Silent Rebellion Be my silent rebellion. Speak no
words but have our message heard. Let our untied shoelaces speak for themselves, our unkempt hair paint them a picture. Allow our songs to be sung to the cadence of crunching leaves and gelid stares. March with me my friend. Untuck your shirt,put that cigarette back in your mouth, but most importantly, don’t make a sound. Cold Bachelor’s Eve Emerging from a deep sleep, often enough, is an odd and unearthly feeling; as if you’ve left behind something you’re sure will be missed in the long run. Thinking to yourself, maybe in a far-off time, when the something forgotten becomes immeasurably important – that you were so wrong, so Literary & Arts Magazine foolish and blind to not always keep it in the forefront of your mind. That gut-wrenching regret has ruined many a good man in all the span of conscious time, but where does your soul go after that wall in your path is reached? What can you do but mourn? With leaving behind sleep usually there is nothing but shadowy memories and night terrors lost in grainy awakenings. Maybe a premonition of fortune – good or bad – yet, premonitions themselves are so commonplace found and lost. In the case of a great journey, leaving behind an important item for unfinished business can do terrible things to a being. The exact moment of realization is not just a disappointment. Mirror Image I am Jane Doe I am not greedy But my every wish is my reality Happy and healthy and in love And I sleep well Until 2 a.m. When I wake up In a cold sweat And throw the blanket off of me, violently And out of the corner of my eye See claw-toothed, slimy mermaids Swimming circles around my bed And black-eyed, scar-faced children Darting above my head Eventually I hurry to the bathroom sink Where the cold water echoes the shock Of facing the girl I’ve come to love With a bright new light shining out of her every pore And wondering from where all this darkness must come Beauty Beauty Ferrum College is never in the eye of the beholder, Conner believed as the other guys pounded it into his head every day2014 after gym. Beauty is in the eyes Fall of others. He would never be good enough since he lacked the beauty the others wanted to see. He spent his times in the corner of the library, drawing in his sketchbook of creatures from another world. A world of his own where beauty never existed. “Conner! Hey, what are you drawing today?” Maggie skipped up to him with that bright smile of hers, and sat down across from him sneaking glances at the paper. “What’s that? So creepy! Oh, I wish I could draw that good.” Conner kept his eyes on the eyes of the creature upon his page, hesitating to answer his friend. “It’s a demon,” he finally answered as he went back to drawing in the details of the
Chrysalis
Credits Staff
Ivy Rivero, Editor Amanda Cholko, Poetry Editor Katherine Sessor, Art Editor Briana Johnson, Prose Editor Galdina Prado Dylan Stanley Rachel Swyhart Dr. M. Katherine Grimes, Advisor
Judges Art: Mr. David Eichelberger Ms. Freda Nichols ‘96 Photography: Dr. Kenneth McCreedy Ms. Kristin Waters Prose: Ms. Beth Dantonio Dr. Allison Harl Poetry: Dr. John Bruton Dr. John Kitterman
Front Cover design by Ivy Rivero Back Cover Charcoal Scrappy by Katherine Sessor Special thanks to the Integrated Programming Board for donating prize money Printed by J.S. Printing
Table
of
Contents
HoodED by Ashley Balderson 2 Fire and Earth by Ivy Rivero 3 Silent Rebellion by Connor Parodi 4 One Night Man by Rachel Swyhart 4 Snared by Rachel Swyhart 5 Mirror Image by Ivy Rivero 5 Ryan Cartwright by Rachel Swyhart 6 Feeding Frenzy by Rhett Norris 7 Cold Bachelor’s Eve by Rachel Swyhart 8 Beauty by Katherine Sessor 16 Elephants by Tana Heath 17 The Leaf by Emmanuel Smith 17 Blue Gryphon by Ashley Balderson 18 Catopia by Michaela Martinez 18 Borzoi by Ashley Balderson 19 Flowers by Tana Heath 19 Lacerations by Briana Johnson 20 Black and White Theatre by Carol Lassiter 21 Dusty Sunrise by Rachel Swyhart 21 Ripped Away by Galdina Prado 22 Homecoming by George Page 23 Burn the Bridge by Katherine Sessor 26 The Devil’s Game by Courtney Epps 27 Tangled Wolf by Ashley Balderson 27 Emerald Forest by Rhett Norris 28 Sun Up Over South Carolina by Danyelle Fletcher 28 Evergreen by Briana Johnson 29 A Valuable Lesson by Amanda Cholko 32 Love Chat by Danyelle Fletcher 33 Legacy by Amanda Cholko 34 Wonderland by Ivy Rivero 34 February by Marybeth Bond 35 White Wings by Danyelle Fletcher 36 Hay Bales by Emmanuel Smith 36 Young Man by Hisaun Yates 37
HoodED by Ashley Balderson
First Place - Art 2
3
Fire and Earth by Ivy Rivero
First Place - Photography
First Place - Poetry Silent Rebellion By Connor Parodi
Be my silent rebellion. Speak no words but have our message heard. Let our untied shoelaces speak for themselves, our unkempt hair paint them a picture. Allow our songs to be sung to the cadence of crunching leaves and gelid stares. March with me my friend. Untuck your shirt, put that cigarette back in your mouth, but most importantly, don’t make a sound.
One Night Man By Rachel Swyhart 4
Snared by Rachel Swyhart
I am Jane Doe I am not greedy But my every wish is my reality Happy and healthy and in love And I sleep well By Ivy Rivero Until 2 a.m. When I wake up In a cold sweat And throw the blanket off of me, violently And out of the corner of my eye See claw-toothed, slimy mermaids Swimming circles around my bed And black-eyed, scar-faced children Darting above my head Eventually I hurry to the bathroom sink Where the cold water echoes the shock Of facing the girl I’ve come to love With a bright new light shining out of her every pore And wondering from where all this darkness must come
Mirror Image
Second Place - Poetry
5
Ryan Cartwright by Rachel Swyhart
Second Place - Art 6
7
Feeding Frenzy by Rhett Norris
Second Place - Photography
Cold Bachelor’s Eve By Rachel Swyhart
First Place - Prose
Emerging from a deep sleep, often enough, is an odd and unearthly feeling; as if you’ve left behind something you’re sure will be missed in the long run. Thinking to yourself, maybe in a far-off time, when the something forgotten becomes immeasurably important – that you were so wrong, so foolish and blind to not always keep it in the forefront of your mind. That gut-wrenching regret has ruined many a good man in all the span of conscious time, but where does your soul go after that wall in your path is reached? What can you do but mourn? With leaving behind sleep usually there is nothing but shadowy memories and night terrors lost in grainy awakenings. Maybe a premonition of fortune – good or bad – yet, premonitions themselves are so commonplace found and lost. In the case of a great journey, leaving behind an important item for unfinished business can do terrible things to a being. The exact moment of realization is not just a disappointment. A big city towered, glittering with tinsel and teeming with Kc lights on the bright roadways. Just beyond the reach of the neon signs and the pounding clubs and the crowded street shops, land swept on beneath a crowded wood rigid with frost. Its give and cluster only let up around narrow country roads stretching between bodies of civilization; it’s only indicators were weathered signs at each cross roads shivering under a layer of ice. Not so much was the wood in-between the two places; no, it was not a thing to be stopped or usurped, as it pushed at the corners of the landscape with its towering oaks. Indeed, it only opened its mouth against a cliff to leave just enough room for a little town slouching against the sheer rocks. Gripped in a harsh weariness, half farms and half quiet apartment complexes, shops, and schools, all were cowed against the sheer hunch of the rock face overhead; they nosed together as if for comfort in the late winter cold. At every corner, silence stood. She snuffed out any and all disturbances in the unbroken hush with a gust of sharp, icy wind. She lifted her merciless fingers to cast a creature under frost there, and give a child a cold here. Every puddle freezes over with a rattle of death; a trace of her wrath crashes a little red Corolla in the tired hours before dusk. It was a jealous mistress in competition with the warm, jolly homes that the locals yearned for. They pushed against her strong breast and stumbled inside and locked the door behind them, satisfied, and hampered only momentarily – at least, until they could ease into a hot bath or an easy chair. Pressing her palms to the glowing homes casts them in a chill. She works her fingers into the cracks of the doors and windows, and a child playing on the threshold between the living room and the foyer sneezes, causing a mother or two to sweep in to the rescue. They stuff rags and cloths beneath the panes to shut out the night. Smiles twisted by worry, their eyes as warm as their arms; what of those with no mothers? Who cares for them? A lanky, handsome man sat in his apartment at his kitchen bar, tracing patterns in the pine counter with his gaze. Too old for dreams and too young for hopes, his mind swayed back and forth like a pendulum in the lull of limbo, endlessly swinging. Endlessly suspended. Overhead burned one pale light that dappled gold and brown waves into his dark bedhead, his dress shirt well-tailored. Here, he was isolated; it seemed that all around him the holidays raged with an untouchable vigor. The weight of his gloom as well as his cut jawline leaned helplessly into the soft palm of his hand, pressed pale under the pressure. A dark shadow of stubble revealed at least a day or two’s neglect of his razor. 8
