly, he looked up and saw me staring at him. My jaw dropped in awe as I sat there, unable to move. Then, stripping me of every breath I had, he smiled at me. Panicked, I gathered my things and scurried away, trying to somehow escape the utter embarrassment I felt. With my head down and my journal clenched to my chest, I began walking towards my house. I passed by the spot where the fallen oak tree was. Oddly enough, it had disappeared, like it grew legs and gamboled away to plant its roots elsewhere. Nothing was left by the tree except a solitary red leaf. I picked it up and placed it in my journal. While I was bent over in the street, I heard a vehicle skidding and swerving towards me. I turned my head to the left and froze with my eyes fixed on the red car. Then I saw it… a black ice air freshener swinging vigorously from the rear-view mirror. Coupled with the car was a panic-stricken Clay, trying to regain control of his vehicle. After sliding sideways for a while, the car hit a fairly large speed bump, causing it to flip straight towards me. I was unable to move as if there was glue stuck to the bottom of my shoes, and seemingly in slow motion, the truck flipped right over my head. In that instant… I fainted. Upon opening my eyes, I was welcomed by darkness and silence, lying on an old leather couch peeling at every seam in the living room of my house. The darkness was somewhat bearable but the silence was frightening and unpredictable. The subtlest of sounds can startle the most fearless when it’s silent. I immediately turned on the TV to break the silence and saw news of the crash just outside of my school. They said the driver was able to jump out before his car began flipping. A huge release of air left my lungs... a sigh of relief. There was a girl involved in the crash as well, but I never saw her. They said that she had numerous lacerations and was losing a lot of blood. I swung my legs off the couch and my feet were devoured by the disgusting, brown carpet ridden with stains. No one was home and I had no idea how I had gotten there. Nevertheless, I picked up my journal from the small, decrepit coffee table and flipped through the pages filled with various drawings of Clay with hearts surrounding him. I was trying to find the red leaf I had collected during my frantic journey home, but, sadly, it was nowhere to be found. In the midst of pondering where the leaf could’ve gone, my parents came home. I turned off the TV and rushed upstairs, trying to avoid any contact with the vexing couple. I reached my disheveled room before they could even lock the car doors. The soft, grey carpet embraced my feet with much leniency. I took my socks off to further sink into the cloud-like floor and tossed them onto the mounds of clothes at the foot of my creaky bed. I surveyed my burrow, observing the bleak colors dripping from the ceiling, consuming the walls and bleeding onto the floors. The dreary room looked as if it were inhabited by the Grim Reaper. In my peripheral vision, I spotted crimson foliage falling just outside my window. I plopped onto my rickety bed, being prodded by springs emerging from the dingy mattress. As I sat there, something bizarre happened. The sprinkling of red leaves soon turned into a drizzle of a strange red liquid. I ascended from the bed and crept towards the window. Upon reaching the window, I discovered dark colored clouds plaguing the sky, and the light precipitation of red fluid abruptly turned into a cataclysmic blood storm. Horrified, I began backing away from the window and slipped, falling onto the pile of pungent clothes still resting at the foot of my bed. I recovered swiftly and, like a bullet, sped downstairs. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw my parents standing in front of the blood stained living room windows, staring at the eerie display. They slowly turned towards me with their mouths wide open, petrified of the event unfolding in front of them. Concerned, I inched towards them. In the wake of just a few steps, I witnessed them gradually dissipate into pools of blood along with my hopes of escaping this nightmare. I attempted to scream, as that was the only response I could muster. However, as soon as I opened my mouth, blood spewed out onto the besmirched carpet like raw sewage being ejected into the sea. I closed my mouth trying to retain the rest of my blood inside me. All of a sudden, every window in sight shattered, sending a surge of scarlet sap into the house. A stray glass shard sliced my calf as I scampered up the steps, trying to escape the rising maroon tides. My plan was to no avail as blood breached my room without consent or constraint like a thief in the night. I climbed onto my bed, hoping the waves wouldn’t rise above my mattress. After a few moments, the force of the violent storm shattered my window, sending glass shards deep into my umber-toned skin. The red flood continued to rise, lifting my bed along with it. Hopelessly, I sat, awaiting my prolonged death. My vision began to flicker in and out as death sought to overtake me. The sight of my room filling with blood began to fade; the sight of a fearful Clay began to replace it. He was kneeling on the ground, my body in his massive arms. He looked at me and for just a moment, a smile emerged on his face. I stared back at him, bewildered by the fact that he was holding me. What was more perplexing was his hair. The once fiery curls had transformed into an ebony mane. Even his dark merciless eyes had changed, replaced by glimmering sapphires. I lifted my head up slightly and saw his car that was swerving just moments before I fainted. The car had changed colors from a dark maroon to a navy blue. It was wrapped around a light pole surrounded by glass, metal, and what I presume was gasoline. After following the trail of glass with my tear-filled eyes, I finally noticed the damage that I had sustained. There were multiple lacerations on my leg as well as shards lodged deep inside my skin. I whimpered in pain as blood steadily flowed from my wounds like splattered ink flowing down a page. I attempted to stand, but my legs would not cooperate. Clay looked down at me with anguish. Neither of us knew what the next course of action should be. My arms were cut just as severely as my legs, however, I was able to move them and point to my notebook sitting right next to Clay. He grabbed the book coated with blood and handed it to me. I had just enough strength to open it up to the drawing I’d completed at the track. He chuckled a little with had a big smirk on his face, all the while trying to fight back tears, a battle he’d eventually lose. Then he pulled out a small notebook from his pocket with a little doodle of me and the name “Selena” in fancy cursive underneath it. I smiled, although my teeth were likely glazed by the blood accumulating inside my mouth. Sirens approached in the background as I grabbed the red leaf hanging out the side of the journal. It danced around in my hand as I twirled the stem. Before I handed the leaf to Clay, I ran my fingers across the rough veins. Three letters began to take form… S.O.S. My vision began fading in and out once more. My eyes became heavier along with my head and limbs. The sight of Clay’s face with tears streaking to his chin was replaced with my room filled to the brim in blood. I closed my eyes and took one last breath as I welcomed the Grim Reaper into his room. ForestBy Taliya Graves
A MatchBy Shaniah Holloway
I've lost my marbles
In a flower garden Where did you go? Mind crumbled like toast You took a break from you You found yourself in a shadow Golden hour heals My skin glows My hair is something I hide behind With you, I don't have to I don't mean to jump in rabbit holes I'm a Sagittarius, you’re a Cancer. CurlyBy Avril Escobedo
We were in the backyard. You were sitting down on a bench with your wife. Well, that’s what we believed anyway. To this day I wonder if you ever really did fall in love as much as you claimed to. I remember I was playing with the grass and the lavender colored flowers that the trees had bloomed. I was in a sundress and barefoot. My hair away from my face held back by a yellow headband that was covered in daisies. It was like any day really, You didn’t live far from our house, actually you were around the corner. I wonder if you decided to fall into your addictions because you didn’t want to be responsible to keep the family together.
