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ISTORIA STAFF 2017

Top Row (from left to right): Ms. Deschaine, Nakia Braaten, Zach Wendling, Lauren Sherman, Laura Metzger, Max Van Arsdall. Bottom Row (from left to right): Domonique Harris, Isabelle Engel, Frizabel Waki, Pam Canté, Sarah Waters, Taylor Baker, Harlie Davis, Shraddha Patel. Not pictured: Lexie Belgum

“The stars we are given. The constellations we make. That is to say, stars exist in the cosmos, but constellations are the imaginary lines we draw between them, the readings we give the sky, the stories we tell.” -Rebecca Solnit

EDITOR’S COMMENTS Dear Reader, From the first edition of Istoria to this year’s thirteenth edition, our literary magazine staff has come up with a theme. Each year our theme represents things that are occurring in the North Star community. Although every edition of Istoria has had a different theme, one thing has remained the same: 88 pages. This year we wanted to incorporate the 88 pages into our theme. As of 2017, there have been 88 officially recognized constellations, which is one of the main reasons we chose to have a universe theme with a focus on constellations. Flipping through the pages of the book, you can see we have bordered each page with different constellations, and throughout the book all 88 constellations appear. We also wanted to be sure to include the North Star, as we are known as the North Star Navigators. This star can be seen next to each page number to guide you as a reader through the book, signifying how the North Star is all about guidance. Putting this book together would not have been possible without our advisor, Ms. Maggie Deschaine. Her ability to lead such a diverse group of personalities each day with a positive attitude is beyond belief. This is her second year as our advisor, and we couldn’t be more grateful that she decided to keep Istoria going and to help us continue to make award-winning volumes of Istoria. We would also like to thank Mrs. Susan Paschold for starting Istoria thirteen years ago, because without her our book wouldn’t be where it is today. Thank you to Dr. Vann Price, our principal, for trusting us to publish a quality book that represents North Star in an authentic way. To Mrs. Christina Nevitt, thank you for always supporting Istoria and giving us a space where our creativity can take root. Our staff is extremely excited to present this year’s edition of Istoria. We hope you can find as much enjoyment in the book as we had in creating it. Some of my favorite parts of this book are the inverted pages that highlight the theme of the book, as well as the middle pages filled with student art. These are both new things we tried out this year that we felt would really add to the theme and represent the importance art has in our book as well. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and enjoy the thirteenth volume of Istoria. Sincerely,

Harlie Davis Editor-in-Chief

TABLE OF CONTENTS 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 17 18 19 20 21 22 22 23 24 26 27 28 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 40 41 48 49 50 52 53 54 56 57 58 60 61

Sarah Waters Maia Bryan Sara Al-Yasseri Zach Wendling Sadie Lewis Frizabel Waki Sydney Lamb Savannah Redl Serenity Johnson Parker Clarke Harlie Davis Isabel Gudgel Lexie Belgum Jordan Humphrey Kyleigh Estrada Ali Haider Al Hajaj Zach Wendling Walker Zavala Zach Wendling Vanessa Cruz Alatriste Isabelle Engel Brandon Diaz De Leon Max Van Arsdall Noah Nevitt Nakia Braaten Sara Al-Yasseri Taylor Baker Domonique Harris Brittany Pfoltner Laura Metzger Lauren Sherman MaKayla Ayotte Zach Wendling Isabelle Engel Domonique Harris Tyger Magorian Gillian Waki Shraddha Patel Monserrat Rendon Kaley Love Taylor Baker

Stardust Run I Don’t Break What Am I? Bated Breath My Life Thoughts The Headline The Waves of Life Stranger Unauthorized Words One with the Stars The Father Who Wasn’t Dandelion Pride Too Big Identity Things I’m Told as A Muslim Constellation of Galaxies Bomb Apple Teeth Factory Made Privileged When the Fire Burns Out A Letter to My Brother Mere Humanity The Fog of War The Pumpkin Candles Always Keep Fighting Zoo of Tangled Vines And Everything Just Feels Red On My Own City of Stars The Big Dipper Life as an Apple When the World Stands Still Searching for the Familiar

Sappy Teenage Summer Love Affair

Endless Space There Comes a Time Our Polaris What a Shame Our Home Team T.A.S.K.

62 64 65 66 69 70 72 74 75 76 78 79 80 81 82 84 87 88

Serenity Johnson Camryn Spencer Nakia Braaten Christian Lampe Domonique Harris Lexie Belgum Kaung Nyi Karen Tello Delaney Ashmore Lauren Sherman Taylor Baker Alexis Davis Tram Nguyen Pam Canté Sarah Waters Mauricio Jimenez Harlie Davis Lexie Belgum

Beauty Cash, Card or Memories?

An Astronomical Love Triangle

Author Unknown From the Earth to the Moon The Lex(ie)ington The End of the World The Lost Fight Trapped My Truth About High School Eight Billion Universes Mental Disorders The Chest What Being Unsure Sounds Like

The River The Great War Stand Fallen Constellations

ART TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover Art: “A Night to Remember” by Ian Zabel

22 23 27 30 36 40 42 43 44 45 46 47 53 56 63 68 71 73 74 83 86

Isabelle Engel Addison Hansen Matthew Ho Lynn Nguyen Addison Hansen McKenzie Frank Rylee Shurman Ian Zabel Taylor Kvittem Addison Hanson Brieanna Kroeger Lauren Sherman Laura Metzger Taylor Baker Sarah Waters Laura Metzger Nakia Braaten Laura Metzger Lauren Sherman Nakia Braaten Sarah Waters

Enderts Beach A View Which Way Rocky Sky Pass It On Imagination at Its Finest Glaciers of Montana Candyland Stairway Adaad Roots Untitled A Different Point of View Making My Way Downtown Feeling Down Rainy Streets Window Seat Candle Looking Out Cotton Candy Skies Untitled Blossomed Shadows

LOOKING OUT LAURA METZGER

STARDUST

SARAH WATERS

We are above the sky over the sea. The stars beckon to our wandering hearts, begging us to hold them in our hands. We have forgotten the feeling of gravity. The vast, black sky screams silence to our ears. Our hands tangle in stardust and desperately search for sense in the night. We look for connecting lines between stars to make pictures of things we know. Why must we try to make sense of the impossible? The impossible wishes to remain impossible yet we still send men to the stars. We send them to float among the planets and we know that the impossible may not be impossible, We are all condensed patches of the sky. Each one of us is composed of stardust, a small galaxy. We are universes separate from one another. We exist in our thoughts. Our whole head is a galaxy. We are part of the sun. We radiate and glow, and the whole solar system knows of us.

We are stardust.

RUN

MAIA BRYAN Liza rushed out into the rain, slamming the front door to her apartment complex as she went. The Nikes on her feet that she had worked so long to buy slapped against the wet pavement, pounding out an angry, steady rhythm. Rain streaked down her face, mingling with tears of hurt and frustration. Why couldn’t her father understand how much running this race meant to her? He just wasn’t willing to ‘waste’ his money on the $40 entry fee and drive for two hours to get to the 26.2-mile long race course. What was the point of even trying to explain it to him anymore. Soon, the exhaustion of running while breathing irregularly due to crying caught up to Liza. She sat down inside a smokestained bus shelter to take a break and organize her thoughts. She decided to go to the marathon on her own. She dug into the pocket of her shorts for her wallet to find cash and some change for the bus fare. Soon, the old city bus creaked and hissed to a stop in front of the bus station. Liza looked up warily from the change she had been counting. What would she do, if she were to embark upon this journey of nearly a hundred miles? Where would she stay? What would she eat? Doubt began crawling into Liza’s mind, but she was determined to show her father just how well she could do, even without his support. In a moment of defiance, the teenage girl proudly brushed her worries aside, got onto the bus, paid her fare, and sat down a couple of rows back. There was no one on the bus except for Liza and the bus driver. Eventually, the sweet relief of sleep took over her, and she dreamed of winning gold medals as she slumbered upon the overstuffed, lumpy bus seats. When Liza finally awoke, the bus had come to a stop in front of another station––her stop. The air was sweet and clear, the sky bright and sunny. Liza stepped off the bus and walked two blocks to the nearest coffee shop. There she purchased a mug of coffee, toast, and eggs with ham to eat in preparation for her race. After inhaling her scanty meal, Liza hurried to the capital city’s racecourse. The marathon was about to begin. Liza rushed to pay her fee, and also took the opportunity to buy a few energy gels to eat along the way. She pinned on her marathon number–254–secured the electronic chip to her shoe, and walked over to the starting line where she began to stretch. The nerves were starting to pour over her. After a long, boring speech by whom she assumed was the mayor, all the runners straightened and prepared to run. The starting gun was raised and fired into the air. All 984 runners lurched forward. The race was on! Liza’s Nikes pounded off the pavement, just as they

had the night before. There were so many other runners here— what if she didn’t win? But I have to! thought Liza furiously, her feet coming down a little harder on the terrain of the course. Hours passed. Liza watched as other, weaker racers slowed then stopped to take a break, ruining the momentum they had worked so hard to build. But Liza would not slow, not now, and not for anyone or anything. She had made it this far. She’d trained, running for hours on end, and for miles upon miles, to build up her endurance for this race. She was currently in third, and slowing down, even a little bit, would ruin the progress she’d worked so hard to make. By the last mile, Liza was competing with only one other racer. He looked a slight bit older, stronger, and more experienced than she was at running, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse for her not to win. When the finish line was at last in view, Liza sped up, straining her already drained muscles to propel her across the painted finish line, expecting the pull on her stomach of the yellow ribbon. But the pressure never came, because she hadn’t been first. The shock and exhaustion of it all finally caught up to her. She tottered a few more steps, then collapsed. The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was a familiar voice calling her name. When Liza woke a few minutes later, she found herself lying on a cot inside the medics’ tent, with her father looking down at her, tears filling his tired, red-rimmed eyes. Liza nearly fainted again, she was so surprised to see him. When her father noticed she was awake, he sat her up and pulled her into a giant bear hug, asking thousands of questions about where she had been, why she had left, and whether or not she was okay. In answer, Liza stood up and walked out of the tent, much to the crowds’ appreciation. Her father followed and helped her up onto the second place platform, where she was presented with a beautiful silver medal, not quite what she’d been chasing after, but almost just as good—enough evidence to prove that Liza Allison Dentzer was, in all honesty, a winner. After accompanying her to accept her hard earned medal and to congratulate the other racers, Liza’s father helped his exhausted daughter into their car and drove her home. He informed authorities that he had found his daughter, and that they could all now return to their daily lives. He then tucked his beautiful baby girl into her own bed inside her own room in her own house, a part of her own small town. Liza smiled in her sleep as she held the warm medal that still hung around her tired neck. She’d proven her point—but so had her father. She knew he would always be there to catch her.