He lifted his hand from the countertop and brought calloused fingers along the slick of his dress pants. At the dip of his throat the tight shirt buttons pressed painfully into his flesh. Working at them consumed his mind; soon, two were loosened, and he tugged at the collar of his navy tie in order to get enough room for his fingers to massage the indentations on his neck. His home looked like a small tornado had thrown a rave in it. Expensive food wrappers littered every corner, and the fridge was well stocked. Within his reach in this lived-in space were things only his mind desired - and an acute lack of things needed. The only thing untouched by the aftermath of his life was the treadmill. On the wall – as in every room – a blue digital clock glowed mutely in the clutter, never ticking, never swinging round and round on every hour. His love of numbers exceeded his affection for clockwork. Anything quantitative was highlighted on the newspaper articles, online writers, or from Time. Behind him in the living room – beyond the leather couches layered in unfolded laundry – the television played Christmas specials, just as it had all week, in most every home in town. In the current program a warlock seemed to be learning how to walk. His ears leapt suddenly at the sound of his cell phone ringtone as its melody called out to his memories as a young man. The echo of his past rattled him. Even expecting the ring, it took him a moment to recover. He reached across the length of the counter to pluck it from atop a bushel of bananas. He had stretched creases into wrinkles in his fine dress shirt by the time he drew back. Answering the call with a tap of the answer key, the concern he’d been nursing for weeks cemented his lips together. His tongue flicked over them and felt their chapped bump and prickle. “Yes?” He groused, before clearing his voice of gravel and repeating himself. The low depth of his tone caught the secretary on the other line off guard. She recovered quickly, though, and her stammering apologies were answered with a disgruntled sigh. He allowed her ample time to explain in anxious detail a situation that he was already well acquainted with before interrupting with warm words that soothed her into silence. He’s a mentor, a paternal guide. Her relief is obvious. The call ended with her praises of gratitude. Lapsing back into silence was no longer comfortable. He fidgeted a moment, irritated, before sliding off the bar stool to hunt for something in the kitchen. Among the other new unused appliances he popped a piece of cinnamon cake into the microwave and poured himself a mug of cold coffee. Having been stagnant over ten hours, it was not its heat but its being a liquid that he wanted. The cake was too sweet and too hot, but the piercing cry of the microwave eased him back into tolerable hush; he has to swallow a few more mouthfuls of coffee before his burnt tongue quiets its screaming. The phone on the counter rang again when he was across the room gazing into the television. He spilled his coffee on it as he fumbled for the answer key, and he dried the large screen hastily before pressing it to his ear. His hello came out like a question. The first call had been expected, but not this one – had something gone wrong at work? No one else came to mind. His bills and alimony were paid. “Hello, is this the residence of Mr. Kruchnic?” The woman’s voice was tiny, frail; she must be an elderly matron of the phone lines. “Who is this?” He replied. He ripped off a paper towel and began to mop up the cold coffee puddle where his phone had been. “This is Addler’s machine shop, at the corner of Adderlake. One of our employees has failed to report for work for a few weeks, and you’re listed as his only emergency contact.” She paused only a breath before pressing on. “We require his whereabouts.” Kruchnic was slack-jawed. He dug around in his head for anybody that he knew worked around machines. Thomas was a mechanic in Phoenix, but they hadn’t spoken in a year, maybe two. He didn’t have any other blue collar acquaintances. He floundered for a reply before his dumbstruck tongue loosened itself. “What? I’m sorry, can you 9
give me a name?” “The employee is Colt. Byron Colt.” A fuzzy sigh interrupted the tension of the line. “If you find him, tell him his commissions are piling up.” Byron? Kruchnic’s only neighbor on this floor. The other rooms were so ransacked by the previous tenants that they were undergoing slow repairs, and one was even the subject of an illegal substances investigation. How did Byron get this number? He never gave out his cell, especially in a place like this – with cheap rent and cheaper folks. Then again, if being frugal was a crime, he’d be convicted for life. His paycheck would be appalled if it saw the state of this place. “Yeah, I know Byron.” “Have you heard from or seen him, Mr. Kruchnic?” “Not in a while.” He pays his rent a year in advance and barely comes out to check his mail on Monday mornings. Now that he thought about it, how long had it been since he saw Byron? Two weeks? Three? “I’ll give him a visit and deliver your message.” “Please do. He’s always been a distant man, but his work is priceless around here.” Kruchnic scratched an itch on his cheek, his eyes drifting to the front door. “I’ll go check on him right now.” “Thank you, Mr. Kruchnic. Merry Christmas and God speed.” Click. Kruchnic stared at the phone for a minute before he turned his gaze back on the door. His head was starting to feel fuzzy. In the corner of his mind, a whisper of fear slithered down and wrapped itself around his heart. God speed. Nerves prickled his skin until he was on his feet. He put his dishes into the sink with a loud clatter and swept into his trench coat, making sure to slide his phone in with his keys before he stopped cold. Not only did Byron get his number, but he put it on his emergency contact list as the only one. Kruchnic was a reliable guy. But was that why he’d gotten it? Was that the only reason? A guy like Colt didn’t exactly scream family man, but he didn’t have a girlfriend? Not even a distant brother or cousin listed instead? As Kruchnic stared at the doorknob, anxiety prickled at the base of his skull, creeping up and infecting his light-headed thoughts. He almost felt faint. To distract himself, he pictured Byron. Byron Colt. A man of layers, material and otherwise. Maybe a few years his junior, always in dusty, oil-stained boots, and expensive jeans; he dressed like a man did when he didn’t have to worry about how he looked. He was one of them. He just had that look about him – Byron was everybody’s type. His shoulders were broad. His legs were bowed. He had a high reach and a low voice, oozing charm like nobody’s business. But men like that never went to bed alone – and Byron’s bed seemed perpetually empty. Kruchnic chewed his lip for a good solid five minutes before he battled back his panic attack far enough that he regained the use of his arms. His hands were clenched, white-knuckled at his side, and he shook them out, grabbing the door knob with gumption and turning it in one swift motion. The hallway was cold, but not nearly as cold as outside. Here they could barely afford to heat the rooms, let alone the halls. Straightening the lapels of his coat, he began down the length of the dirty burgundy carpet; he even thought he saw his breath mist into a cloud once, but it evaporated too quickly to be sure. Byron’s door was the same as his door and all the doors on this floor and all the doors in this building. Solid and splintering oak probably built in 1962. There would be no kicking it down if the need arose. Lifting a hand with a swish of his coat sleeve, he rapped hard enough to rattle his knuckles and make them smart. His other hand curled into his pocket, and he rubbed his thumb along the smooth, warm screen of his phone for comfort. 10