“Que haces nena?”* I looked up to see Lita. My beautiful Lita who never seemed to age no matter how many years passed by. She was always smiling, always thanking God for the things she had. “Nothing, just thinking I guess.” She smiled and looked up at the sky squinting. She was ethereal. She gave everyone a little piece of everything she had and everything she could have. She was love and joy and gracefulness, how could you take advantage of that? Lita picked me up and straddled me on her side. She ruffled my hair, she looked sad and I couldn’t help but wonder why. “Vila, we are so blessed nena, we are so so blessed.” I knew we were, we had enough and more and I was reminded by every family member I had that I was in fact, very privileged. Why is it that we have everything but love for one another? “I know, I’m happy with all that I have, I’m happy with you y papa y mama.” “Even with Lito?” This took me off guard. That was her husband, my grandfather, the father to her children, that was you. Why wouldn’t I happy with the man who made all this possible? Unless, there was something I had yet to figure out. “Of course! I can’t live without him and everyone else! Lita como puedes preguntarme eso?”+ “No, it was just a random question chiquilla**, I don’t mean to imply anything.” I continued to play with the grass as she walked away. I remember feeling hungry and how my mother called me inside to eat. Perfect timing. I sat right next to you. You were my favorite superhero, you made every booboo go away, you made me feel valued and welcome and you always smelled like your shampoo that I loved to wash my hair with. You were my father’s role model and I had never heard anything negative in conversations when your name was brought up. “Do you not like the food nena?” you said with your eyes full of concern. I shook my head, “No it’s really good! Just a little hot but I’m eating! See?” I proceeded to shove a spoonful of rice in my mouth. You chuckled and patted my back to keep me from coughing. How could I have questioned your love? I remember I was on the couch, playing with your wife’s hair. A habit I’ve had since I was young. You came home limping and didn’t even greet her. You kissed my forehead and carried my sister in your arms while cooing at her. You loved us. We were so precious to you. No doubt about it. You cared for us in the most special way. But you were breaking Lita’s heart. You were hurting her. You were crushing her until you couldn’t anymore and you just tired her out so much that she couldn’t stand to live in the same house with you anymore. I remember how she painted the walls every time she moved back in. As if to say “New color, new beginning, new me,” but was it a new you? Back then I didn’t really comprehend what she was moving away from. The house was big and it was always stocked with good candy and always full of people. Why would she need space from that? The house soon became very dead-like and lonely. It was no longer stocked up and didn’t have that rosy smell to it anymore, it was dusty and quiet. Empty. Funny. That’s how you left her. You left her with debt. You left her broken an tired and she wasn’t living anymore. The last thing I remember was you coming and sitting on the couch. I was in between your son and your wife. You were talking about your addiction and not wanting help. You yelled. So, so, so loud. You yelled hurtful, scary things. For the first time in my life I felt unsafe in your presence. She started crying and your son was yelling and in the blink of an eye I was already putting on my seat belt in the car and you ran out yelling and crying. “Sorry! Amor perdoname! I’m so sorry!” But it was too late, we were your final responsibility, we were the last thing you had to try and keep, but just like every other thing in your life, we weren’t your problem anymore. Out of sight, out of Mind. *What are you up to darling? +How could you ask me that? **Little girl/my little girl/shorty/baby girl The WatchmanBy Ethan Blackburn
The Watchman sat down and sighed: he was tired after all, and old, too. He pulled an ancient silver pocket watch out and checked the time again. It was still, oh, about five minutes from now. He looked at the man across from him, an unkempt and disgruntled businessman, or rather, former businessman. The man stared down at the ground, picking off the crust on his sandwich and throwing it to a nearby pigeon. The Watchman stared intently at the man for around five minutes, hoping to capture his essence and his mannerisms as the man apathetically sat on this roadside bench. The business man was unbothered, it wasn’t like he could see The Watchman anyways, no one could. At least, not until it was too late. Then, in what would have looked to anyone else like a random accident, a bus careened off the road and struck the bench, killing the man in an instant.