I DON’T BREAK

SARA AL-YASSERI

I don’t break. But I bruise so easily. I hurt so deeply. And I crumble so slowly. But so surely I don’t break. I just fade away. I run, from myself. And I hide from the world. But I don’t break. I just fall to pieces. Jump, without a safety net.

Fly, without wings. But I don’t break.

I just burn, turn to ash.

I drown in my sorrows.

And I fight with my heart in my hands.

So delicate, so beautiful.

So fragile.

Torn, in cracks.

But, me?

No.

I don’t break.

WHAT AM I?

ZACH WENDLING What is it that you want? An apology, Messages of hope, Something to show that it was not my fault? I’m sorry. The words have passed my lips; Are you happy or do you crave more? I’m the only one that can explain what happened and Remember that we were once living side by side but Now we are a near opposite species. To express myself is saying that you are wrong. To show anything at all is to say that I doubt your ability. To feel is telling you to turn a blind eye To everything that has happened. I cannot hide who I am; Even if you try to silence me. My livelihood is nonexistent. Gone and destroyed as if I will never see it again. The afterlife maybe or perhaps a morgue. Labels are not meant for human life. People who are living and breathing deserve more. Show me the kindness that everyone else is shown. I am no different from your own kind, just eccentric. We may not be the same but possibly simplistic to each other. I am not something to be bought, used, or discarded. I am not simply a label, Where nothing is right and all is wrong. A story is followed by a but; A can succeeded by a cannot; A speech resolved with silence; A life ended with death; A ‘will do’ meaning never done; Our lives… Simple possessions meant to be lost and discarded. Is that all I am to you?

BATED BREATH SADIE LEWIS

“He will never find me here,” Isabella thought to herself as she was quickly trying to hide herself in her closet. Just three minutes before this, she was peacefully laying on her bed, eating popcorn, and watching her favorite scary movie. Her bedroom was in the basement, and she could hear when people were walking around on the main level. Isabella began to hear someone walking around upstairs. She had one older brother that was away at military camp, her dad was on a business trip, and her mom wasn’t supposed to be home for a few hours due to an unexpected meeting at work. She was home alone and started to become very frightened. Isabella made her way to her closet as quickly as she could. When she was hiding, she heard whoever was upstairs slamming cupboards, throwing and breaking things. As soon as the first glass cup broke, her dog, Lily, started barking and whining. She did not know what to do because Lily was all the way on the other side of the basement in her kennel. Isabella knew that she could not let her keep barking or risk her getting hurt. She decided to go get Lily and bring her to her hiding spot. Isabella’s closet door made a loud noise as she shut herself and Lily in the closet. She was trying to keep Lily as quiet as possible, but she would not stop barking. Isabella finally stopped and realized she did not hear the person walking around upstairs anymore. There were a few minutes of complete silence. It was so quiet Isabella could hear her own heartbeat. At the moment when she decided it might be okay to check and see if the person was gone, she heard someone run down the stairs very heavily. Once again everything was quiet except for the faint sound of someone making their way to Isabella’s closet. She held her breath and sat as quietly as she could. Lily got up from her place beside Isabella and started sniffing under the door. Isabella stared at the door handle in horror as it slowly turned. The man then yelled, “Surprise!” when he swung the door open. Isabella jumped up in excitement when she realized that it was only her brother who she had not seen in months. He wanted to play a prank on her when he came home because they always used to when they were kids.

MY LIFE THOUGHTS FRIZABEL WAKI

I am shy and a very deep thinker who gets lost in thoughts. I wonder why all the stars don’t twinkle the same; I hear the echos of the birds everytime I close my eyes, and I start thinking. I see that one little star that leads me to start thinking. I want to know how fast stars can actually move, coming together to form one big sparkle. I am shy and a very deep thinker who gets lost in thoughts. I pretend to think faster than my mind can take me; I feel relieved and relaxed whenever I close my eyes. I touch the sweet flowers that bring the colorful rainbow. I worry a lot about how my days will be if I continue to think like this. I cry because of these worries everyday. I am shy and a very deep thinker who gets lost in thoughts. I understand all the stars aren’t the same, I say to myself, You got this. I dream of seeing the stars all together, singing and dancing, I try to be the best but time won’t let me. I just hope I have time to think and get peace of mind. I am shy and a very deep thinker who gets lost in thoughts.

THE HEADLINE SYDNEY LAMB

Hazel McLane groggily scooped up the Sunday paper from her porch and began to brew her morning coffee, pouring it into her favorite cup, rainbow, with the word pride scrawled in pink. She sat on the couch and pulled the paper from its dew covered casing. Although Hazel was only seventeen, she always had a fascination with the news. She began watching the news at age ten and reading the paper at twelve. She had always loved to read and the news was always so action packed, which Hazel found much better than the boring old people rambling on the T.V. news. Hazel took a sip from her coffee as she stared down at the headline blankly. As her eyes began to focus, she read the headline “Our President Makes Gay Conversion Therapy a Requirement for All Gay Teens.” Hazel began to panic. She knew things weren’t going well in the community since the election, but she never thought things could come to this. Hazel dropped her coffee in shock, and it tumbled to the floor, shattering and spilling all over the beige carpet, leaving a large stain. She picked up the pieces of glass, as tears fell from her eyes. Hazel dumped the remains of the cup in the garbage and soaked up the coffee from the carpet with a towel. Somewhere in her room, Ayslin Caldwell heard the ringtone of her cell phone blaring. She excused herself from the living room where she was with her family. The screen flashed the name of her girlfriend, Hazel McLane, in a bold font. Ayslin met Hazel when they were fourteen, the beginning of highschool. Hazel was the first girl Ayslin had ever fallen for. The first person actually. Ayslin asked Hazel to prom junior year, and they’d been together ever since. At first, Ayslin had been confused. She couldn’t understand why she loved Hazel. Hazel was a girl. However, at that time equality was at its peak, and being with Hazel made Ayslin feel safe. Ayslin grabbed the phone and plopped on her bed with a thud. She swiped her finger across the screen, answering the call and putting the phone to her ear. “Hey!” Ayslin said cheerfully into the receiver. She was met with sobs from the other end of the line. “What’s wrong, Hazel? Are you okay?” After much sobbing, Hazel explained the contents of the article she had read earlier that morning. Ayslin’s grip of her phone loosened, and it fell to the floor. She scooped her keys off her desk and ran out the back door, not bothering to tell her family. She drove as quickly as she could to Hazel’s house. Her

only thought was that they needed to be together, with whatever time they might have. As soon as she heard the knock, Hazel ran to the door, abruptly opening it and meeting the eyes of her girlfriend, Ayslin. Hazel threw her arms around Ayslin, engulfing her in a hug. They both walked solemnly to Hazel’s room. “Do you think they’ll come looking for us?” Hazel asked tearfully, sitting on the bed. “It’s a possibility, I suppose,” responded Ayslin, following Hazel’s lead. “What are we going to do? How are we supposed to be together anymore? Adrian’s parents sent him to a conversion camp, and I haven’t heard from him since. That was two years ago. TWO!” Hazel yelled, tears brimming in her ocean blue eyes. “I’m sure he just moved away. He probably switched schools and lost contact with you,” Ayslin said, pulling Hazel into a hug, trying to comfort her. “He had my phone number! He was my best friend, Ayslin! Don’t you think he would have called? Something happened to him, and it’ll happen to us, too!” Hazel lashed back, pulling away from Ayslin and standing up. She began pacing the room. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about this. What do we do?” “We wait. The protests will start soon. Turn on the news. I’ll do some research to see what’s going on. It’ll be okay. I promise,” Ayslin said, now trying to convince herself. Hazel listened, flipping on the news, as Ayslin pulled out her phone to look through news articles, trying to understand the situation. “It’s 5:00 this afternoon and we’re here in front of Clear Skies Conversion Therapy Facility, as we see young teens, some younger than fourteen, being hauled off into the building by men in suits,” the reporter said, while being pushed away by the men from the facility. “No word from the manager of this facility, however. It seems LGBT teens and young adults are being taken from the streets, their schools, and quite possibly their homes to these facilities. The--” The camera must have been pushed to the ground in all the chaos as there were now only blurred lines on the screen before it cut back to a frightened news anchor. “And now for the.. evening weather..” the man said slowly. Ayslin grabbed the remote from Hazel’s hands and shut off the T.V. Hazel was still staring blankly at the black screen in shock. “Hazel, it’ll be okay. Everything will be--” Ayslin started, but was cut off by the sound of the front door bursting open.