“Byron?” Kruchnic called hopefully. “Byron Colt?” There was no answer. He let a minute slide by before he repeated the action, with the same response. The dingy smell of the hallway was creeping into his nose - it was dust and secrets and mysterious stains in the carpet, which he began to wish he could inch away from. God speed. He bit his burnt tongue, which cried out in protest. Lowering his eyes to the doorknob almost began another stretch of five minutes of being frozen. But the smell drove his mind on. He pictured every gruesome possibility possible while his knuckles sang at his side. Maybe Byron had just up and left. Handsome, handy men did that, didn’t they? They had a right to, anyway. He could see him straddling a motorcycle and shimmering off into the sunset, maybe, with just a duffel of the important stuff slung on his back. But with seven month’s rent prepaid? He tried the knob. Locked. Sighing in anxious disappointment, he felt defeated – there was no other way to check if Byron’s things were still here. If he’d checked out, the room would be vacated, ready for a new tenant. So either he had just left or he was still here. Dead. Or dead asleep. Then he got an idea. Extra key! All folks forgot their key sometimes. He began to run his fingers along the frame of the door, and ended up plucking splinters from them. He should really let the police do this. But he didn’t really know if the guy was gone or just on some sort of spontaneous vacation, so if he filed a missing person’s the guy could get in trouble. He had already bailed on work, after all. If he was dead the missing person report wouldn’t matter. And in truth, telling the landlords wouldn’t help either – they could open the room door, but they’d just sell all his stuff and the apartment to someone else and keep his money if he wasn’t in it. Byron would be out for blood if he let that happen. Kruchnic shivered. Winter used to be his favorite time of year; not anymore. He didn’t have to pretend to be cheery, but everything was so stiff and unforgiving, especially his joints. He sucked on his bleeding finger in defeat. There was no key taped to the door frame. He was about to give up hope entirely when something else caught his eye, a ratty painting hung slightly askew alongside the door. The amount of dust on it implied it hadn’t been moved in quite a while, but he saw differently. He pushed the corner so that it hung evenly and spotted a scrape mark on the wall. He drew it back and his heart skipped a beat. Cold metal met his fingertips. Peeling the key away from the back of the picture frame, he fumbled with it hurriedly in order to get its teeth into a good firm grip with the lock. It thudded open, and as soon as he released the key for the knob it swung slowly away from him, creaking in a way that sent shivers up his spine, and wrapped an icy cold hand around his heart. The thunder of blood in his ears was the only other thing Kruchnic could hear. His heart thundered in his ribcage as he clutched at the door frame. Inside, a blackness had swallowed everything. His eyes eased into adjusting as he leaned forward with a morbid curiosity. “Byron?” Kruchnic tried again, knowing fully well no one would answer. Then a smell hit him: rancid, like bile and feces, almost as strong as a full-on whiff of wasabi. He recoiled as if struck. He is dead! Oh, God! He thought in a panic. Clutching at his coat over his heart, he plunged into the apartment, searching for a light switch on the wall. The switches were taped over. Had curiosity not pressed him forward, surely either his legs or his heart would have failed him upon crossing the threshold. He was pale in the natural light filtering in through the raised blinds; the night outside was cold and still; inside, the rancid odor singed the inside of his nose. Locating a lamp on an expensive end table nearby, Kruchnic turned the switch with weak fingers and flooded the room with soft electric light. Darkness executed a tactical retreat. He rubbed his phone screen absently and his heart was calmed. Thankfully, nothing horrific popped out of the sparsely furnished living space. 11
Thin couches and chairs were arranged like a picture from Ikea alongside a well-used armchair, all facing a small television. Where was that God-awful smell coming from? Kruchnic perused the open living area of the apartment before trying any of the doors; honestly, he was building up bravado to discover the body he imagined behind them. It didn’t take long to conclude that nothing rotting or dead was in the empty fridge. And although it was too neat, like it was never used, there was nothing formidable in the kitchen itself either. Kruchnic steeled himself to open the first door. Without thinking, he swirled his wrist and flung it back wide, stepping back with his breath caged in his lungs like strained balloons. It was a spare bedroom. He deflated. It smelled like dust and was untouched by the odor reeking in the rest of the room because its door had a seal that wasn’t worn out yet. He leaned inside and flicked on the one light bulb overhead. The stripped bed and bare carpet were draped and stacked with the possessions of someone who didn’t fit in with the catalogue-perfect design of the foyer. God speed. Kruchnic sneezed as the strong particles of dust temporarily rid him of the piercing smell and rubbed his nose as he shut the door. This time Kruchnic cracked the second door, peering inside with more confidence, and found it to be a hall closet stocked to the teeth with sleep aids and Goop and bandages. Informative, but not the source of the smell. He clicked it shut and leaned against the cold paint as he peered over at the last door. His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers reaching to pull at his neck stubble as he rooted around in his chasm of bravado for this last big reveal. The last door. God speed. As the third doorknob squeaked under his palm and was pushed open, the enhanced power of the smell made Kruchnic choke. He yanked his coat up over his nose. It was black in the bedroom so his eyes struggled to adjust; the first shapes he made out were a guitar case leaning stiffly in the corner, and a walk-in closet on his immediate right; everything else was thin and expensive, just like the living room. But what caught his attention was the body lying in the queen sized bed. A male figure swathed in shadows could be made out in the darkness. Every drop of blood drained from Kruchnic’s face; he became paper pale in the back lighting of the other room, his whole body going deathly still. Byron was laid out on his back in a wife beater, half sticking out from under the covers, just like he’d gone to bed a few hours ago. But he was very white and very still. He’s been murdered! Killed in his own bed! Jesus, who could’ve done something like this? Swaying in place, Kruchnic tried to wrap his head around it. Fumbling for the lights this time was successful, and an overhead light gave off a warm electric glow to the cold, silent room. It was definitely Byron in the bed – but his dark sheets were soaked with excrement and other bodily fluids, their origins too disgusting to think too much about. What struck Kruchnic was the expression on his face. He looked just like he was asleep – so peaceful, and calm… was his chest moving? Wait, the dead didn’t breathe - was he still alive? Upon closer inspection Kruchnic could see no blood. Oh my God. He could still be alive! Feeling a jolt of adrenaline, he lurched across the room, gagging into his coat lapel as the smell overwhelmed him. Still he pressed forward. Once he was close enough, he slid onto a dry patch of the mattress and took the man by the shoulders firmly, shaking him as carefully as he could. “Don’t do this, kid,” he whispered, and shook him again. “Please, wake up.” He didn’t move after all the noise I just made out in the apartment, so why should he move now? Maybe he really is dead. Had I just imagined his chest moving? A lead ball settled in his chest, making his heart shudder. It tinged his tongue with the taste of metal. He clenched his jaw. “Byron!” He barked. With a heave of breath Byron shifted beneath his fingertips and made Kruchnic leap a foot in the air. He moved! It was so weird - so alien - like seeing the death throes of a deer, before it stopped kicking. No, it wasn’t that. It was life. He froze in fear for just 12
a moment, in the slim chance he might be wrong, before snatching his pale face between heated hands. Now he was just about trembling with his pulse pounding in his veins. He’s ok, he has to be, he thought. Kruchnic’s vision became sharp, edged, and his irises were swallowed by pitch black pupils. “You are not allowed!” Kruchnic snapped, his voice cracking. Groaning, the face came alive and turned out of his grasp. Kruchnic’s shoulders shook as Byron’s eyes rolled open. Dazed and hazel, they slid over him. He sucked in another breath and let it out with a shudder. “Wha…? Jimmy?” He groused. Kruchnic his heart soared; he heaved a deep breath of relief. “Yeah, kiddo. It’s me,” he replied shakily. He reached out and ruffled Byron’s hair, smacking his cheek lightly. “Jesus, are you ok? How do you feel?” “Like shit,” Byron mumbled sleepily. “I’m starved. Did I lose a fight with a train full of Jell-O?” Kruchnic cracked a smile. “Just don’t look down.” “What? Hey, how…? Why are you in my house?” “Spare key. What’s the last thing you remember?” “I… going to bed, what else?” Swallowing, the other nodded, squinting at him curiously. “Ok. Can you sit up?” “Why shouldn’t…? Wait…” As he struggled up on his elbows, Kruchnic helped him sit back against the headboard. Most of the mess was near the center of the mattress. Byron groaned a lot; he was very weak, and his eyes shifted as if the room pitched and whirled around him. “What happened?” He asked in bewilderment. “I don’t know,” Kruchnic admitted. “What I do know is that you smell like hell. Let’s get you off this bed.” Nodding absently, Byron let Kruchnic take his arms and heft them over his shoulders, wrestling him out of bed. Half-carrying him into the bathroom was less difficult than he thought it would be; Byron crumpled into the toilet seat like a used napkin. Kruchnic turned on the shower, then turned back to his friend to study him. He looked sickly as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He was covered in his own defecation. How long did he lie there? How long did he sleep? “It’s