As it happened, The Watchman was forced to watch the events of the man’s life play out all over again, as if it wasn’t painful enough already. He relived the man’s birth to two ecstatic, if not a bit under-prepared parents. He watched as the parents struggled to raise their son with no help from either of their families, falling into debt. He watched as the man’s father became desperate, trying anything to keep his family afloat. The father traded his camera for a suit and switched to a business major. He watched as the man’s mother turned to a waitress job at the local sports bar to help make ends meet. He watched the man fight all the other boys in the schoolyard over the years because of his old, grimy clothes. He watched as the man’s father grew bitter, and he began hitting his wife after he came back from work. He watched as the man gave his father a black eye after he missed his graduation. There were plenty of other moments: the man’s struggles with the depression he discovered in college, the string of unfortunate events that kept him trapped in his first dead-end job, the thousands of tiny moments that led to his marriage falling into shambles, and most recently, his boss laying him off earlier that day. The whole event left a bitter taste in The Watchman’s mouth. Recently he found it harder and harder to focus on the good moments of people’s lives. It was all too easy to see the more numerous bad moments. He felt a familiar desire, the pull in his gut, primal instinct. His form was built to incentivize him to do his job, which was helping humans pass on from Earth into What Came Next. He reached out, pulling the warm essence, the soul of the man out of the bleeding slab of meat that used to be his body. He could feel it, the man’s discomfort. That was the only way people ever reacted to him anymore, with fear and regret. He raised his hands, causing the man’s essence to pass on, his arms moving more out of robotic routine opposed to anything else. He had grown tired of this job, his endless task for all of millennia. He never remembered signing up for this. Then again, he doubted this job was the sort of thing anyone would volunteer for. In the beginning he enjoyed it, people greeted him with joy and relief. They portrayed him with a scythe because he was like a farmer, harvesting his crop at the best time for them, no sooner, no later. As time went on, they began to fear him, they started to fear death and passing on. Even his scythe was warped into a twisted symbol of evil death. However, he kept on doing it anyways. He had always assumed that if he stopped the world would fall apart, or worse: he’d be replaced. The Watchman had no idea if he could even could pass on, much less if he wanted to. He contemplated this as he walked on down the street, the scenery slowly changing and blurring before him as it always did. He didn’t necessarily travel like humans, he merely was always where he needed to be when he needed to be there. Well, one of him was always there at the right time. He didn’t really understand how it worked, but as far as he could tell, he could be in multiple places at once, all for the express purpose of allowing him to witness the life and death of every human being. The roadside grass and scraggly trees became off white walls and windows with positive tagline posters. Now, The Watchman found himself in a hospital. He often found himself here, it was one of the more common places to die, and it was usually a coin flip. Sometimes an elder was dying of old age surrounded by their friends and family, and sometimes it was a newborn child born with a health complication. The Watchman checked his watch, it read two minutes. As The Watchman looked around to see who he was here for, he found the likely culprit. Sitting alone across the room from him was a very sickly young man. The Watchman guessed he was around twenty or so. He had long hair and a scruffy beard, he probably couldn’t leave or shave it himself. The young man was hooked up to an IV and coughing fitfully. Eventually, a nurse came in and gave him a glass of water that had been sitting on a nightstand by the bed that the boy was too young to reach. The Watchman looked outside to see a sign, they were in the cancer ward. The Watchman was all too familiar with the hospital. it was probably one of the places he spent the most time in, apart from maybe war zones. It must’ve been visiting hours, because another young man walked in and held the sick boy’s hand, trying to talk to him as he started having another coughing fit. The Watchman glanced down at the pocket watch as it counted down, five… four… three… two… one… All of a sudden, The Watchman was seeing the man’s life before his eyes. He was moved to tears, he had his full life ahead of him. He had good friends, good grades, he was going to a good college. He even had a good job lined up and a significant other who was good to him. Everything about his life was good, and now that was all over. Why? Who decided it was this boy’s time to go, the pocket watch? Why did The Watchman have to listen to the pocket watch? He was tired to doing a terrible, thankless job for seemingly no reason. For the first time ever, The Watchman didn’t stand by and watch. He didn’t reach for the boy’s soul. It was in this moment, tears streaming down his face that he realized that the boy could see him. A doctor had rushed in, and was in the process of reviving the boy from the brink of death. As they wheeled the boy off somewhere quick to ensure his survival, the boy sat up, or rather, his soul did. A ghostly echo of the boy made of the same warm essence he normally passed on. He looked at The Watchman dead in the eye and asked, “Who’re you, like the Grim Reaper or God or something?” The Watchman was speechless, this had never happened before. “Can you talk, or can you only watch or something?” This sparked The Watchman’s anger again, he spoke for the first time in centuries, “I can speak. As for my identity, I am not unlike your myth of the Grim Reaper.” The Watchman couldn’t help but spit out those last words with a certain venom, He hated the twisted moniker that the new humans had made for him. “Well, I don’t know if you know this already, but I’m Tom.” The Watchman smiled a bit and said, “I knew Tom, I’ve seen every moment of your life, I’ve been with you every step of the way.” Tom’s wispy form seemed awestruck, “Wow, so you’re like a guardian angel or something? Wicked, what should I call you? Seemed like you weren’t to keen on Grim Reaper.” The Watchman chuckled for the first time in ages as he said, “You may call me… The Watchman.” Tom nodded, nervously rubbing the back of his spectral neck as he asked, ”So, if I’m not dead, then why are you here?” The Watchman wasn’t surprised, he had expected this question, but didn’t really have a satisfactory answer. “Well, it was supposed to be your time to die Tom, but I decided to spare you. I didn’t want to see your life end so soon.” Now it was Tom’s turn to looked surprised, “Wait? You can do that? Well, then why me? Plenty of kids younger than me die all the time, why do I get a pass?” The Watchman felt anxious for probably the first time. After all, this was uncharted territory, something very new to him in it’s own right. “Well, this is the first time I’ve really done this. I’ve never tried not helping a soul pass on before.” Tom looked a bit dumbfounded, he hadn’t thought the answer would be that simple. “Huh, I guess no one has to die anymore now?” The Watchman’s head was suddenly filled with energy and hope as Tom started to fade, the doctors had finally succeeded in bringing him back. “I suppose you are right, Tom. There is much work to be done!” The Watchman ran off, sprinting through the hospital, desperate to be somewhere new, hoping that he would be brought to more souls even if he hadn’t helped Tom pass on yet. Luckily for him, he soon found himself in the desert. He was now in the other kind of place he frequented, a war-zone. Due to the heat and lack of humidity, he’d