“Get under the bed. Now,” Hazel whispered, fear evident in her voice. Ayslin complied and they both pushed themselves quietly under Hazel’s bed as the bedroom door burst open. A very strong looking man entered. He checked the closet, then behind the door, and finally under the bed. He pulled the two girls out from under it and dragged them from the house. Their struggling did nothing, until Hazel bit his arm. He loosened his grip on the girls just enough for them to get away for a moment. “GO!” yelled Ayslin, as they both began to run. They were pulled back as they made it to the door, by the quick man in the suit. He grabbed them both angrily. “You’ll regret that, you stupid girl,” he snarled. He dragged them out to his van and threw them into the back, where they were met with the frightened faces of other teens. The doors slammed shut and locked behind them. They were trapped. The van moved forward, and Ayslin cried, wrapping her arms around Hazel. The ride was short and no one said a word. The doors were opened and the harsh sunlight burned the young teens’ eyes. They were immediately pulled from the van by more men in suits. They all screamed, kicked, and flailed to no avail. They were then dragged mercilessly into the building and shoved into rooms. Finally, Ayslin and Hazel were the only two left. Ayslin was shoved into a small room just as the others had been. “I love you, Hazel!” she screamed, knowing these might be her final words to the girl she had loved for the past four years. “I love you too, Ayslin!” Hazel yelled back, praying this would not be the last time they saw each other. Hazel was dragged to a new room with all white walls and a chair covered in wires in the middle. The only other person inside was a man. He was wearing a lab coat and seemed to be a doctor. Hazel knew where she was. She didn’t need to read the sign on the front of the door to know her fate. Shock Therapy Room.

To Be Continued...

THE WAVES OF LIFE SAVANNAH REDL

She stood, letting the soft breeze hit her face and flow through her hair. She was intrigued for this was the first time she was this close to the ocean. It was serene and peaceful. She put one foot in, letting goosebumps run up her body. This is life, she thought, this the best thing in the world. She closed her eyes and waded deeper into the ocean. Time seemed to stop around her. Everything was in slow motion. She floated and felt her lips brush into a smile. She was free. She opened her eyes and above were clouds like cotton candy, except they were gray and swirling. The tide carried her deeper into the ocean. Without warning, the waves swallowed her up. They crashed over her head. Something from the ocean floor reached up and grabbed her. It dragged her under the water. The salt blinded her eyes and everything became dark. She tried to fight and scream. The harder she fought, the farther she sank. The more she screamed, the more silent her world became. “Keep your head above water,’” the voice inside her yelled; it pushed her to fight, but she was weak. Her lungs filled with water. She couldn’t breathe. This had to be a dream, no a nightmare, but it wasn’t. This nightmare was her reality and she couldn’t escape. This is life, she thought, and it wasn’t all that she thought it would be.

CRASHING WAVES LAUREN SHERMAN

STRANGER

SERENITY JOHNSON You put your arm on my back As if you’re a friend. I shrug you off. ‘Don’t touch me man.’ You look at me, Eyes filled with concern. I don’t need the attention You think I’d yearn. You look away and close your eyes. I lift my head up to the sky, Swallowing the view of the stars with my eyes. The moon shines down on me Leaving my shadow in the street. I’m filled with confusion, Almost bursting at the seams.

Why’d you come back?

I want to say. Instead, I turn my head away. I remember the days before today. It’s weird. We had black and white things in the 70s. Everything that was considered outdated Was upgraded. Everything should be in color now. But for me, The color has faded Like a printer running out of ink. Time stops. And I think, What the hell happened to me?

UNAUTHORIZED WORDS PARKER CLARKE

As I sit on my bed, my wandering thoughts consume me like a lion eating its prey. I search for another way. Another way to grieve’ another way to think, another way to live, and another way to love. They talk about this “previous life” but I don’t quite understand. It’s all they seem to talk about these days. My head throbs from hearing the same relentless lectures from such ignorant people. “Can we learn something new?” I cry out. I am frustrated. I just want to run away. Maybe even escape. Just for a little while anyway. But, you see, I must not hesitate because there is no time to waste. Although my mind is powerful, I do not let it control me. It’s the thousands of comforting words of affirmation that I will need to hold and mold me. Out of all the words in the world, Those of detrimental meaning will not have authority over me.

HIBISCUS

ISABELLE ENGEL

ONE WITH THE STARS HARLIE DAVIS

She is clothed in obscurity, for she is not like the others. She is one with the stars. And when the night comes she finds her sanctuary, a place where she can undress from her nebulosities. Her beauty luminates. She no longer feels like she’s from another galaxy, seeing those just like her begin to shine, forming their constellation of those withheld from the world. The night fills her with stardust pulsing from her veins and dancing in her soul. She is one with the stars. And in a blink of an eye, the sun starts to shine. She senses her light begin to dull, so she clothes herself once again and dreams for night to come.

THE FATHER WHO WASN’T ISABEL GUDGEL

The vile words crawl from his throat, appearing from a deep hatred within him, gnawing at the hate-fire exploding in his eyes. They snake across his tongue and drip slowly from between his teeth like a toxic mix of honey and syrup. Cruel words sting like poison, burning into my memory like a hot brand, churning and curdling from the stench of his breath. Pain takes over, slow and forceful, as if it affects him more than it does me. As if his words are eating him from inside out, dying to get out of him and attack me. He’s playing the victim, calling out for no one to hear. It’s all about him. It’s always about him. Hallow pain shows through jerks of the steering wheel, rubber burning on asphalt, and staring head-on at the road, not paying attention. He stares through the surface in front of him, peering through reality to get lost somewhere no one can find him. His eyes glisten like tar pits, individual holes of despair and loneliness ready to suck you in and steal you away from everyone else’s attention. Through the darkness, tears mist up and rest on his eyelashes like mildew. As much as my immediate thoughts yell at me, I need to help. He needs to be okay. My mind stops mid-thought. My long term memories come crashing in like a tidal wave, halting me mid-sympathy. The long nights of despair and worry, walking on eggshells, and an uncontrolled temper wash away any feeling of empathy. He has always been like this, and no amount of thought and hope can over power the alcohol driving him insane. No amount of reason and facts can break through the empty shell of a thought process and change his mind. He’s made up of lies and tall tales, broken records of arguments replaying and burning to fuel the hate-fire within him: utter destruction. His lips are stained crimson and cracked with broken promises. A hunched spine that is welded together with broken bottles of alcohol and fake sanity, giving him something to lean on when the bottles shatter. He knows the truth, but blows it away from his being like cigarette smoke. His body is a corpse, skin pale and almost translucent, his eyes deep and dark with pain. Don’t get too close. When he seems most helpless, he’ll give you a reason to show you he’s strong. Show anyone who’s in control, because it’s sure not him. The anger pulled in and out of his consciousness, the sadness that overwhelms his world and puts actions into his body, the substances flowing through his bloodstream making him crazy. If he was anything of a man before, he surely isn’t anything anymore.

DANDELION LEXIE BELGUM

Pick me from this field of dandelions, for my golden mane has turned ashen with despair. Grip my stem, light-life leaking into the curves of your future. Think of how you dispose my mind to the wind, hoping to fulfill a silly little wish, a desperation, an insecurity that must no longer exist? Imagine what you yearn for, that deepest desire, before the forceful breath of anticipation blows my mind away.

PRIDE TOO BIG

JORDAN HUMPHREY One day we will all eventually swallow our pride. When that day comes and only on that day, will we finally end this war and madness that consumes our world, covering it in destruction. For our pride being too big has caused so much pain for others who have already learned to swallow theirs.

ENDERTS BEACH ISABELLE ENGEL

IDENTITY

KYLEIGH ESTRADA As I look at myself in the mirror today, I see a girl who used to struggle with her identity. A smile that isn’t perfect. Dark brown curly hair. Freckles. A skin complexion like caramel with a hint of cinnamon. As I struggled to find my identity as a little girl, I remember the pain in my heart when I got told by mother that on my birth certificate my race is just “White.” My race is just white because in 1999 they didn’t have a checkbox for black and white. You can only choose one because in 1999 you could only be seen as one race. I’m only 25%. My dad is mixed with a dark complexion and my mom is white. “You’re only 25%, you ain’t black.” Something that I have been told way too many times in my life. I’m not black because I have white in me. I’m not white because I have black in me, something I have always found hard to reconcile. “Which side do you prefer?” “What do you consider yourself?” I consider myself human because I am no different than a white person, and I am no different from a black person. As I look at myself in the mirror today, I see a girl who can shake off the negativity and still put a smile on her face.