warming up; get undressed the best you can.” Kruchnic went into the living room and shed his coat, shirt, socks, and shoes. His tie he draped over it all, running his hands through his hair; they were still a bit shaky. Hearing his name called out made him sprint back into the bathroom. The tile was cold on his bare feet as he hovered worriedly beside Byron. Soiled garments littered the floor. “What happened?” Byron demanded, his eyes wild. “What happened to me, Jimmy?” There was barely a trace of the strong, handsome man that Kruchnic had shaken hands with five years ago when he’d first moved in: the arrogant flicker in his eyes was gone; his skin was pale and clammy. A depth of pity gouged out a hole in Kruchnic’s chest. His royal blue eyes filled with it. “I don’t know,” he whispered. Testing the water helped him deduce that it wasn’t too hot for his friend, and he planted his feet, gathering the man up and getting him under the warm stream and settled onto the shower seat. His trousers were soaked at once. They clung to his athletic calves as he reached for the bar of soap. Byron used his hands to push grime off his legs; it swirled off down the drain ceremoniously. “The last thing I remember was the six ‘o clock news,” he muttered. “What day is it?” Kruchnic handed him the soap and a washcloth. “December twenty-fifth.” Picking a shampoo bottle he recognized, Kruchnic frowned in concentration as he poured a bit into his hands. The soap and rag hung suspended in Byron’s fingers like judgments. “Christmas. It’s Christmas.” He lifted his eyes, still beautiful despite his body’s pasty demeanor, and watched Kruchnic’s face has his friend worked shampoo into his hair. “Were you alone, too?” 13
Kruchnic looked at Byron. Water dripped from his own nose and soaked his dark hair so it slicked at his temples and his brow. “Yeah, I was,” he said emptily. Having avoided looking at him before because he was naked and confused, he saw much more than he wanted to; his emptiness seemed to resonate in a sullen manner. All of him was dragged down and hollow, as if he were a clipped bird bolted to the floor of its cage. It was a shock to the eye – almost as if an arm or a leg were missing. He washed the shampoo out of Byron’s hair, pushing suds off the man’s pale forehead with care. I wonder just when my life turned into long nights and holidays with cold, empty guest rooms, he wondered. Soon the majority of the filth had been scrubbed and flushed off of Byron’s body. The water faucet squeaked as the stream was cut off. Byron was swathed in towels, his hair rubbed dry, and rested on the bathroom floor as Kruchnic ventured to get him something warm to wear. He ended up going back to his own place to get a sweater to go over the only t-shirt he found in Byron’s closet that smelled clean. Kruchnic eased him into each sleeve like an ancient broad. Warm hands smoothed and adjusted each corner of his shirt, protecting his nose as the sweater collar settled over his collar; Byron hugged himself for warmth each time Kruchnic left, unable to banish a chill from the draft of his open door. The smell of his home was apparent now that it had been stripped off of him. He pushed his nose into Kruchnic’s coat as it was pulled around his shoulders. With soft words of comfort offered to him, he used what little strength he had left to get up, leaning back against the counter as he was dressed in thick sweat pants from his dresser. Socks were slid over his chilled feet. Fondly, Kruchnic ruffled Byron’s hair. “You look better already. I’ll take you home tonight – tomorrow, I’ll take off work to clean up around here.” He licked his lips and tried to calm his breathing in the thin air around them. “Are you ready?” The heavy eyes of dependence lingered on his face. Byron gathered the coat around him and nodded. “Yeah. I… The smell is getting to me.” Together they got him out the door, and down the cold hall, into Kruchnic’s humming living room. As soon as they crossed the threshold Byron began to show signs of awareness. Still, there was very little color in his cheeks, but his eyes seemed less faraway. The television still chattered with Christmas cartoons. Right now, two elves had their high-tech gear sending red beams through a sleeping household. When Byron settled into Kruchnic’s couch, a waft of the other’s cologne from the cushions helped lighten his head and wake him up. He relaxed helplessly into its plush lap. “I remember,” Byron whispered, sinking down into Kruchnic’s sweater. The host was fumbling with pans on the stove, choosing to heat up some ham he’d baked the day before, and he selected a can of cranberry sauce from the fridge to go with it. He looked over the counter at his guest. “When you first fell asleep, you mean?” Kruchnic questioned. “What do you remember?” “No. I remember why I didn’t wake up.” It had been days, maybe even weeks, since Byron fell asleep. Medically, Kruchnic knew there was a good reason for him to have fallen into a coma. Alcohol abuse or drugs or something – I mean the man had a lot of sleep aids. So he only briefly fancied the idea that a man could make himself sleep for that long. “What did you dream about?” He humored. At least, then, maybe he’d get him to talk more, but for a while nothing happened. Then from the lamplight he saw his friends shoulders draw in and shake. “What?” The other didn’t answer him still, and his dark eyebrows lowered over his eyes. Kruchnic leaned his hands on the counter. “Is it that…?” He trailed off, uncomfortable with any of the phrases that came to mind, but that also elicited silence. Kruchnic cleared his throat and left the kitchen to sit alongside Byron. The TV flickered them with dancing lights. Its volume was low enough to where he could hear the hastened breathing of his friend. He turned on the cushion, facing Byron with 14
patient concern, and implied comfort kept its silence; for a round of tocks of the clock, nothing was said at all. Byron drew a slow, deep breath that shook as it drew near to the end. “I had a family,” he breathed out, melancholy in his tone. A blade of empathy sliced Kruchnic’s chest, with guilt licking at the wound like salt. “Yeah?” He pressed gently. Byron’s eyes were full of the TV’s glow but his eyes went right through its brightness. “I had kids… boys... In the city. I was married under an oak tree in fall.” He hugged himself so tightly his knuckle whitened. “They were so small.” Kruchnic nodded slowly. “What was she like?” He asked curiously. “Hm?” Byron hummed, lost inside his own head. “Your wife,” Kruchnic explained. Turning his head for the first time, Byron looked so deeply into his eyes that Kruchnic got shivers. “Wife?” There was no thought behind his expression. A slimy, dark feeling licked at Kruchnic’s heart. He reached out and rested a hand on the man’s knee. “Try to stay awake. Dinner’s coming.” Retreating back into the kitchen, the host sliced the ham and the cranberry sauce to make them easier to swallow and picked out a soft plastic plate from the back of the pantry; it had to be dusted off before he slid the food bits onto it. Around the two of them, a weary quiet wrapped its tendrils around their limbs, making it seem difficult to move. Kruchnic struggled against its touch. He added a plated silver fork to the coffee table before Byron, alongside the plate. The man looked the same; forlorn, less than surly, and stiff in place. His uncombed hair quirkily stuck up in every direction. “I can make up the guest room for myself,” Kruchnic said aloud, mostly to himself. “You can stay in my room. The bathroom’s clean.” He slid in beside Byron again. “I’ll take off work to clean up your apartment in the morning; that should be a job and a half.” He found himself rolling up his sleeves just thinking about it, and they caught around his sharp elbows. “I can get it done myself, so there’s no extra cost.” It’d be nice to have someone warming one of his rooms. He didn’t remember the last time someone had stayed over. Thinking it through, the cleaning wouldn’t be so bad – he’d had worse times moving. Most of the time it was from a big house to a small apartment like he had now. He’d never been able to keep anything bigger than a condo. He really didn’t have a lot of friends, or maybe just more acquaintances than he’d like. Maybe mentally he just figured a big place just wasn’t efficient. He plucked at his dress pants and bounced his heels. Mentally he felt invigorated. “Ready to try and eat something?” he asked, eyes intent on the TV. When the movie’s heartwarming ending filled his head, he barely even noticed there wasn’t a reply to his question. It took a while for him realize that no one was going to answer; he continued to sit wordlessly until it finally registered that there was something missing from the room. He looked over at his bundled up guest, and went cold despite the pressing heat of the apartment. On the TV screen, the credits rolled, and a commercial cut through to announce the next holiday movie to be played. Now Kruchnic’s heart sank in his chest like a heavy stone. The foggy glaze of Byron’s eyes glittered like cloudy marbles, a deep purple like an ugly bruise touching at his handsome lips, and the sharp sound of Kruchnic’s ringtone sang from the coat pocket his stiff fingers had coiled around.