have guessed the Middle East. He saw a squad of three soldier marching through the sands, quiet and quick as they looked all around with their guns held out. His clock only reads a few seconds, and before he knows it, the soldiers make a misstep. There must’ve been a landmine buried in the sand, because a huge explosion rocked the desert, flinging hot sand and shrapnel everywhere. After viewing the lives of these three young people, He waits. He doesn’t feel like answering questions, so he hides behind a sand dune and waits until someone finds their bodies. Time is relative, and it works differently for The Watchman, so he wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed until someone from their army arrived. He followed them back to the field hospital where they were recuperated. He was satisfied that they would be fine. The Watchman smiled again in his pride and newfound joy of giving people more time. The Watchman went on for a while like that, preserving souls until their bodies were found and they were healed. Now, even the whole destruction of the body wasn’t fatal due to some mysterious power of The Watchman. However, after a bit, The Watchman was pulled back to a familiar scene. He was once again in Tom’s hospital room. The young man from before is showing Tom a picture while he cries a bit, Tom starts coughing again, and before long, Tom’s essence rises, and calls out to The Watchman. “I get it, I guess you can’t delay it any longer right? My time’s gotta be up by now…” The Watchman felt unsure, but so far, he was perfectly fine resisting the urge. He could easily save Tom again, “Don’t worry Tom. I can give you more time. You can have as much time as you want.” Tom looked sad and a bit embarrassed as he said, “Look, obviously I’m grateful that you’re giving me more time, but I have to say I’m not really enjoying it all that much. I still have deathly cancer, between the symptoms and the chemo I feel miserable all the time. All of my friends… and Will. They spend so much time here, especially Will. He needs to move on, I’m going to die. They have to accept that and prepare for it. Will is ruining his life because he loves me too much, and he won’t accept that I’m going to be gone. He’s stopped going to classes so he can spend as much time by my side as possible. I don’t want him jeopardizing his future for me. I think maybe you should’ve taken me when you had the chance Watchman. Why change what already worked for so long?” The Watchman was in utter shock and disbelief. He had finally given humans what they always wanted most, more time. He’d dropped his old role as “reaper” and had a new one as savior. Typical humans, even when you were improving their lives, they were still unsatisfied. The Watchman couldn’t keep his bitterness out of his voice, “Yeah, because that old system was really working out well. Do you have any idea how many people commit suicide every day Tom? I do, because I’m there for each and every one. Do you have any idea how many innocent people, children are killed by avoidable accidents and made casualties of war every year? I do, because I see them all die. I have witnessed every unjust death at the hands of a bigot, and everyone who’s ever sacrificed themselves to this unforgiving void of a world in a vain attempt to save someone they love. The old system was broken, I just wasn’t strong enough to see it. You don’t understand Tom, I’m helping people more than I ever did before!” With that, for the first time, The Watchman wills himself somewhere. He runs away to visit the soldiers from before, to make himself feel better. He wanted vindication for his actions after Tom’s criticisms. The Watchman found himself outside of a military hospital. He entered and quickly found the soldiers from before. However, to his chagrin, they all seemed as miserable as Tom had been just now. One was laying in bed moaning, with two stumps where his legs used to be. Another was tossing and turning, sweating like a river in their sheets. They violently awoke screaming about mines and could barely stop shaking. The other was up and about, but was missing a leg as well, a temporary prosthetic in place while they talked to their spouse in hushed, concerned tones. The Watchman listened in intently, and was distressed at what he heard. The soldier would never be able to fight again, and with their injuries, they’d probably never be able to get a normal job either. Their spouse couldn’t afford to pay for them both on their current job, and their government wouldn’t give them nearly enough to supplement a second real paycheck. The Watchman sat back in frustration as an overwhelming tide of tiredness and defeat washed over him. These people would suffer for the rest of their lives, however long, and no amount of lengthening would change that. All he had done was prolong people’s suffering. He got up and walked away, honestly not caring for the first time in a while where he ended up. At this point, The Watchman was beginning to suspect some kind of cosmic force was playing a trick on him. For the third time in as much time, The Watchman found himself standing across from a bedridden Tom. The young man, Will, called a nurse in before the coughing even began. Apparently, he had gotten used to the routine. The Watchman waited anxiously until Tom’s spectral form appeared sitting up over his body, staring back at him. “So… Are you finally here to let me die?” The Watchman cringed a bit at Tom’s rough wording and apparent frustration. “Listen Tom, I thought about what you said. You may have been right. It seems like extending your lives here has only extended your suffering. I was just so tired of being the bad guy. No one likes to die, so can you imagine the only real social contact in your life being with people who’ve just died? Everyone is always just scared, afraid, uncertain in my presence. All the while, I’ve experienced their whole life, to me, they’re like an old friend. I love each and every human for who they are in their best moments, and all they see in me is their worst one. It’s just… tiring and thankless.” Tom nodded thoughtfully before floating over to where The Watchman stood, somewhat surprised that he could do this. “Listen Watchman, I get it. Most people are scared of dying. Let’s face it though, for most people, any more time on Earth would be a bad thing. They would either only suffer more, or make the same mistakes, or any other number of things. If it makes you feel any better, I want to go Watchman. I want you to let me die, please.” As The Watchman looked into Tom’s pleading eyes, he nodded in understanding. A tear rolled down his face as he enveloped his own hand in the warm essence of Tom. For the first time in forever, The Watchman lifted his hand to the sky with hope, feeling Tom’s gratitude and peace. He heard one last whisper from his first real friend. Something he had never heard before. For the first time after countless eons doing a thankless job, The Watchman reveled in a mere, “Thank you.” The Writing ProcessBy Connor Lindsay
I run the pencil point across the page
Leaving a graphite trail of my design The paper tells a tale, becomes a stage On which I weave together every line As I go on my words start to take shape Form new people and places from my mind Into these stories I make my escape Leaving the worries of this world behind Fictional places where I can retreat Take solace in locations from my brain Form abstract thoughts into something concrete Abandoning all that causes me pain And so I sit here writing all I can Fleeing into my imagination HappinessBy Kayla Crossley
I was terrified, he’d never gotten this angry before. He’d never gotten this violent with me and now I’m stuck between him and the wall, remorse and rationality nowhere in the atmosphere. I never knew I’d end up in a position like this. There used to be a time we were both happy, I didn’t have to worry about the ticking time bomb of a boyfriend he was today. I question every day what I did to turn him into this monster.