A VIEW

ADDISON HANSEN

THINGS I’M TOLD AS A MUSLIM ALI HAIDER AL HAJAJ

Here’s what you’ll be told: You probably have very strict parents You are lucky to be in this country Why are you here? You have a weird accent Are you a Muslim? Oh, God I can’t trust you I can’t understand you sometimes Why do you terrorists hate us? I bet you pray a lot I am glad that my parents are better than yours I don’t need your help or advice Go back to your country Your religion is fake Islam doesn’t mean peace, it means war Your religion is full of hatred Do you have a bomb over there? Dude, I am afraid you’ll kill me one day Don’t bomb our school Hell, no, I can’t date a Muslim You shouldn’t obey all the silly Islamic rules You are crazy Don’t talk to me I don’t care about Muslims You always take things seriously, Do all Muslims do that? Get out of here Donald Trump was right when he called you terrorists Have you killed someone before? All Muslims know how to use weapons, do you? You are dumb Don’t say the racist Islamic phrases Dude, your mom wears a hijab Allah won’t do anything for you Your prophet is a murderer and a thief I don’t talk to Muslims Muslims are monsters

Here’s what I’m telling you: As a Muslim, believe in yourself Don’t be ashamed of your religion Don’t give up on your dreams Enjoy your life Don’t be weak Be proud of your parents Just ignore them You’re special You should be respected and honored Stand up for yourself Your religion isn’t fake You are valuable and trustworthy Your accent is unique You shouldn’t be insulted Pray and do what you enjoy You are as shiny as a new pin No one has the right to tell you what to do Your heart is clear as a crystal beam You’re not a terrorist You are you You are sunshine You shouldn’t be blamed for something you didn’t do Allah is always going to be with Muslims Muslims respect women and their rights Muslims are not silly or bad Muslims aren’t mean or stupid either Muslims are great people They are kind and caring They deserve a good life Islam means peace

CONSTELLATION OF GALAXIES ZACH WENDLING

The universe began with a “Big Bang” that Ignited the fire within us all, starting each Heartbeat and pulse that exists and each Constellation that pieces us together like a well-made puzzle. Even though the edge and corner pieces are easy to find, The center of the puzzle is up to us to define because No matter how many times we attempt to piece together the sky, There is always a piece that is left missing for us to Imagine and allow to fly freely in the openness. These pieces contain balls of sparks that were created by Ideas smashing together which Illuminate even the darkest of moments and As these ideas burn until nothing remains, they Contract and expand, sparkling in the gloomy night. Even with billions of stars in the dismal horizon, Polaris is the brightest star who Captured the eyes of sailors as they sailed across the ocean blue, Travelers who had lost their way, and ancient Kings and queens who cherished even the smallest of ideas. Stars are unified in constellated shapes that are like the Ink blots found in the therapist’s office; Each backstory our own to imagine and define. The “Constellation of Galaxies” that Unifies and signifies an entire history is filled with Life and death and rebirth and Ideas that stretch and touch an entire group of people. Humans, the ones constantly piecing together the Mysteries of the world, Are the constellations that are so small in comparison but Just as powerful and impactful. We live and breathe with the uniqueness of the stars, Are pieced together by strange beginnings, and Sparkle with unbelievable stories. Looking deeper, further into the meanings Wrapped within each ember, We can see the twinkle of each galaxy in Every star’s eye.

BOMB APPLE TEETH WALKER ZAVALA

I parked my rusty pickup truck on the gravel road and got off to get my things from the truck bed. I grabbed my water bottle and my flashlight in case night approached too fast and blinded me in the forest. I had spent a couple of minutes walking past rugged rocks, admiring vivid flowers and plants, and I could still smell morning’s rain in the air. Little by little, the smell of morning dew was taken over by a strong odor of rotting and burning wood. After searching for what seemed to be an eternity, I finally found the source of the odors. It was a small, nearly dismantled cottage, and it was curiosity that led me to the front door. Five loud knocks broke down the door. Yikes! With ease I walked into the small space and saw a stove and a sink with dishes that needed a little more than just a rinse. But what really caught my eye was an image that hung tilted on the wall. I removed the painting to admire this work of art, a bulldog riding a skateboard into the sunset had me astonished for minutes, but something better caught my eye when I put it back. Behind the wall was a suitcase lying snug in a hole where the painting had been. I opened the suitcase, hoping a couple million dollars were waiting to see me, but instead a red button glared back at me. What could be the worst that happens if I press the button? World War III? A world crisis? Who cares? I smashed the red button and waited for the explosions. From another room I heard the radiating of what sounded to be a bomb, and adrenaline rushed through my body. The supposed bomb turned out to be a microwave set at one minute and thirty seconds, inside of it was a rotating plate of pizza rolls. Bomb apple teeth.

WHICH WAY MATTHEW HO

FACTORY MADE ZACH WENDLING

We have become a machine, Primed and oiled, Spurting and buzzing, Creating carbon copies each day, Mimicking that of the previous work. One must become the other. Individuality is a mistake, Disregarded, Forgotten, Carried off by the wind. To be different is like answering True when it is in fact false. A clear cut decision is easy to choose, but Often the exact opposite is chosen. Where one day the sky is pristine and perfect then Forevermore colorless and destructive. Our thoughts and feelings must remain the same. A thought is wrong, A tear unacceptable, No actually means yes, We is only you. We are taught to be different, Stand out, Change the world, Face danger with no fears, Smile through any and all pain. Lessons to be different, but How different? Coloring outside of the lines when we are told no, Mismatching colors to fit our own agendas, Speaking when everyone else is silent, Standing against injustice. They send us away so that Years and decades later we return Brand new yet unchanged from others Ready to face the new world,

Chest out, Chin held high. Conveyors push out more and more of us Who think just like us. Same feelings, Same emotions, Same beliefs. New is suppressed. Different is hidden. Unique is shunned. Quantity beats quality. More average rather than a Few amazing. Oiled and primed, Ready to go at the push of a button. Price tags slapped on our backs to make a quick buck. Why fix what is not broken? Conveyors rotated. Gears cranked. Buttons pressed. Warnings ignored. Black smoke fills the air, Almost a sign as to how dark a path we have followed. Who cares when quotas are still being met? Perfect prodigies of the business, Pristine and polished. It’s just a little game known as life. High demand for a greater profit. Factories that puff out identical copies of the same human race Where everyone breathes, speaks, and acts the same. No reason to change when a quick buck is being made.

PRIVILEGED

VANESSA CRUZ ALATRISTE I’m not supposed to be privileged. My parents left their lives in Mexico to come to a country where the “American Dream”, is something that is achievable. My mother, she was an accountant but she left that. My father, he had a family but he left them. They came here thinking it was going to be easy, only to find out the hardships they faced at home would be faced here as well. From a language barrier to racism. But they worked. They got new jobs. They weren’t the easiest, But they worked to pull a small family through. They were the ones who struggled. They were the ones who made sacrifices. I just get to live the life they worked so hard for.

ROCKY SKY

LYNN NGUYEN

WHEN THE FIRE BURNS OUT ISABELLE ENGEL

I was in the high of my life. I finally had my license, even though I wasn’t a very good driver. I loved feeling the summer wind through my window. I loved driving at night, with the whole sky above me. I was painting my perfect picture. I was recreating what love meant to me with long, warm nights filled with another person. I put my entire soul into that summer. I watched my closest loved ones close a chapter in their book forever. I had never felt so much pride for other people. I was still desperately trying to hold onto that last sliver of innocence. I had never been good about dealing with big changes and moving on. I was still looking up at the stars with childlike joy, creating my own constellations. When she died it was like that child I had been protecting died, too. I felt so angry that I lost a piece of myself. Every night my mind would replay every hour of that day. The way the sky looked. The way the flowers tangled together. It had seemed so imaginary. Like I was living a dream. I was gasping for air, trying to reach the surface of my own darkness to find clarity. With each attempt I was losing myself more and more. The days became shorter, and the nights became longer. I didn’t feel like me anymore. I just felt like a vessel holding all of my organs and blood, walking amongst other people, wandering through my nightmare. The love I had been growing before her death was the only thing that gave me any purpose. I would sit outside and just stare at the trees in the wind. I would watch the day turn to dusk and finally to night; different choruses of sounds came at different times, and I could feel all of it. I could feel the energy that radiated off of the cherry tree in my backyard, the energy that was pumping out of my mother’s heart whenever we crashed together in a hug. It was almost overwhelming. I had never been so connected with everything around me before. I could never feel the moon and stars the way I did after she died. The eternity that death holds is so intimidating. Like standing on a beach and watching the ocean stretching to the horizon. The sky and clouds above the water floating in an eternity of air waves and jet streams. An eternity without her. It took everything in me to find her again. Not physically, but in myself and in the colors the sun paints the sky with. I found her in the dew that sparkles on blades of grass. I knew she was the energy I could feel. She was in everything. She wasn’t ready to be gone yet. She would greet me every evening, when the sun dipped into the horizon, and kissed the clouds.

A LETTER TO MY BROTHER BRANDON DIAZ DE LEON

An influential person in my eyes is a person who changes your life in positive ways. The person has to be patient and caring enough to support you in every aspect of your life. My brother, Luis, is an excellent example of an influential person. He has lead me towards success and has reassured that he will always be supportive towards my decisions. All of my life he has taught me many things that molded my personality. Luis taught me to never give up, to act kindly towards others, and, most importantly, to act responsibly. My brother was and still is a very important person in my life. He taught me to never give up. When I was young I didn’t want to do my homework because I didn’t understand it. When he found out, he sat down and encouraged me to finish. When I was seven, I had difficulty learning how to swim. Luis took me to the local pool everyday for a week until I was finally comfortable swimming. Once I realized he was there to support me whenever I needed him, I realized how important he was and how much he helped me through life. It’s obvious he shaped me and molded my personality. When I was very young, I thought people should treat each other well, but my brother showed me that not all people felt the same. Luis replaced that idea; he told me to treat people with respect, and if they didn’t return the favor to avoid them. He changed the way I see the world. He showed always to respect everyone even the people I didn’t like. He was very important in my life and I use this advice daily. Perhaps the greatest way he influenced me was when he told me to be responsible for my actions. The day I truly learned responsibility was when Luis forced me to clean up after myself because I had made a mess with my toys. At the moment I didn’t realize he was telling me to do the right thing, but now I know he was teaching me well. His guidance is very prominent in my life because his words reside in my mind. Responsibility was enforced even more when I received my first pet, a small betta fish. I was told by my brother that it was my responsibility to feed it, clean its bowl, and care of it. That day also taught me how to manage activities and how to be responsible for multiple things in life. The main reason Luis is a crucial part in my life is because he coached me through my life. He taught me never to give up, even when it gets difficult. Luis showed me how to interact with people and how to be responsible. I believe that my brother was vital in my upbringing. Luis has helped form my personality and I wouldn’t be the same person without my loving big brother.