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Beauty
By Katherine Sessor
Second Place - Prose
Beauty is never in the eye of the beholder, Conner believed, as the other guys pounded it into his head every day after gym. Beauty is in the eyes of others. He would never be good enough since he lacked the beauty the others wanted to see. He spent his times in the corner of the library, drawing in his sketchbook creatures from another world, a world of his own where beauty never existed. “Conner! Hey, what are you drawing today?” Maggie skipped up to him with that bright smile of hers and sat down across from him, sneaking glances at the paper. “What’s that? So creepy! Oh, I wish I could draw that good.” Conner kept his eyes on the eyes of the creature upon his page, hesitating to answer his friend. “It’s a demon,” he finally answered, as he went back to drawing in the details of the beast. Maggie watched in awe as his hand went up and down upon the page, making the creature come to life. A couple of guys walked past, making Conner tense up. The boys turned to Maggie, not even noticing Conner. “Hey, beauty. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” The tall, buff one put his hand on the table as he stared into her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m busy with a friend here. Please go away.” She glared at him to hide a blush from the compliment. The boys gave Conner a strange look before leaving. “Creeps. They go after every girl. Though I don’t know why they’d hit on me for… I’m like rank forty.” Her voice dropped to below a whisper before she smiled again. “What are you going to draw next?” Conner kept drawing, not answering her again. His beast was finished as he turned to a fresh white page, readying his pencil for the next sketch. Maggie watched in excitement, wishing she had the talent her friend possessed. “Oh! Maybe you could draw an elf, a dragon, or oh! A demon and an angel. That’d be cool!” Maggie began to get wrapped up in her imagination as Conner looked up at her, his eyes examining every part that the eyes could see. “Beauty… ,” he said so quietly that Maggie didn’t hear. His eyes stared as she continued dropping off themes that popped into her head. Before she noticed him staring at her, his eyes were back on the page and stroking the pencil against paper. Maggie held in her curiosity as he drew an outline of a humanoid girl with long flowing hair and tiny limbs that would be wings on her back. He didn’t even hear Maggie tell him goodbye in his trance as she left for class. She looked back at him hoping to stay to watch him finish the picture of what looked to become an angel. “Whatever it is, I know it’s going to be a beautiful drawing as always.” She smiled brightly as she headed on to class. Conner’s hand moved swiftly across the page in an elegant matter, drawing curvy lines of the girl. Her sketched-in eyes stared up into his as he frowned down at her. “Beauty…” he whispered again, striking his pencil on the page several times. His eyes glared down at the finished piece before turning into a slant smile. He rose up from his seat, leaving the single drawing upon the table for anyone to find. Alone on the table stayed the picture of an angel Maggie with her short hair flowing down to her ankles, and dressed in an elegant wavy dress that showed off her exact petite figure. Her feather wings were missing a few feathers replaced by rips in the paper, and lead scratches etched across her body. Her face was scribbled out with only her eyes visible and her smile destroyed by another paper tear. The rest of the paper was colored in black with only the bottom white leaving the words “Beauty doesn’t exist.” 16
Elephants by Tana Heath
The Leaf by Emmanuel Smith
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Blue Gryphon by Ashley Balderson
Catopia by Michaela Martinez 18
Borzoi by Ashely Balderson
Flowers by Tana Heath 19
Lacerations By Briana Johnson
We are deadlocked as your honey brown eyes scan my crumpled form Crimson bubbles from ashen, down turned lips Mahogany orbs glance with desire and fervor Crystal droplets descend from the crackling atmosphere Honey brown glances with pity; it was the third time... ....or perhaps the fourth The jagged iron of indifference and apathy sheathed within hot passion It was poison this time warm venom that dripped from plastered smiles and quivering mouths The hole was deep crimson had slowly diminished into midnight seeping and dancing with the cobalt splatters on trampled asphalt Mahogany and honey brown meet My lips turn upwards, your gaze the opposite Fear swirled within The softest melody escapes You've won this round But I assure you young warrior, Like the glowing orb that stains the Japanese Flag.... .....I will rise again.
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Black and White Theatre by Carol Lassiter
Dusty Sunrise by Rachel Swyhart
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Ripped Away By Galdina Prado
Meeting him was wonderful A lifting to my soul It was great in the beginning An excitement never felt before I grew very confident in my youthful ways He made me feel hopeful for a future Months went by and our chat grew Becoming more and more serious Until I decided it was time for me to see him again Unfortunately I never did because he was ripped away. A year in North Korea because of his Army status I promised him I’d wait for him, What did a year matter? When he first left it was like it had been in the beginning Lovely words and promises kept my head spinning However, as months went by Full conversations became single sentences Then came the one word replies Until I had no word at all All his messages were ripped away. I had hoped that he just couldn’t contact me And that was why I had not heard from him The traitorous hope that kept blooming in my body Died with every month that I had no message from him. As a year approached I finally let go of hope Because I had realized that no word was coming But this realization didn’t hurt me Because what had caused the hurt had been ripped away My innocent and naïve heart had been ripped away. 22
Homecoming By George Page Obed gasped for breath as the unusually heavy gravity threatened to crush the life out of him. Just inches ahead, the hatch to the bunk he shared with Hamul stood open. With a last surge of effort, Obed swung himself through. Hamul glanced up from his desk. “If this is what it’s like where we’re going,” Obed puffed, “then I say we keep looking.” He flopped down next to his bunk, gasping for breath like a beached whale. “We’ll get used to it,” Hamul assured him, struggling to hold a stylus. It slipped from his fingers and slapped to the desk. Obed laughed bitterly. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Hamul gritted his teeth and picked up the stylus. “Could be worse.” “But it could be a lot better. I’ve read the reports. There’s a rock one jump from here. It’s got oxygen, it’s got carbon, it’s got everything we need to set up an entire colony.” Hamul sighed and put the stylus down. “Obed, it’s a rock.” “But it’s a rock we can stand up on,” Obed insisted. “This isn’t even XY29’s full gravity.” “Would you rather they dumped it all on at once?” “I’d rather they didn’t do it at all.” Hamul stared into space for a minute. “They say there are trees.” “Trees.” Obed scoffed. “What good is a tree? Go take a walk in the hydroponics if you want to see something green.” “You’ve never seen a tree. No one has--well, wait a minute. The chief of the Vozvratsyeneeye did. Back home.” “Hamul, this is home,” Obed said. Hamul replied with an annoyed look and resumed drawing. Obed let it drop. He yawned, struggling to breathe against the heavy atmosphere. A loud voice sliced through Obed’s nap like a fighter jet. He started to jump up, but then he remembered the heavy gravity and came down with a bump. “Oh!” A young lady’s voice. “Sorry, Obed.” Obed scrambled his sleepy senses, trying to place the voice. He focused his eyes blearily. Euodia was seated in Hamul’s chair, and was flushed a bright red. Hamul himself was somewhat defiantly standing, though he leaned heavily on the wall. “Sorry,” Euodia said again, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” “What’s going on?” Obed asked. Gradually, he realized he was still on the cold metal floor. He considered getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed, but he decided that that was too much work. “I was looking at Hamul’s sketches. Have you seen them? They’re beautiful!” Euodia gushed. Hamul looked down, trying to hide the blush growing on his face. “Uh, no, actually, I haven’t.” Obed struggled to a more or less sitting position. “How long did it take you to make these?” Euodia asked. “A while,” Hamul evaded swiftly. “I am a little worried about this hill.” 23