“Y-you’re hurting me, stop,” I muttered out. I never really spoke up when stuff like this happened — I was always too terrified to do so — but right now my pain tolerance had reached it’s limit. He tells me I just need to “work on myself” whenever I mention his strength. I’m the problem, the girl who needs the higher pain tolerance, not the one who is the victim. He comes closer to my face, his breath hot with anger, “You don’t tell me what to do! Why are you still hanging out with someone like her when I’ve already made you a perfect little life with the kids that don’t have their noses stuck into a book 24/7, are you not grateful for what I’ve given you?” His voice is hard. I’m silently begging for someone to notice the shouts coming from the janitor’s closet. I shake my head, my entire body screaming, desperate to stop the pain that’s spread from my wrist down the length of my arm. “No, I’m grateful. It’s just… she’s—” “Stop stuttering!” He shouts, punching the wall he has me pressed against. The toilet paper falls to the floor and goes unacknowledged. My tears become a wall that blinds me from the guy I fell for. Or, at least the guy who stood in front of me at this time, he was now only another one of my many anxieties. I don’t understand how we got here. We loved each other at one point. What happened to that? I sniffle and wipe away the tears before looking up at him, my voice coming out quiet and hoarse. “She’s my friend.” There’s a long silence before anything happens. Something seems to click inside of the person in front of me and his grip finally loosens and I hold my wrist and resist the urge to collapse to the floor. He’s staring at the wall behind me blankly, his expression also unable to read. “I tell you who your friends are now, alright?” It comes out soft, and almost caring. It’s the complete opposite of the angry and uncontrollable tone he held beforehand. He turns his attention to me, lightly lifting up my chin and delicately wiping away the tears from my face. “Hey.” He smiles, “I’m sorry. I care about you, and I’m just trying to look out for you. If you keep hanging out with her, your real friends are going to start thinking they aren’t enough. Just, stick with my friends and I can keep you safe, alright?” I nod my head, collapsing into his arms as he opens them. “I love you,” he mutters into my hair, kissing me on the top of my head. “I’m just looking out for you. There’s a method to my madness, I promise.” All because of that moment, I’m here; legs tucked up to my chest sitting across from the girl I’ve known since the age of five. I’m across from the girl who's seen every part of me; my flaws, my smile, my laugh. She’s seen me at my weakest and never left. But as of now, the room is filled with heavy silence pressing on my chest, silence that already foreshadows the end of a relationship that I will never get back. I'm trying to find the words of heartbreak in the place that became our shelter from the boys and their cooties or the kids at school who scoffed in our direction simply because we existed. This hut was a place of evening games to midnight confessions and now because of one boy I’m here to take that all away. “I know why we’re here.” Her voice is calm, and there’s no anger anywhere to be found on her face, “I understand why we can’t talk anymore. It’s okay.” “No, it’s not okay!” I yell, my voice breaking. There are tears already fighting me to fall. I can’t do this, why would I ever believe I could do this. “You love him,” she sighs, unable to look over at me. She couldn’t handle seeing the absolute pain in my eyes. Or, at least that’s what I figured was the only reason her eyes refused to meet mine. There’s silence that engulfs the small fort-like structure. For the first time this place of safety feels a lot more like a place of denial and secrets. “I don't… I don’t love him any more...” I mutter in between sniffles. The words come out before I can filter them. Shortly after this, my filter would remain completely nonexistent. I was getting tired of crying, tired of being weak and unable to hold my own. Just because tears fell when I was around him didn’t mean he had to make me cry without his presence. “You do!” she exclaims, surprising both herself and I with her sudden anger. She recoils, immediately trying to switch back to her calming attitude; it didn’t have to take a genius to see there was still frustration in her eyes. “You love him, I see the way you look at him, the way you talk about him, you two both love one another,” she glares down at my wrist which had a giant bruise painted on it like a bracelet. Her hand clenched into a fist. “He cares, despite his temper you tell me. I believe you when you tell me he’ll keep you safe. I believe you when you say you really do love him—” “I don’t love him!” I yell, my voice about five times louder as hers. My tears are gone and the sorrow is replaced with anger and frustration. Frustrated with her denying my feelings that I know don’t exist, frustrated with my boyfriend and the way he treats me like I’m a lost puppy needing a new home. I’m frustrated with the world and why I had to be put in this position where I’m fighting some kind of unfamiliar feeling that is swarming throughout this room. I’m frustrated with myself, and the fact that I am aware that I can solve all of these problems here and now but my filter has microscopic holes that only let out “yes” and “no” responses to those around me. It’s a good thing this