MERE HUMANITY MAX VAN ARSDALL

I look up at the night sky, engulfed in an endless world of possibilities of galaxies filled with planets far different from our own but special in their own unique way. If one were to drift off into space, they would have infinite directions they may go, each path with its own adventures. Sometimes the stars fill me with sadness. In an infinite universe it is hard to imagine us of any importance, a lowly planet in a solar system in the Milky Way filled with billions of stars, which is in a galaxy cluster filled with tens of thousands of galaxies. It can be easy to feel insignificant.

THE FOG OF WAR NOAH NEVITT

The night was cold and quiet; condensation covered the spark plugs of the American T34’s engine. She had been stranded in the middle of no man’s land with the rest of her crew and no sign of any reinforcements coming anytime soon. Townsend sighed and twiddled his thumbs while he stared blankly at his battlelog, which said nothing more than “no activity” and “nothing to report.” Smith had been tinkering with the radio which had been damaged by an earlier encounter between the T34’s crew and a German Tiger II, more commonly known as the “King Tiger.” Anderson sat in his seat and stared at the last picture he had gotten from his wife and kids back on the beaches of California before he left for war. Parker was staring as well, but his gaze was not focused on the picture. Instead, his attention was directed through the scope of the T34’s 120 millimeter gun, which scanned the ground to the horizon in front of the tank. Every now and then Townsend would open the top hatch of the turret and peer out into the world outside. The two-footthick steel plating of the T34 kept him and the rest of his crew safe to do routine checks on the perimeter to be sure that there was no danger approaching the crew and to see if any Allied forces had arrived to help escort them out of no man’s land. However the only thing that seemed to show up were Nazi patrols making their rounds to execute the Allied troops that still lay barely alive in the mud and to recover the German soldiers which had fallen in prior battles. Every now and then Parker would reach back from his seat and touch the 120 millimeter shells on the rack behind him, so as to make sure that there was still ammo there even though he knew full well that there was more than enough lead and gunpowder to go around. Smith scowled and threw his fist into one of the dials on the radio. The radio sparked and made a low static sound until it died completely. Smith sighed and looked up at Townsend. “Radio’s dead,” he said, as he sat back in his seat and stared out the viewport of his .50 caliber machine gun . Townsend opened the commander’s hatch at the top of the turret and peered behind the tank to make one last check to see if any allies were on their way to them. Just as he was turning back towards the treeline ahead he heard a small ping off the armor on the front of the T34. He stayed scanning the treeline for a little while longer when a loud bang rang out from the forest and a large orange object whistled in his ear as it passed over his head. Townsend quickly retreated down the hatch and fell into his seat. “Enemy front!” he yelled.

THE PUMPKIN CANDLES NAKIA BRAATEN

You bought me my first candle It smelled of my favorite pie, pumpkin You knew it was my favorite Because we once spent forty-five minutes arguing about what pie to share at Village Inn I thought my argument was convincing but we ended up with fries instead Squished into a tiny booth we just kept ordering plate after plate of fries You bought me every candle I own They all smell like some kind of pumpkin Pumpkin butter, apple pumpkin, pumpkin bliss All of them leave a burnt after taste in my room long after they’ve been extinguished, filling the air with the memories I will forever cling to Even if I can’t keep these candles forever, I will never forget the way your big eyes used to hold the universe Every constellation played out in your irises Copernicus raging in your eyes, beneath billowing lashes and tuffs of stray hairs I will never forget you lighting a way through the darkness Your endless bravery overpowering the shadows that threatened to overrun our kingdom You were a lantern in the dark I’ll never forget how your eyes have long since hollowed out I no longer see a guiding hand in the darkness Instead I see a stoic warrior hurt too many times by friendly fire If I light the candles I’m reminded of how I started a fire I couldn’t quite keep at bay Set my whole kingdom on fire with one arrogant match Recently, I can’t light the candles too ashamed of the bed I made too scared to lay in it My room no longer smells of pumpkin

ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING SARA AL-YASSERI

Always keep fighting, always stand tall. Even when you struggle, I won’t let you fall. Always keep trying, to love the life you live. Even when you’re tired, you’ve got some more time to give. Always be yourself, even if you’re strange. Let your freak flag fly, and don’t ever change. Always keep your head up, you are not alone. You’ve got an Angel by your side, and a family all your own. Always keep smiling, even when life is tough. And never, ever forget that you are enough.

PASS IT ON

ADDISON HANSEN

ZOO OF TANGLED VINES TAYLOR BAKER

I come from open minds. From faith, but in science. Brilliance and boldness proven through words; on a Scrabble board that nobody has heard of. I’ve felt the connected distance, never far in mind and heart. Yet I’ve been imprisoned by closed circles and crippled trees, bruised by the unread terms and conditions. Absent cousins and relatives, who will most likely remain unknown. Somehow there’s still overflowing living rooms. Stuck cutting paths through the forest of family. From Monopoly games to holiday gatherings, there’s always something. Most important are the movie quotes, inside jokes, and things always working sometimes. Two-hour long conversations about anything that comes to mind. The crazy faces and the piggyback rides. Our crowds can be overwhelming and nerve-racking, but there’s no need for butterflies here, since you can have the whole zoo.

AND EVERYTHING JUST FEELS RED DOMONIQUE HARRIS

My therapist told me that in this last part of my life, I should write about something that’s meaningful to me. I told him I wanted to write about you, but he told me that it should be about something less “superficial.” So I chose red. He didn’t really understand my choice in the color. I explained to him that when I do die, it’ll be in my red hat you got me two years ago. He tried telling me red was just a color, but when I told him that red was everything you meant to me, I think he got it then. And so we settled on red. Red is a color. He isn’t wrong about that. It was never my favorite color until you walked into that first group-therapy session and your hair blazed against the eggshell, blue walls. You looked straight at me and smiled the goofiest smile I’ve ever seen. Red took on a new meaning for me right then. It was all of a sudden the most important thing to ever exist. It was soft like the way your eyes squinted when you smiled, like the way your hair looked as you walked across the circle of chairs. Red had never smelled so much like sandalwood as it did when you sat next to me. If I could feel red it might have felt like your knee knocking into mine as you sat down. Red is a color. He isn’t wrong about that. But it’s also a feeling. My therapist told me I was feeling love. I told him I was feeling red, specifically the bright red streaks in your hair. He laughed, but I wasn’t kidding. Maybe love is just a lot like bright red. Maybe they’re both like holding on too tightly to uncertainty. Maybe they’re both like falling asleep at two in the morning because you wanted to watch X-Files. And I hate X-Files, but you like to lay your head on my chest as you watch and I like the way your hair tickles my face when you do. So we watch X-Files all night. Maybe they’re both like sitting through an hour and a half of chemotherapy treatments. Maybe love and bright red are the same thing, but when I look at you I feel bright red. I feel ten years old, back before I was sick. I feel seventeen, currently sick, soon to die, but I’m with you. Maybe love is a lot more like two boys getting to spend the rest of their lives together and that’s why you make me bright red. Because maybe bright red is more like two boys spending every day that they can together because years are not something they have ever been taught to count on. Red is a color. He isn’t wrong about that. But it’s also a sound.

I tried telling my therapist that if he ever gets the chance he needs to listen to your laugh. Your laugh is deep red and around the edges it might be a little blue, but it’s mostly red. It fills me up like nothing bad is left inside of me. It’s like all of those cancerous red blood cells for a split second aren’t there and it’s just your laugh. It’s just me and you and your deep red laugh, and we’re so bright red. The sound you make in your sleep on the nights when I can’t, it’s almost purple, but I’ll take what I can and call that red too. Your little snores are like the color of wine. They are deep and dark, like they’re flowing out from some part of you that no one can see and I only ever hear them when you fall asleep on your back. As I get to the end, not of this, but of my life, red starts to feel a lot like ripping. It feels like leaving you. It is all of the pain I haven’t felt in so long. All of the pain I’ve never let myself feel. I’m starting to feel it now. It’s a metallic red in the center where the essence of my being is slowly lost. Where it dries around the edges is a dusty brown red. It feels like a carmine red tear starting with you and ending at my heart. So yes, red will always be a color. But it’s not just a color. Red is twenty one notable shades, all of which at one point or another I’ve felt for you. Red is the way you smell in the morning, like warm honey, and it’s the way all your shirts smell like sandalwood. Red tastes like the mint on your breath from the gum you chew. It tastes like earl gray tea. It also has the slight aftertaste of positive affirmations that you can’t wait to sneak in anytime I frown. Red is the feeling of sleeping in a hospital bed like it’s made for two teenage boys. Red is you getting worried about tangling my oxygen tube, but then falling asleep with your arms wrapped around me like oxygen is something I have never needed. Red may also be the immense amount of pain I feel knowing sometime soon I will wake up next to you for a last time and that will be it. The sun will shine in on us and it will make your hair a new kind of red. A bright orange red mixed with the soft color of your skin. It will look like the sun is setting. And it is, for us at least. Red will always be you and me. (I told my therapist to give this to you when I die.)