With a groan, Obed staggered to his feet and stumped over. He stared at the desk. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Euodia asked. Obed had expected a painting of some sort. Instead, he found himself staring at a white screen filled with lines and numbers. “What exactly am I looking at?” Obed asked. Euodia’s smile slid. “A plan. Maybe the first plan for our new home,” Hamul said. “Hamul’s becoming an architect,” Euodia proclaimed happily. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Hamul said. “I can’t really design an actual building…” “But you’ve got a good eye for it, doesn’t he Obed?” “Uh… sure.” Obed looked dubiously at the map. After a moment, he started to spot the outlines of streets and buildings, though most of it remained unintelligible. Euodia’s chrono chimed. She started, and her eyes widened. “I suppose you need to get to work,” Hamul said, somewhat reluctantly. Euodia nodded. “I’m afraid so. I’ll see you two at dinner later, right?” “Of course,” Hamul said. “Should be there,” Obed flopped down onto the edge of the bed, completely exhausted. Euodia gritted her teeth and pushed herself up out of the chair and out the door. As Euodia left, Hamul allowed a small grin to creep onto his face. Obed grunted softly, eyeing the tablet. “How long did you spend on that?” The grin vanished immediately. “Long enough,” Hamul said. He pondered his work. “You know, I think this may be the first attempt ever at trying to sketch a colony on this planet?” Obed shook his head. “It’s still possible that Captain Andru will change course,” the blond man grumbled. “I wouldn’t bet on it if I was you,” Hamul retorted, and then he stood. “Where are you going?” “Exercise. Wanna come?” Obed shook his head. “Suit yourself,” Hamul staggered, already sweating as he stood, “but you’ll regret it.” “You’re going to kill yourself,” Obed noted. “Yeah, but if I don’t I’ll be the strongest man on the ship,” Hamul laughed as he rolled his way along to the door. “You should consider that.” Hamul rolled up, grinning from ear to ear. Obed looked up from reading his tablet, which lay heavily on his lap. “Obed,” Hamul announced, “I’ve signed you up for the next reconnaissance mission on the surface of Akkadeen.” “Where? You did what now?” Obed sputtered. “Haven’t you been paying attention?” Hamul was standing easily. “Akkadeen. XY29. Our new home.” “Assignments are ID coded,” Obed protested. “You couldn’t have signed me up.” “If you don’t believe me, take a look.” Hamul crossed his arms smugly. Obed swiped at his tablet with more than his usual stupor. A minute later, his eyebrows shot up, then plunged. He turned with fury in his eyes. “Actually,” Hamul chuckled, “it’s a bit of a conspiracy. You need to get out more, buddy.” 24
“Conspiracy-? Euodia. You got Euodia to hack me, didn’t you?” Hamul’s face was eloquent. Obed simmered. “I’m going to get this cancelled.” “Good luck. If it makes you feel better, I’m on it too. You can, I don’t know, find things to throw at me or something. I think we’re landing near a muddy area….” Obed glared. “Well, you can be as angry as you want, but you’re not going to miss out,” Hamul said with a grin. “See you later.” As soon as Hamul had left, Obed attacked the tablet, desperately trying to find some way to undo his friends’ tampering. “I see you were unsuccessful,” Hamul almost purred, shouldering a heavy pack. His eyes laughed as Obed stumped along, bent almost double under the weight of his own load. “I’m going to kill you,” Obed fumed. Sweat was pouring down his face. Hamul shrugged, and strode on ahead, easily outdistancing his lightly-burdened friend. The sentry at the door took Obed’s wrist and tapped it against a scanner. She peered at the results, nodded, and waved him on. Her eyes were already moving to the next person in line. Obed lurched into the furthest seat in the shuttle from Hamul. A steady stream of excited people poured into the shuttle, chattering merrily about things that Obed had never heard of before, in any language. He folded himself inward, shrinking into his seat as the countdown commenced. One of the others gave Obed a questioning look. “That bug that’s going around,” Hamul explained, “I’m sure he’ll be doing better after we hit atmo. Or after he gets outside.” The man nodded, folded his arms, and went to sleep. “Hey, new guy, on your feet!” the shuttle pilot barked. Obed shakily reached for his straps. In a flash, Hamul was there, snapping Obed free. “We’ll be out of your way in a second,” he promised, pulling Obed out of the chair. The pilot watched them leave with a scowl. Obed yelped as the intense sunlight hit his eyes. “Bright, isn’t it?” Hamul chuckled. “Nobody realizes how dim it is on those little tin cans until they get out here. C’mon, now, open your eyes.” Gingerly, Obed opened an eye. Green. Everything was green. Not the dull, military green of the quilts shipside, but a raw, vital, living green. As the shuttle quieted and the chatter of people spread out, the sounds started to creep in. Queer rustles and an insistent bubbling noise. His eyes were drawn towards it, and then they opened wide. Hamul was grinning, but Obed had no time for him. There, in front of him, was a tree. He craned his neck back to look at it. Hamul tried not to laugh at the astonished look on his space-born friend’s face. “What’s this?” Obed looked past the tree. “That’s a stream.” Hamul’s smile broadened as Obed dropped his pack, walking around without a trace of a stagger, drinking in the wonders. “Please tell me I didn’t look that idiotic my first day planetside,” Hamul remarked as he flipped his tablet open. The screen filled with Euodia in her work clothes. “Obed’s smiling,” Hamul reported. “I’d say our mission was a success.” Euodia beamed. “The crystal caverns have that effect on people. Gotta go--” Euodia hurried back to work. Hamul glanced at Obed moving about effortlessly, admiring the trees. The crystal caverns could wait until tomorrow. 25
Burn the Bridge By Katherine Sessor
Angry, you say you hate me. You want to end it again. Here’s the match. Do as you wish. Light the flame. I won’t stand in your way this time. Destroy our friendship. Set it ablaze. Burn the bridge. Watch the flame flicker. Burn it down. Hear the memories sizzling in the ashes. Burn them away. Forget them. Forget me. I won’t protest. Feed the fire. Go ahead burn the bridge. If it makes you happy then burn it down. Ignore my pain that screams from the blaze. Burn me. It doesn’t matter. Burn me away. Burn down the bridge. Stone crumbling, Pillars snapping, Path turns to ash. Bridge burns to the ground. Never return. The fire in your heart evaporates, Saddened, trapped on the other side. Stay there. Don’t come back. Don’t rebuild. Nails won’t stay. Tear it down. Broken. Destroyed. Forgotten. Walk away now… You held the match. Set it to the flame. Burned the bridge… …down. 26
The Devil’s Game By Courtney Epps A deal is a deal of a foolish man's life; Choose not what ye wish, but that of less strife. Only the wicked shall prevail And the weak shall wail. A deal is a deal of a desperate man's cries, Weep for her now as her life turns to lies. What will you do when the Devil knocks? Close the door and hope it locks? Only a fool will not grant the Devil's stay; So go ahead and turn away, But know you won't live to see another day.