filter has been absent from the start of this conversation. “I don’t love him and his stupid smile or how he talks to me like I’m lost in life with nowhere else to go! I hate how I’ve become a professional at make up not because I’m a teenage girl, but because I have to to hide the bruises he gives me!” As I’m practically filling this entire forest with anger, I freeze as I meet her eyes. They’re full of concern and fear; I hate it. I want to see her eyes bright with amusement. I want be able to see her smile— her real one, not the smile everyone puts on just to make sure the world doesn’t think they’re miserable. I want to hear her laugh that is caused because of me. I want to see the smile and hear the laugh from her that only I can get out of her. I want to be in our usual atmosphere of safety and security. With her I felt safe, I knew I could say and do anything and no matter what she would be beside me. I want to feel the way I do around her and be comfortable expressing it. I want us to stop acting like we don’t know what was in the air whenever we come into this haven. My eyes stay on hers and I speak almost breathlessly, “I don’t want him… I want you.” Words can go a long way. They can change everything about your future, whether those words be full of hate, or fear, or even love. Because of my words, I’m here now, sitting in the arms of the girl I’d never expect I’d be allowed to appreciate in the way I once thought should be reserved only for a man’s love. The bruises on my body have healed and the man who once believed I was his pet no longer controls me. I was never accepted by those who were “popular” according to his words, and despite any hate we got we both learned that this was our life, and as long as we knew what we wanted, that’s all that mattered. We were happy, and our happiness was ours and no one else’s to control. A Cat Named DoodleBy Khaylah Hines (Adobe Illustrator)
Searching for a HomeBy Mia Rossetti
For the twenty one years Missy has been alive, she has never had a pet. Growing up, all of her friends had pets; dogs, cats, fish. But, Missy and her family never had one. Whenever she would ask her mom or dad, they would say “Taking care of you is already enough!” By the time Missy graduated from college, she wrote down a list of the three goals she wanted to achieve:
1. Get an apartment, and a nice one. 2. Find a stable job 3. Get a cat. The first two would be difficult. Getting a nice apartment and a well paying job as a journalist fresh out of college in New York City wouldn’t be easy. But, the third goal, however, seemed like the first one Missy could cross off her list. Getting a cat would be easy, right? Or so she thought. First, Missy used Google to search for a cat to adopt. Google seemed like the best option to look for a pet. She had heard of organizations where she could adopt a pet, and she hoped she could find the perfect cat. All Missy wanted was a companion, something to take care of when she would come home for her job, even if she did not have a job at the moment. Maybe a cat would give her a sense of hope? While looking for a cat, she stumbled upon a cat named Doodle. Doodle was female, but older than most of the other cats in the shelter. Instantly, Missy knew Doodle was the cat she wanted. Her face was most unique with beautiful tiger-like stripes, and she had the whitest whiskers Missy had ever seen. When Missy looked at her eyes, she could see the kindness that she always wanted in a cat. Within minutes, Missy was on the phone setting up an appointment to meet Doodle. Doodle had been in the animal shelter for over a year. She had started to give up hope that she would ever find the perfect place to call home. One day after the other, Doodle would watch other cats be taken home by a loving person. When would Doodle get that chance? After a slow day at the animal shelter, Doodle was awoken by the unlocking of the cage door. There, Doodle looked up and saw Missy smiling at her. Doodle was in awe that someone was taking a look at her in her cage. She could not remember the last time she felt the warm feeling of happiness. Doodle hoped that Missy would like her enough to adopt her. Little did Doodle know that Missy already had made plans to take her home! Doodle would finally get the home she searched for. The End. The Artist's FollyBy Allen Edwards
"Tell me. What is incorrect about this picture?"
"Nothing!" says the friend, "For you are the one that drew it." Then tell me o' wise one, at what point did it go wrong? No matter what you planned to draw you failed the second you decided to draw it. The picture is not what is incorrect in this case. It is the person drawing the picture, as they will always be dissatisfied with their creation. The image on the page will always be a shell of what you envisioned, as that is your constant and unchanging perception of it. GrimBy Huong Nguyen
Friends on Which Side?By Taylor Aldridge
I shut the door and leaned my back against it as if it wouldn’t stay shut without the weight of my body. I felt like I had half the world chasing after me. My boss, Alex Chamberlain, has been killing me over my work and the mistakes I’ve made. Then there’s the Other Side, who have not been helpful with the reconstruction of our company’s stations. I felt like I had a sign on my back saying my name, Daniel Hastings, which made people race over to mess with me like moths to a flame. After a couple of minutes, I pushed off of the door and sat on my couch.