ON MY OWN

BRITTANY PFOLTNER I’m not quite sure when it all began. Maybe it was when I lost my best friend. It could have been when everyone deserted me. I can’t exactly pinpoint one certain event that put me over the edge. It just hit me one day, this terrible fear of being alone. I can’t stand the thought of being on my own. It’s not as though I’ve gotten lost before, or been in a situation where I was completely alone. I suppose I’ve simply lost too many people to be okay with not having someone by my side. I fear the loneliness that comes with a lack of somebody always being there. Walking down the halls without a friend to talk to causes an earthquake in my chest. I put my headphones in my ears to drown out the roar of the silence. I can hear the chatter of others around me, but it’s all irrelevant. Why should it matter if I don’t have someone to talk to? The earthquake gets bigger inside of me, threatening to crack me in half. Shattering me like glass, until all that’s left is a million pieces of me, to simply be crunched under the feet of unobservant people. I lay in bed at night, thinking of what lies ahead of me. The fear grasps me again, like fingers clutching at my throat. My chest heaves up and down, frantic for more air in my lungs. The fear is paralyzing, as though a hundred bricks have been dumped on top of me. I begin to drift off to sleep, only to dream of being alone.

IMAGINATION AT ITS FINEST KENZIE FRANK

CITY OF STARS LAURA METZGER

a cluster of stars gather in the sky making up a city of their own reaching out their limbs to make roads paving a path for navigators and those looking for a journey though they do not dim in fear of leading the traveler astray for they have tales to share of the past we’ve named the cities we see above us when the moon is up to tell of their adventures of those who have sailed before us though we must be the ones to continue the story not with the name placed upon the city but with the one we have written ourselves

GLACIERS OF MONTANA RYLEE SHURMAN

CANDYLAND STAIRWAY IAN ZABEL

ADAAD

TAYLOR KVITTEM

ROOTS

ADDISON HANSEN

UNTITLED

BRIEANNA KROEGER

A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW LAUREN SHERMAN

THE BIG DIPPER

LAUREN SHERMAN

I didn’t care about the Big Dipper until it was the only constellation that I could piece together. I blame you for this. It’s the only constellation you knew, therefore, the only one you ever pointed out. It’s just a large pot in the sky, but your eyes grew huge with its reflection, and the blue of your irises resembled a galaxy. I didn’t care about the Big Dipper, but now it shines so impossibly bright whenever the sky is clear, and I realized that I’d get it tattooed on my forehead if that meant I could see your eyes fill with that same wonder when you looked at me.

LIFE AS AN APPLE MAKAYLA AYOTTE

You know those fruits in the store you can tell have been picked over, and no one wants? They’ve been hurt, bruised, and dropped. Now that they have marks on them, no one wants them anymore. That’s me, I’ve been bruised, pushed, and beat up. Not only physically, but mentally too. My life hasn’t always been this way; it started a couple years ago when everything went downhill. From that point on I’ve been at my breaking point, not knowing if I can live anymore. Drop after drop, bruise after bruse, all adding up, making it hard for my skin to heal. Not only my skin but also mentally, every name I’ve been called, the way people treat me. Each word shatters my heart just a little more. I’m to the point where the glass is broken and only a little bit of it is hanging intact, not knowing how long I have until those pieces fall apart. I just imagine if I was an apple I’d be that one with bruises all over it, the one that people pick up and choose not to take. The one that’s been in the store not only for days but weeks and months, waiting for something to change, waiting for someone to be that change. Someone to make that little apple’s life better. The longer that apple sits in the corner waiting to change, the harder it gets to wait. Seeing every other apple being picked and having someone want them, after seeing all her friends get taken away, realizing no one wants her. The apple waits all day until night when the store closes and no one’s there. She’s all by herself sitting there. Her bruises start to gush, becoming more than a bruise, her insides coming out. There’s no one there, no one to help the gushing. Finally, when it stops, she’s left with scars. Scars that stay on her skin for a long time, not knowing when they’ll be gone. The apple waits for the one day her life will change. The day she stops getting passed over and someone cares enough to take her.

WHEN THE WORLD STANDS STILL ZACH WENDLING

There will be a time in your life Maybe now, Maybe later, That we must all go through. It is a point of emptiness, Despair, Confusion, An empty hole that is impossible to escape from. Then, in that moment, everything stops. A conversation stopped before an I love you; Birds halted in mid-flight, no longer harmonizing mid-song; Hearts no longer beating for the wrong person, Lungs breathing for the wrong goal, nor Brains thinking of someone who should not be on your mind. It seems so simple. So small, Minor, Insignificant. These negative moments become Second nature and soon we Forget that the positive side of the world even exists. Seconds and the darkness immediately takes control. Minutes tick away like leaves in the winter. Hours where hate settles in like an overnight frost. Days pass and life is only a fragmented memory. Weeks continue and pain becomes a part of your personality. Months waste away as time becomes your worst enemy. Years of the past are just a cruel reminder of impossibility. Wicked moments always wanting more from you. In all the time that passes, Everything continues to move but at the end of the day, No matter how much life ticks away, there is still Only one you. The moments where all freezes, Ice infiltrates your soul with ease, and Your heart cracks with each pump of poisoned blood.

Take that moment before it all starts, Before the frost, before the pain. The period of clear confusion mixed with Hesitated assurance that Influences the choices we make. Wounds that may never heal, Words left unsaid. It all can change with you. When the world stands still All is lost, but not forgotten. Eternal winters thawed by the thump of a heart. Everyone’s beginning is different, Love and loss, Victory and defeat, Yes and no. Through differences we learn to be the same. We wear masks to hide our emotions, Technology to hide our secrets, Lies to prevent the truth from getting out. There is one similarity that connects us all, Sometimes more, sometimes less. Struggles to be ourselves because the moment When pain settles in… That’s when the world stands still Through our lifetimes, Each year, second, month, and day, What truly defines us is how we accept it. Moments to run, or stay and fight. It is not how long you stay hurt, Not how long you take to understand, but The time you spend handling all of the pain created, When your world stood still.

SEARCHING FOR thE FAMILIAR ISABELLE ENGEL

Humans tend to find patterns that are recognizable. Infants look for shapes that make out a face: Eyes, nose, and mouth. I always find faces in wood paneling and the way the Sun shines through the trees. Early civilizations show writing and sculpture With human expression and shape. Some even began to create constellations just By patterns that they could recognize. Humans found a new world hanging in the cosmos, With bears, fish, and knights adorned with armor. Just by our innate abilities to find each other’s features, We have created stories that have lasted thousands of years. Many people today find themselves With the stories of the fish or lions Or the scorpions and archers. Although these people are different And we may fall in other places among the stars, We all look to the same sky for guidance and belonging.

SAPPY TEENAGE SUMMER LOVE AFFAIR DOMONIQUE HARRIS

we’re my favorite sappy teenage summer love story, and everyone knows that sappy teenage love stories always end like broken arms on playgrounds, no matter the season. i can’t recall how you look when you sleep because i’ve woken up far too many times with someone else on my mind to remember such a thing. i do remember the way you held me tight, the way you kept pulling me closer like you didn’t know what space was. or maybe it was just because you knew that all sappy teenage summer love stories end like broken arms on playgrounds, and so you pulled me closer until you felt safe. and it worked. maybe we both felt safe. but just because something feels safe doesn’t always mean it is. a feeling can’t stop bad things from happening. and so our sappy teenage summer love story ends, and when it’s over i find myself wiping blood from a scraped knee and i am so so afraid because both of my arms are just fine. so i’m sorry that our sappy teenage summer love story turned into a sappy teenage summer love poem. and i’m sorry that after i’m done writing it there will be no room left on your cast.

MAKING MY WAY DOWNTOWN LAURA METZGER

ENDLESS SPACE TYGER MAGORIAN

As I lie down and look up at the stars tonight and think my usual endless thoughts about life on earth, I began to think about what’s beyond this earth. Beyond those twinkling shimmers of light. I think about the galaxy. The purple hues swirling and intertwining with the stars and the rocks that just seem to be floating in mid air. Colors of pinks, blues, and even reds enter my mind. I think about every galaxy being different and changing constantly, with different color variations, size, and the different ways the colors and stars intertwine within each other. My mind starts to slip into euphoric thoughts of the outside world and just how beautiful and mesmerizing it truly is out there. How could there be so much space out there,while the whole human race is confined to one little planet? There must be something else out there, on another planet or in another galaxy. Maybe it is another human population, maybe there really are aliens with big heads, little bodies, and bulging eyes, but maybe this other life form is something so simple like a flower or a tree. I can feel that in the world outside of Earth there is another form of life; it might be eight galaxies away or just three planets away that we just have not discovered yet. It’s insane to think that in the endless space, Earth is the only planet with life. The endless space outside of Earth that is spinning, sparkling, and constantly changing shape and color. Where did it all come from? How did it all appear here? Was there just one big explosion that happened, causing this space, this mystical space to appear? Maybe it just showed up out of nowhere, just appearing from thin air. Has it been the same space for billions of years? Will space ever be completely different than it is now? No one knows how much space is actually in space. I think it’s never ending. I mean, no one has found an end to it, this is absolutely unbelievable to me. These continuous thoughts of mine are sprinting through my head and then I think of a question, a question like no other that just gets my mind twisting: what if there was nothing? Then there would be nothing, right? But… if there was nothing, what would it be? Because nothing is not anything, it’s nothing. Would everything just be a dark endless pit with no people, planets, galaxies, or anything? Would it be like being trapped in a big dark empty box or more like a blank sheet of paper that’s white? Everything, everywhere. How would it be possible for there to

actually be nothing? Could there actually be nothing? I mean, there has to be something; nothing is basically impossible. But how are we actually here, what was nothing before all of these galaxies, planets, stars, Earth, and living things? What would nothing feel or be like? It is unimaginable. But what if we already are nothing, like everything we know is just a thought? What if we are not real? I mean we feel pain, emotion, and we breathe, I don’t know how we could not be real. It’s hard for me to lie down on this dampened grass, wondering about the endless space above me. I’m just so curious, and there are so many unanswered questions I keep thinking of. My head is twisting and turning in these thoughts. Space to me is just a crazy unanswered novel of questions that we don’t know how to read I’m slipping away into the madness of my thoughts about the space above, the space that is not empty but is not full. The space that no one knows how much is out there or even what is out there. They say they study space, but focus on the Milky Way. Why is that? I want to know beyond this galaxy into another one. I want to know if there are other planets. These thoughts are not what you would think on a day to day basis. It’s just me out here with the wildlife and the stars, thinking these unanswered questions, having to come up with my own answers and ideas. The dark twinkling sky above me sparks a mind full of thoughts, ideas, and theories. The night sky can cause an artist, a thinker or a writer to have so many new curiosities. Just look up and wonder, ask yourself questions. Open you mind completely to let these thoughts flood in. There are so many more unanswered questions on this Earth. We may never know the answers.