Twisted Wolf by Ashley Balderson 27
Sun Up Over South Carolina by Danyelle Fletcher Emerald Forest by Rhett Norris
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Evergreen By Briana Johnson “You’re late!” she regarded me with a sort of disdain. Her mouth was twisted into a slight scowl and her eyes danced with indifference. I was twenty feet away from her and if anyone else had been around, they could’ve thought she was addressing them. “Sorry!” I called, as I quickened my pace to reach her, “I had a few errands to run.” She scoffed before pivoting and stalking in the other direction. I took that as my cue to follow her and scurried quickly to catch up with her long strides. The air was cool that day, and although the sun beamed down on us, it did little to heat the temperature. While reddish-orange leaves crumpled beneath our feet, I zipped my jacket tighter to protect from the harsh, piercing wind. She stopped suddenly, and I had to halt my momentum before I crashed into her. “This is where it happened.” She pointed to the dilapidated half pipe in front of us. I smirked and chuckled a bit, “Kids like this place?!” I muttered while looking around the area, “I don’t see anything special.” That was true; there was the half pipe in front of us with a few roses thrown carelessly at it, some rust-coated rails about ten steps away and a swing set, which definitely need oil, behind all of it. There was only one kid in the park, currently occupying the swing set, not seeming to mind the creaky noises it made as it made its constant ascent and descent. “It doesn’t matter that YOU don’t see what’s special about it!” She whipped her head towards me, “Your opinion doesn’t matter at all!” I felt my cheeks getting hot before replying, “Watch it, Toots! I don’t have to give a damn about this at all.” She scoffed, “So don’t!” She stormed away again and I face palmed. Deciding that finding out what I needed to know was more important than arguing with the girl, I chased her down and grabbed her arm, “Sorry,” I apologized, “I let my anger get the best of me. Won’t happen again., I promised. She shrugged me off and her eyes watched mine. Her voice was laced with pain, and her eyes grew distant as saddened words dripped from her lips. Lithe fingers flipped through various pages of sheet music. Cinnamon eyes glanced over each page with fervor, eager to see what would catch their attention. Stopping on a particular piece, Donny’s lips turned upward into a smile, flashing ivory teeth. He hadn’t played much of anything in a while, but he promised himself that he wouldn’t allow his skills to get rusty. Taking his trumpet into his large, coarse hands, he placed the silver, cold mouthpiece to his lips and allowed each note to tell its story and carry him away. After several moments, the music’s tale was interrupted by a knock at the door “Yo, D!” His friend Jacob had called to him, “You ready yet?” Donny snapped out of his trance before ripping his door open, “Nah, bruh,” he answered, “I was too busy playing.” He held up his trumpet for emphasis. Jacob’s mocha irises gave his friend a quick once-over before replying, “We just going riding dude. You look fine.” “Nuh uh!” Came the quick response, “Not if Kira’s there it’s not.” “Why you tryna impress her like y’all haven’t been dating for like three years,” Jacob retorted, “It’s fine; let’s go.” Donny relented, “Whatever, man, just let me change my shoes.” Jacob looked at his shoes before staring back at Donny in shock. “You always ride in Adios, bruh! What you gonna do? Put some Jordans on and bust them up?” “I might,” Donny replied angrily, “They my damn shoes!” Jacob noticing Donny’s tone, held up his hands in surrender, “Fine, whatever, you got it.” Donny nodded before placing the Jordans in his bag and grabbing his board. He led the way downstairs with Jacob hot on his trail, “Bye Ma, I’ll be back tomorrow!” 29
Donny’s mother hurried out of the kitchen, the noise of several other older adults chiming in the background. She rushed to give her son a hug. “Damn, ma!” Donny laughed, “You act like I ain’t coming back or something.” She laughed with him before replying, “You act like I can’t hug my own damn son. It’s New Year’s Eve and you know how crazy y’all young folks get.” She waited as Donny and Jacob both agreed, “Don’t y’all be out all night either. Go back to Jacob or whoever else’s house before it gets too late, you hear?” Her eyes darted between the two of them and they nodded their heads in affirmation. “Okay,” she smiled, “Go on now. Get!” They both kissed her cheek before rushing out of the house, barely missing Donny’s father as he rushed into the warm home with several bags in his hand. “The least you two could do is help a old man out!” He laughed loudly as he and his wife stood next to each other, watching the two boys ride down the street. “Yo, man!” Jacob called to Donny and the rest of their friends after he landed a perfect McTwist for the first time. “Tell me you got that shit!” Donny hadn’t been paying attention; instead, he had been ogling and snogging down Kira, “Nah, bruh, my bad!” Jacob was upset, “Should’ve known your ass would be over here bein’ useless.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I got it, Jacob!” a girl named Becky told him as she showed it to him on her phone. Jacob nodded as he watched the performance and became impressed with his skills. He kissed Becky in thanks before handing her the phone and picking up his board. He chuckled as she blushed and admitted that he liked her. The two of them had messed around on occasion, but he never considered dating her. He still didn’t. “Man, when you gonna man up and make her wifey?” Donny asked his friend as they and Kira made their way to the swing set. “I’m not,” Jacob told them easily, “She’s sweet and all but-“ “Then why not date her?” Kira questioned, she hated when the guys talked about females when she was around, “If she’s so sweet.” “That’s the problem,” Jacob responded, “She too sweet. I want a rider, she all meek and shit. She wouldn’t be able to handle me.” “Look at you soundin’ all gangsta!” Donny laughed, “Calm down; it ain’t that serious.” Kira laughed along. “Yeah, whatever,” Jacob smiled, “All I know is, I’m tryna get turnt tonight!” “You gotta be twenty-one to get turnt, bruh!” Donny joked, “And you fall a little short!” Jacob frowned as Donny and Kira shared a laugh, “Shut up!” “Calm down!” Donny urged before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small bag. “You ain’t gotta be twenty-one for this.” The three of them smiled before taking turns reaching new heights. For the next hour, the three of them spent their time watching the younger kids skate and cars whip down the street. The sun was starting to set, and the temperature was prepared to drop ten degrees. “When are y’all tryna leave?” Kira asked as she pulled her hat over her ears, “It’s starting to get cold out here.” “We can now if y’all want.” Jacob replied as he picked up his board and checked his text messages. “We can go over to Jay’s house. Pash, Dev and them all over there.” “Cool,” Donny replied as he urged Kira to move closer to him, “Come here baby girl.” He pulled her closer and she happily complied. The three of them began to walk out of the park, before a boy on a bike whipped passed them, almost knocking Kira off of her feet. “Who the hell is that?!” Donny yelled in anger. “That’s KK’s bike.” Jacob replied, “But that definitely ain’t KK!” He recalled the face of the six year old boy who looked up to him. KK’s real name was Kevin. He was Jacob’s little brother in the Big Brother Program. 30
The young boy had lost both his father and older brother at a young age, and Jacob was able to fill the void in his life. Sadly, Kevin had passed away the year before from a rare form of Leukemia. “He took his bike!” Jacob yelled in anger and resisted the urge to attack the teenager. “Who steals a dead kid’s bike?” “C’mon guys!” Kira struggled to remove them both from the scene, “Maybe his mom sold the bike; we don’t know if he stole it.” “Nah, screw that!” Jacob yelled angrily, “Miss Sonya would never sell his bike. He stole it.” He began to move towards the boy, who was currently using his bike to grind on the rusty rails next to the half pipe. “Don’t do anything stupid!” Donny called to him, “We can get Miss Sonya and some other people to handle it!” “I’m just going to talk to him!” Jacob retorted as he picked up his pace. He kept his eyes on the audacious teenager as he moved towards the half pipe. He felt his shoes go from a brisk walk to a full sprint as he neared the rails and his hands involuntarily stretched towards the boy, causing him to topple over and tumble to the concrete below. “You like taking bikes, huh?!” he heard his voice scream. Watching the scene, Donny muttered obscenities under his breath. “Stay here,” he told Kira.. “I’m going to stop him from doing anything stupid.” Jacob loomed over the boy and threatened to fight him if he continued to steal bikes from younger kids. He grew angrier as the boy continued to smirk at him, seemingly unphased by the threats. He kicked