My apartment is small, not a lot of stuff in it. Even if I work for one of the biggest companies in the country, it doesn’t mean I get paid enough buy a huge house or get through a years rent. I walked to my couch which was beat up and stained. I made a mental note to never get a couch from a garage sale ever again. I slumped down and let my head fall back, closing my eyes. Thinking that my day had come to a slow and tiring close, a small noise came from my room. I stood and slowly walked over. It was dark, so I couldn’t see anything at first, but then something moved. I grabbed whatever it was and pinned it to the ground with my fist in the air. A voice cried, “Not the face! Please not the face!” My grip loosened up, that’s a voice I didn’t expect to hear. “Eric?” I said. He waved and looked at me with a grin, “Yep, it’s me! How yah doin’ Danie-?” I grabbed his shirt and threw him at the wall. He hit the wall hard and fell to the floor. He grabbed his shoulder. “OW!” He yelled. “What are you-? How are you here?” I said standing in shock. He slowly got to his feet and leaned against the wall for support, holding his arm. “Don’t do that again! You know I bruise easily!” I gave him a look and said in a cold tone. “Then give me an explanation for why you said you were dead for five years and then one day decided to break into my apartment.” He shrugged, “I’m just coming to see how my best buddy is doing!” He reached his good arm out as if trying to give me hug. I put my hand on his chest and shoved him away, almost knocking him off his feet again. I had so many emotions going through my head. I was confused, angry, and shocked all at the same time. “How are you here? Actually, how are you alive? I mourned for you!” “Thank you?” he replied. Eric and I were assigned to work in the field. One day our mission was compromised, a mole in the company that we never found. I never heard anything from or about him since. After this occurred, the Other Side has been raiding and destroying a lot of our stations around the country. It’s been so hard going and finishing the job because I never had or wanted a partner afterwards. Eric was like a brother to me, no one could replace him. “Why did you do it? What happened that made you do it?” I asked. My voice was calmer now, less angry. I looked at him shocked, “What happened, Eric? We were unstoppable. We were the best-“ He held up a hand and shook it in front of my face, cutting me off. “No, no. You mean to say YOU are the best. I was just your partner. Nobody recognized me or said good job after a mission. They just went to you.” I dropped my head and huffed a laugh, “That’s what this is about?” I said, slowly looking up, glaring at him. I knew I looked mad because he flinched. “You fake your death and caused all this to happen because you weren’t in the limelight?!?” I started to yell again. “But here’s the thing, Danny. I never got the limelight.” The anger in his voice was matching mine. “I never had anything in this company. It was all Daniel this and Daniel that, I was done with it. So I started working for someone who would gave me the credit I deserve. I scoffed at his response, “Sorry, I think I heard you wrong. You’re actually working for someone else? Who? Because last time I checked you only worked for yourself.” “Well,” he smiled, “You’re wrong about one thing. I do work for people, I just make my own rules.” He moves and sat down on my couch. I went over and sat on my chair and looked at him. We sat there for a long couple of seconds. Then he sighed and looked at me, “Besides, it doesn’t matter if you know or not, it’s not going to end well for you or anyone else in that dumb organization of yours.” He shrugged and got up, walking towards the door. I leaned back and called out to him, “Oh, Eric one more thing.” He stopped and turned around. This was about to get good. “I just wanted to say thank you for coming here.” He looked at me, bewildered. “Really? Why you say that?” “This is why.” I clapped my hands and immediately, officers came in and grabbed Eric by the arms. They searched him in case he had anything on him, but he came out clean. He tried to get free, flailing his arms and legs. I chuckled and walked over to him, “Two can play at this game, Eric.” He tried one last time to get free but did not succeed and the officers dragged him out of the room. I was about to close the door when I heard Eric call from down the hallway, “You’ve made a big mistake, Daniel Hasting!” He started a laugh that gave me chills, “This was only the start. It’s all downhill from here for you. For everyone!” His laugh was loud and haunting. I could hear him loud and clear from down the hall. I stepped out of my door, about to go after him, but he was already mostly down the hallway. He kept laughing, “And don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.” You AppearedBy Shaniah Holloway
I wished to seek bliss
Then loneliness blew a kiss I found you instead Staring at MeBy Asia Rizzini
She was there, staring at me,
I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, she looked for something that couldn’t be, this is love, I swear, it is. Once she ran away from me, I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, she wanted a place to feel more free, this is love, I swear, it is. But she wasn’t a prisoner of mine, I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, I used to chain her just at night. this is love, I swear, it is. I asked her why she didn’t love me, I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, she asked me what it was for me, this is love, I swear, it is. I said love was a fist in her back, I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, I said love was a slap in her face, this is love, I swear, it is. I really don’t know why I did this. I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, and now she’s dead, staring at me, this is love, I swear, it is. I first killed her by myself, I gave her all, as you could’ve seen, then I kissed her and let her free, this is love, I swear, it is. BumblebeeBy Sydney Lusk
A World of PeaceBy Kayla Crossley
She figured it could have just been a dream. That if she pinched herself, there might just be a chance she would wake up. But she didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay in this dream world, acting as a shelter from the darkness that towers over her in reality. Here, she was safe. She wasn’t ever kept alone with her thoughts, none of which included vile intentions. It wasn’t like that here, wherever that might be. This was a place where approval was given out like candy, where hope would forever overrun dread.
The best part of being here was the absence of rejection. She didn’t have to fear being in between the teeth of the high school grading system, feeling a sense of failure at even the thought of below a B. Here she didn’t have to run from the fear of cowardice, which often ran at the pace of a cheetah. Here the birds sang, and the only worry was if she really would wake up one day. Although, she wasn’t sure that was even something to worry about anymore. It felt like she’d been there for weeks. There were times where she doubted if any of this was real, that maybe this could just be a two second dream only to be interrupted any minute now by her alarm, signifying the start of another exhausting day. Other times it was the inference of a coma, which would still mean the world she was starting to settle in would soon dissipate. But there was one thought that she was aware would forever be placed in her mind: what if she was dead? And why was she completely okay with that conclusion? What Am I?By Connor Lindsay
What Am I?