THERE COMES A TIME GILLIAN WAKI

There comes a time in my life When everything is confusing I don’t know where to go I don’t know what to do I don’t even know to whom I can turn to for help I’m only going through the path of sin. We cried and wept Pleaded and asked for help All our rights and dignity were taken away Like children without destiny We were being killed like chickens Everyday, we sang to the birds And asked them for help We ask God for showers of blessings To flow within us. We say rescue us We cry save us Show us the way and the light to go As you want.

FEELING DOWN TAYLOR BAKER

OUR POLARIS

SHRADDHA PATEL

Connecting the dots we all form something out of the ordinary to become our own and shine brightly alone. Although we can be wrong, the North Star will be there to Navigate us along. No matter how long it takes for us to find our North Star, we shall always collect our experiences in one big jar to one day look back at all, call them memories, and cherish for centuries. With an imagination and combination of individuals we can all come together to form one big constellation.

WHAT A SHAME

MONSERRAT RENDON Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t we just get along and listen to what others have to say? Why can’t we live without judging others? It shouldn’t be this way. It shouldn’t have gotten to this point. What would life be like if we would’ve helped each other out instead of bashing one another? “Maria! Supper is ready. Come down to eat or it’ll get cold!” yelled my mom. “Okay, I’m coming, just a minute!” I answered back. I was going through the Internet, seeing all the trending news and I came across a post that a woman had put on her social media. Her post was quite racist but you could tell that she wasn’t being serious, although some people didn’t take it as a joke and started bashing her. I had seen things like this happen before. It happens all the time, and it’s nothing new to see people judging or making fun of others on social media. But this time, it was different. More and more people started to comment on her post, and it got to the point where they were threatening her and her family. I came across many comments:You deserve to die! Why

don’t you just kill yourself?! You and your family are a shame and we don’t need people like you in this world!

I ran downstairs and told my mom what I had seen. “Mom! Look what’s happening with this woman. She made a comment on her page, and now people are saying some of the meanest things to her. They’re threatening her!” I exclaimed. “Yes, honey, I’m honestly not surprised at all that is happening. I saw it coming since the beginning, seeing how people were bullied online because of how they don’t have the perfect body or because they aren’t a certain type of pretty,” she replied. “But why, mom?” I asked. “Maria, this has been the case ever since technology was invented. People used to ‘punish’ or shame people who committed sins right in front of a big crowd, and they loved it. They liked seeing those who made a mistake suffer, and it’ll always be like that. It’s become a bloody sport,” she answered while she set the table. “Once one person starts the problem, everybody else wants to join in on the news and it keeps building up. What they don’t know is that everything they say hurts those people. I’ve heard many stories like these and recently the outcomes of criticizing others on the Internet have been extreme,” she continued. “It’s horrible that things have gotten to that point, and we need to stop that, but people won’t ever stop. It might be too

late for that,” she replied. I went back to my room, and I started to look through the Internet to see what other stories I could find. What I came across, broke my heart. I found millions of stories, one with a high school girl who took her life because she couldn’t take it anymore. There was another story about a man who lost his well-paid job because he was making fun of a person on his page. All the complaints and comments that followed his post is what made him lose his job and even lose many of the friends he had. There were countless amounts of stories like that, all connected together, because of the Internet and to the extremes people will go to punish you for whatever you did or didn’t do. I wonder a lot and I’ll always ask myself, how could one thing you say or just being the way you are change your entire life? Most of all, how could people be so cruel and love seeing people suffer and fail in life? People will take any opportunity they have to talk bad about others, whenever they see a person do something wrong or mess up, they are right behind to criticize them. It seems funny to them when they see someone fall, and whether our society wants to admit it or not, it’s most definitely true. Ever since technology came to be, the social life has gotten worse. People will use the Internet and social media as a way to hurt others, as they know that their identity is hidden and they can pretend to be someone else or, actually, show their true selves. Comments, posts, tweets, all of those can be anonymous and therefore people aren’t scared to say bad things about one another. Threats, rumors, gossip, and judgements are what fill up the world of Internet shaming. It has become a place in which many have used to hurt others. It’s not about wanting to become friends with someone or communicating with the world in positive ways anymore. It’s scary to see what the world has come to, and it’s scary to see what could happen in the future--maybe even the near future.

OUR HOME

KAYLEY LOVE The newspaper hung in the post office that day. Saying that we had to leave, to pack up our belongings and our families, to travel to what we will call home: the relocation center. We had everything packed to the brim with our suitcases held in our hands. We walked to the train to leave, to travel to our new home. We arrived at the gates with the barbed wire fence, with guards pushing us in and splitting us apart, Sending us to our new relocation to start our new life. I say hello to our new worthless life. A few weeks they said, then a month, and now two years. We wait and ache to leave this worthless home, trapped in depression, loneliness, and insanity, taking us apart bit by bit every minute we stay. The train finally arrived today. We sat and waited untill we would finally step back home. But as we stepped out of our train, home was not the same. Everyone treated us differently, No one asked where we were. Our home was trashed and left unloved, and this will never be home again.

TEAM T.A.S.K. TAYLOR BAKER

My name makes the T. The first is the worst, or at least the most confusing. I’m young, barely past the terrible twos. I hear the words, and I understand each one. Individually, but not together. Mom. The person who cares for me. Another. One more. Baby. What I was, or still am. But what do they mean together? Her name makes the A. The second is the best and slightly less confusing. Now I’m a big kid. It’s nearly the same sentence, using the same words. But this time I have a little sister, someone to be excited with me. We jump around the house like little kangaroos. It lasts for hours, the excitement for the news of the next little joey. Her name makes the S. The third is the one with the polka-dot dress. Not only the most shocking, but the most exciting. Once again, the same words. This time I’m more nervous than anything. I looked at my two little sisters, and I saw the light in their eyes. The same light that was probably in mine. A short time after, we learn it’s a boy. Our own baby brother. So much for the polka-dot dress. His name makes the K.

BEAUTY

SERENITY JOHNSON People need to understand that beautiful is not a rare species. It is a trait. Beauty is on the inside. Beauty runs deep within our veins. Freezing every virus or foul thought within us. Stopping it from turning into more than just thoughts. Beauty is a title that champions wear on their breasts as they plunge into battle. To beat the war of judgement. Beauty is laced within every stitch a nurse gives a patient because the patient’s life is in her hands. Beauty runs deep within the earth as the core rotates and gives us the protective barrier that keeps us savage creatures, unworthy of life Alive. Despite how much damage we have done to our beautiful planet, she chooses to protect us because beauty is in a mother’s eyes as she defends and protects her children. Beauty is everywhere. It flows out of a boy’s arm after he slides a razor through his once clean skin. It’s on the opposite side of the noose as an 11 year old girl looks through it, preparing to see the angels and hearing them sing. Beauty’s in the back of a homeless man’s eyes as he sits on a street corner downtown and begs for spare change. Beauty flickers off the dimes I just dropped into his hands, and beauty dribbles down his chin. Along with some of the coffee I just gave him. Under a bridge, a young single mother sells herself to a man for what over half the human nation calls beauty. But what she sees is the beauty of food on the table for her two starving children and this month’s rent.

Beauty is everywhere. From the deepest darkest places, to the brightest, highest places. Some people don’t believe in it, but they just need to realize that all you have to do is look a little closer.

RAINY STREETS SARAH WATERS

CASH, CARD, OR MEMORIES? CAMRYN SPENCER

The bell chimed above Justin as the door thudded shut, as he walked into the gas station. He made his way to the back, where he gathered the same snack as every other day: a 44-ounce Pepsi and a Hershey bar. He walked back to the front, set his items on the counter, and stared off into the distance as the boy behind the register rang them up. He looked up as the cashier’s voice rung out, “$3.94. How will you be paying today?” Justin reached into his back pocket, searching for his wallet, and groaned inwardly as his hand grasped air. He must have left it at home. Again the cashier’s voice interrupted the dead silence. “Sir?” “Just one second, I think I have cash somewhere.” Rapidly searching through his pockets, Justin dug up lint and a spare dime. No cash. Finally he gave up, and stepped directly under the machine hanging from the ceiling. “I guess that’ll be memories then,” he said quietly. The cashier nodded at him, and gave him the usual instructions. “Choose one and focus on it please,” and pressed a button on the register. Justin could feel the air move above him, as if a ceiling fan had been turned on. He chose his ninth birthday party. The memory was faint, but still there. It was Star Wars themed, and there were dozens of other kids running around, almost every single one of them dressed as Darth Vader or Princess Leia. There was a rainbow piñata, hanging from the old oak tree. He watched the memory in his mind, the kids running around, yelling and laughing. There were some adults there too, standing around a grill. They seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t place them. Couldn’t quite remember their names, almost as if they had been stolen from his mind. The blue bouncy house stood in the corner of the yard, and he saw a young version of himself, jumping up and down without a care in the world. And then it was gone, and he couldn’t recall what he had been thinking about. His eyes blinked open and refocused on the bored looking cashier in front of him. He stepped backwards, grabbed his pop and chocolate, and walked out the door. The bell chimed again as it opened, and a voice followed him out. “Have a nice day.”