him in the ribs, and everyone could hear the crack as the boy doubled over in pain. Donny started sprinting and reached Jacob before he could do any more damage. “Stop,” he whispered to his friend and held him, “He’s not worth it. We can just get somebody else to handle this.” Hot crystal tear drops dripped from Jacob’s eyes. “KK was like my little brother, man.” His shoulders heaved, “My little brother.” Donny embraced him and they were joined by Becky and Kira. Neither of them had noticed the teenager scurrying away. They spent several moments like that, and the spectators of the fight began going back to their own activities. “C’mon let’s go.” Jacob pulled away, “I got a bottle of Cîroc calling my name!” They all laughed and began to leave the park together. More cars zipped passed the park and more people began piling in. Noises grew louder and people began laughing. The four of them were making jokes with each other and grew excited for the night and year before. The vibe was wonderful and the growing night sky was beautiful….. ….BANG Terrified screams filled the air, and to cinnamon and mocha oculars, the world seemed to dim while crimson streams danced with the asphalt. “You’re crying.” Her voice finished her tale and dipped from irritance into sympathy, “You should stop that.” “Oh, yeah.” I replied as I wiped my eyes, “I apologize.” “No need to,” she responded, her honey brown eyes also filled with tears. “So, you got what you wanted right?” “Huh, yeah.” I replied, “I think I have what I needed.” She nodded and looked around, “I love Evergreen trees. They withstand everything and last forever. Other things don’t last that long, not even love,” she mused as she made her exit. I watched her leave and cracked a small smile, as thoughts of the two slain young men, the young female activist that had been murdered the past Independence Day and my best friend all danced through my mind. “That’s not the only thing that lasts forever. Legacies do.” 31
A Valuable Lesson By Amanda Cholko
I found a playroom. A playroom? There is nothing here for me. He said that there is something valuable here, the room attached to the second staircase. I sneaked passed the kitchen and found the staircase, as he said. An old TV is worthless and would be too much of a pain for me to take--and stuffed animals. So many stuffed animals. Why would he lead me here, if there was nothing to take? There it is, he whispered. I turned and saw no one. Even the door that could lead to a hallway was closed. I’m alone in this house, for all I know. There it is, get it, he whispered again. I whipped around and still saw nothing, and yet couldn’t see what was so valuable in this room. It is in front of you, he whispered. All I can see is a huge stuffed hippo. What is so great about a hippo? “Kids don’t care for hippos, except this child,” I said as I realized that all the stuffed animals were hippos. This child was obsessed. Then I picked up the huge hippo. I remember this hippo. My eyes widened as I recognized all of them. This is Hugo the Hippo. There is Henrietta, next to him. Then it hits me. This was my playroom. Why am I here? Then I went through that closed door and it didn’t go to a hallway, like I thought, but to a little girl’s bedroom. This was my bedroom. I circled around as the girl slept. Then I looked at her. Her blonde white hair covered the pillow. Her pout lip didn’t recede, as she had gone to sleep. And there was nothing for her to hold. Why am I here? I walked over to her and saw her somber face. There was no Hugo the Hippo and Henrietta in here. Why? Was she punished, by not having her friends to help her sleep? I petted her blonde hair and watched it turn to red. My hands were dyed red. I ran out and left a print on the wall. Caught red handed. I ran back to Hugo and Henrietta. I saw that Hugo had two small red handprints. Did Hugo grow or did I grow shorter? I thought I saw that I was her, the girl in the bedroom. “What are you doing here?” A young woman was standing at the door leading to the second staircase. Caught red handed. I see myself staring up at her, without a response. “But,” I pleaded. “No buts,” she replied, grabbed me, and dragged me to my room since my short legs couldn’t carry me. “NO. MOMMY!” I screamed. Suddenly, I woke up and saw that I was in my big girl room, with no handprints on the wall. I walked over to the playroom, and grabbed the smallest lion out of the pile of stuffed animals and walked to his room. When I saw his gloomy face, I placed his lion in his hand, and a huge smile came. As I watched this sight, the lion winked at me. I smiled as I learned a valuable lesson. A very valuable lesson indeed. 32
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Legacy by Amanda Cholko
Wonderland by Ivy Rivero
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February By Marybeth Bond
I pause at the decorative glass door before pushing through to the screened-in porch. The chill from beyond collides with my hushed breathing, drawing a hazy cloud in front of my face. You look back from your wicker rocker, hearing my heavy wool socks scuff and stick on the straw mat covering the old hardwood. Wordlessly, I join you in my chair - the one next to yours. Turning your head to me, you smile through the steam of your milky coffee. The crisp mountain air has flushed your cheeks in a way that brings your spirit alive on your face. Your freckled nose is a wonderfully rosey color, and I grin back instinctively, warmed by your unknowing charm. Feeling your presence next to me, I stare out into the light morning mist, watching it mingle with the heavy fog of the mountains and the smoke curling from over the cabin roof. In the patience of the early hours, I can hear the gentle rhythm of your breathing, as effortless as the breeze that sends the fallen snow dancing in little tiny swirls in the world just out of our reach. Out of the corner of my eye, I peek over to see that you have slid into a shallow unconsciousness. And in that moment, I know. Everything about the understated dance we create, day after day, as our bodies mold to the motion of the interlacing braids, pushed by the piercing winds that throw curls soft against my face, has made it clear. You sit next to me every day and drink a cup of coffee and watch the pattern of the snow fall and peacefully enjoy our silent togetherness. And to you, it is as simple as that. And here I sit next to you, breathing the same air, trying desperately to hide that the crisp facilitator of your breaths feels sharp and icy in my lungs. But it is more than that – the air that feeds you, suffocates me. But how can I show you, when there are no visible fingers on my throat, closing my airway? How do I tell you that the air you pay no notice to, hangs like weights from my limbs? That I am drowning in something you can’t touch? This air does not support me as it altruistically carries you. I hold the air around me up, and in doing so, it weighs me down. I break from my distant reverie to find you unmoved, dozing with your hands pressed to the warmth of your favorite mug, blissfully unaware of the battle inside me. For a fraction of a second I consider telling you. But it is so early that it feels like the rest of the world has not yet woken, and your relaxed dreams are untouched by the stresses of my reality. So I sit in the quiet, fresh air, and appreciate the still that has overcome the porch. You are beautiful; and I will not destroy that. 35
White Wings by Danyelle Fletcher
Hay Bales by Emmanuel Smith
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Young Man
By Hisuan Yates From birth the only warmth he knows is artificially given from an incubator. He was born into a cage, Immediately placed into a box, & forever imprisoned by freedom. In still waters and an imagined paradise, he wanders. When you see him, there is never a frown upon his face. But why?! Because he slightly grins at the exquisite tone of God’s voice, As He whispers in his ear. Every day he awakens to the grind and to enjoy God’s wonderful grace. It seems like his peers all know family as kisses, smiles, and hugs. What he knows is backwards and upside-down. His family is ƃnus’ ɯouǝʎ’ ɐup pɹnƃs˙ He even came out of the womb addicted to crack cocaine. He was raised by his community, so one day he will be a factor, but refuses to be a product of it! He is sometimes confused; does he have certain duties? Sometimes he is clueless, but he has always listened. He has always paid close attention to voices and sounds and images in his surroundings, so he knows exactly where he does not want to end. The problem is where he should begin. Who is it that will guide him? He will guide himself if no one else will, following the Light of Jesus Christ. He is so afraid of being looked down on, shameful; he never asks for help. He has always done things on his own and by himself. My brother don’t be drained I see your pain; I feel your pain. Look to me now. Say no words; even behind your huge smile, your eyes tell it all. Walk no further, baby boy. It is I who will help. It is I who will walk these trails for you. 37