I have many different eyes They each range in shape and size Yet to the darkness I am bound I lay hidden underground Here I stay, I’m never found Yet I yearn to escape earth’s jaws I’ve got a great many flaws Look this way per nature’s laws Yet look inside, these flaws don’t show What am I? I am Potato. Untitled Watercolor PortraitBy Huong Nguyen
War CryBy Ethan Blackburn
Rise up and fight now, this is our war cry
Beaten and bloody, we’ll never surrender We’ll fight to protect what we’ve made our life Shine in your glory and you’ll never die Blazing and roaring in all your splendor Rise up and fight now, this is our war cry In all the real battles there are no ties Show them a fight, put them through the blender We’ll fight to protect what we’ve made our life Shout and scream, lift up your fists to the sky Wear out your knuckles until they’re tender Rise up and fight now, this is our war cry We must show them we won’t stand for their lies They are not great, just mere pretenders We’ll fight to protect what we’ve made our life Show them our strength, something they can’t deny We are our hearts’ own sacred defenders Rise up and fight now, this is our war cry We’ll fight to protect what we’ve made our life Little Blue PillsBy Connor Lindsay
In the top right corner of the room, a small round clock ticked out a constant beat as its face stared down on the class. It’s simple, steady rhythm was the only noise present in the classroom. Each and every student in Mr. Johnson’s 6th grade class was dead quiet in their seats. This is not to say they were paying attention, studiously listening to the ramblings of their history teacher. Quite the opposite, in fact. As the lanky, sour old man stalked between the rows of desks where his young pupils sat, each trying hard not to make eye contact and to remain as still as possible, he rapped his fingers against a large textbook he was carrying. Eyeing each of the students with a keen glare, he bellowed out, “I’ll repeat my question for those of you who appear to have stones in your ears: what was the driving force behind the French Revolution?” He scanned the room once more, still not finding a single hand raised into the air. His fingers rapped across the cover of the textbook again, slightly louder than before. And yet still, every student kept their eyes fixed on the ground, their hands hidden within their desks, not daring to call any attention to themselves.
This included one young Bart Pechman, the student whose desk Mr. Johnson had just so happened to stop directly next to. Bart was already a rather nervous boy, and this was doing nothing to help with his stress. He began to think of the pills stored in the top pocket of his school bag. Little blue pills kept in an orange capsule, the ones his mother had gotten for him from the doctor. He remembered the instruction his mother had given him: “Bart, these are gonna help you to calm down if you have one of your little ‘episodes.’ I don’t want to hear about another incident at school, okay? If you start feeling off, take one or two of these, and try to keep it together.” And thus, Bart had started carrying the pills with him everywhere he went, making frequent use of them whenever he felt the need. Somebody takes his usual seat at lunch. Down one of the pills. Timothy Walker throws his books in the trash again? Pop open the orange capsule. Bart had, in fact, become so used to these pills he actually started to become stressed out at just the thought of losing them. “Bart?” The boy was pulled out of his thoughts by the harsh tone of his teacher. All of the hair on the back of Bart’s neck stood on end, and his organs twisted around each other as he felt the glacial gaze of Mr. Johnson piercing into his head. Slowly, Bart raised his eyes to meet those of the older man, and his heart was filled with dread as his teacher uttered the words, “Can you tell me the answer, Bart?” Of course, Bart thought as he sat, petrified in the intense glower of Mr. Johnson, Out of every person in this room, he picks me. His eyes shot down to his bag once again, staring at the top pocket where he knew his sweet relief awaited. However, in the moment he felt his heart start to gain speed, beating faster and faster against his ribs. He tried to muster an answer; saying something would be better than saying nothing at all. But he felt the eyes of every other student in the room focus on him, and it was as if a bear trap had clenched around both his lips, forbidding him from giving any response. Mr. Johnson did not let up. “Tick-tock, young man,” he said, rapping his fingers across the textbook, “We haven’t got all day. Will you give me answer so we can move on?” But Bart still could not bring himself to respond. At this point, he didn’t think he even remembered exactly what the question was anymore. It was becoming hard for him to think, as it seemed the ticking of the clock was getting louder, hammering its beat into his mind. On top of that, the noise of Mr. Johnson’s fingers rapping against the book cover was slightly off from that of the clock, putting off the constant beat and replacing it with a miserable cacophony of taps and ticks. Bart’s hands were becoming clammy with cold sweat, and as his eyes darted around the room he saw how every pair of eyes was looking directly at him, waiting for him to say something. Yet, Bart could not bring himself to say anything; he could only look at the top pocket of his bag down beside him where he knew he could escape this torment. A hand suddenly waves in front of him, and he sees that an increasingly agitated Mr. Johnson had taken another step closer to him. “Look at me, Bart, and give me an answer, now!” Panicking, surrounded by piercing eyes and unbearable sounds, Bart was finally able to open his lips to yell out, “One of the main causes was the separation of power between the upper and lower classes, which lead to an increasingly volatile view towards the royalty and other more wealthy citizens, causing the members of the lower class to eventually resort to violence in order to achieve liberty!” The class went silent for a moment, as all eyes turned to Mr. Johnson. Bart covered his mouth quickly with his hand; he had no idea where that had come from. His teacher rapped his fingers across the book one last time before opening it to one of the pages in the middle. “Close enough, I suppose,” he said dully, and then he turned to walk back towards the front of the class. “More specifically, the reasons for the revolution were…” But he had already lost the attention of his students once more. Having averted the danger of being chosen, many of them returned to staring blankly into space, or doodling absentmindedly on their desks. Bart, however, waited until his teacher’s back was turned, before quickly reaching into the confines of his backpack’s upper pocket. He fished out the orange capsule, and popped it open, pouring two of the little blue pills into his open palm. Like a traveler lost in the desert having just found water, Bart gratefully lifted the pills to his lips, and popped them both back into his throat. Bart smiled to himself as Mr. Johnson continued with his teachings, and he drifted into a state of hazy, blissful ignorance. |
2018-2019
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