AN ASTRONOMICAL LOVE TRIANGLE NAKIA BRAATEN

Her soul moves like the waves Pulled and pushed to the shore By a moon who will never meet her Her soul empties when her moon turns away Wrenching her from the shallows and drowning her Yet she fills with the stars when the moon draws her closer Rising her up like the tide only to crash back down again Still she finds contentment while she star gazes As she searches the universe for answers Only ever to find more questions Her soul swirling in the deepest parts of the galaxy She is swept and heaved Swimming constantly in the constellations That look nothing like her Yet she opens her arms to the galaxies waiting Welcoming the nothing that creates everything That created her Her soul is so full of stardust that she still stuns the sun He watches her in wonder A girl so small in a universe so infinite She is peaceful against his burning heart He knows that he loves her but that she belongs to the moon Still he kisses her skin Bathes her in more light than she needs to keep her warm Yet the girl can’t love him back, her protector, the sun To the sun she is his world He rises in the morning to greet her She often lays quiet on the beach Craving the attention of the moon Oblivious to the love of the sun

65 65

AUTHOR UNKNOWN CHRISTIAN LAMPE

I am walking down what used to be my street carrying nothing more than some apples and a jug of water. It’s nice to visit old haunts once in awhile; I haven’t been back here since I was selected to live in the Michigan Academic District. I haven’t seen my mom or my brother since then either. I was selected because I was special, and they were not. I still miss them on occasion, although it doesn’t hurt like it did when I first entered the College of Achievement, Class 6B. I often recall what was, what would have been, what isn’t anymore. That fateful day was no exception. You see, circumstances are dire. My mother says -- used to say -- that she missed the good old days. She used to talk about those days when schools prized ingenuity and integrity, when educators valued student learning over student achievement, when the world was a better place. Creativity is gone by the wayside, and now volume and results are held in high esteem. Society is divided between the intellectuals and the intellectually lacking. But the intellectually lacking aren’t just miserably working fast food for a lifetime, they’re struggling to survive and quickly growing desperate. The government is beginning to feel the pressure. Society as it is now is crumbling. This is the new norm, with crime going unpunished because there is simply too much of it. People will do crazy things for food. It wasn’t always like this. It all started when the intellectual community decided the school curriculum should be more demanding and rigorous. They wanted to weed out the average and less than average students. They believed they were a burden on society, a waste of resources. The government gave ongoing standardized tests throughout the elementary years. The students who scored poorly were given menial jobs such as fast food workers. The other students were required to attend school from 8:00 am to 5:00 pm. There were also about six hours of homework before eating and going to bed. The students would get up the next day to repeat the process, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Hate is not a new phenomenon. There has always been hate between groups of students, once it was the smart ones versus the jocks, the popular crowd versus the not-so-popular. Working kids were jealous of smart kids, and smart kids were jealous of the working kids’ perceived easy life. I’m telling you right now, those days don’t hold a candle to this inferno of hatred and rage. This is a caste system of academic excellence or severe punishment. This is desperation. Individuals under this strain are bound to crack. If you fail, you work fast food, you struggle, you starve, and you might

die. The government isn’t going to help you. You have no choice but to succeed for you and for your family. Suicide rates continue to climb every year. One out of every twenty students self-destructs before graduating elementary school. In middle school, it’s one in ten, and in high school, it’s one in eight. The government cares little about these depressed individuals, claiming that this procedure exterminates the soft. They insist that those weak students are a threat, that they will be the ones who make our great nation crumble. They are only beginning to realize how wrong they are. Stress has already been a problem for Americans. It is now the leading cause of death, between the suicides and the stress-related illnesses. Many people have a much harder workload than they can handle. No one cares enough to stop it. No one can afford to be selfless. As I said before, crime rates are at an all-time high and order is disintegrating. The few people who can no longer turn a blind eye to this divisive academic practice are realizing it is far too late. A rebellion is growing on the East Coast as citizens turn on the government. Parents will no longer let Washington destroy their children’s lives. Friends are tired of watching friends break under pressure and choose to die. Some of my friends are thinking of giving up. I think, What does it matter? Tearing down the government won’t bring James back, or Ryan, or Lisa, or Eric. I can name tons more friends who’ve given up over the years. I recall the classmates with whom I began my journey and the dozen or so who are still with me today. It’s funny how simple life seemed when I lived on that street. Now that I’ve stressed, suffered, and realized how much I’ve lost, I have a different outlook on how things are. Most people from my old life wouldn’t understand what you go through when you leave the people you love behind. It’s almost worse than if they had died. The survivors of Class 6B know it all too well. They have all left somebody; in fact, they have probably left everybody. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all of this. Why the letter? Why reach out to a society brought to its knees in a world where no one cares? I guess I’m hoping people will make better choices sometime in the future. I’m hoping this isn’t the end. I’m hoping my classmates’ deaths weren’t in vain. I’m hoping someone somewhere still cares. I suppose now you’re beginning to catch on to the true purpose of this letter. You see, this is my last walk through the

neighborhood where I used to live. I’m not going to pretend to live, not when there’s no one to pretend for. No mother to be strong for. No brother to set an example for. No family to love. My handful of friends will soon leave to join the rebellion or die by their own hands. Now let me tell you something. Remember the weak people I talked about earlier, the people who were killing themselves because the eight-hour school days and the six hours of homework

were too much? Yeah, I’m one of them. I’m as weak as my friends. I’m one of the people who must be exterminated. If I had someone to love, to protect, I would walk a thousand miles through a desert under the blazing sun, but I can’t live without a purpose in a mindless academic society that will get worse before it gets better. If that makes me weak, so be it. This is it. I believe in the conventions of the old world, before death was commonplace and even expected, this would be called a suicide letter. Goodbye. I finish writing and lean back in my chair. Whatever happens now, I will never know. Pointing the gun at my head, I shout triumphantly, “Goodbye, cruel world!” Then I laugh to myself. After all, isn’t that the line everybody who commits suicide in an old world movie is supposed to say? But this isn’t the movies, and I pull the trigger.

WINDOW SEAT LAURA METZGER

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON DOMONIQUE HARRIS

There is the ever so gentle tug of rope war Gently pulling her back every time she pulls away His gravitational pull is just enough to make her stay Every few years she only moves a few inches away, But he knows that inches turn into feet and feet into yards And he has never done well with distance He pretends like he does not notice her running in circles to get the attention of someone who does not love her back Some mornings her face is painted into the sky like a kiss But it is not for him, he knows this But deep down he will not admit it Instead he tells himself that this time she will stay Sometimes she shines so brightly all he can do is stare Nothing so perfect has ever hung before him like her But it’s on nights like those he has to remind himself that She is not shining because of him She is simply someone else’s solar eclipse And all he can do is watch

THE LEX(IE)INGTON LEXIE BELGUM

As a child, my mother had routes. Daily roads taken to reach mundane destinations of work, daycare, or maybe the park if I didn’t throw any tantrums. A particular road led us past 5550 Pioneers Boulevard, The Lexington Assisted Living Center...of course I could only read my name so once I saw L-E-X-I, that towering complex immediately became dubbed my castle; it had to be! I mean sure I had never even been in the parking lot, but I established my dominance and queendom! (Albeit from the backseat in a booster) As a child, my mother had routes, and so did I. Except these asphalt arteries led to my cerebral cortex, neurons electrically pulsing possibilities. Sparks heated the Crayola crayons superglued to my heart, melted wax dripping vibrant paths that burn with curiosity, lighting afire the desire to explore, to see, to create. Clouds crafted carelessly into dragons lazily snoozing in their big blue bed, ship’s soaring through wispy white waves, brontosauruses stretching to nudge passing planes. The moon chased my dreams while my thought-laden head conjured up nonsense to replay in the morning. The sun embraced me, the wind twirled out a dance with me, the trees sang my song. As a child, my mother had routes, and so did I. Except these varying yellow dashes were ribboned in red, loop-da-looping away from the strictness of the road, curving paths around crudely scribbled destinations of treasure island, mermaid cove, enemy kingdoms, and the sandy retreat of one lonely palm tree. Sea monsters were fought bravely and enough oranges were snacked on to avoid scurvy! Maneuvering my giant, splintering steed across heavy storms and dreaded foes was worth the prize resting beneath the thick, red “X”marking the spot. I was obviously younger then. My 64 pack of crayons has turned into 64 pounds of homework. My treasure is a passing grade and not having a stress-induced meltdown. Forget the cotton candy clouds in the sky because all I see are the water molecules not heavy enough to be rain.

Dreams of talking possums and ice cream mountains have gone extinct as sleep becomes a dark and welcoming means of escape from the pressure to succeed, to be everything expected of me. Each year I become more accepting of the title “disappointment” as As go to Bs go to Cs to “who even cares anymore.” Imagination is irrelevant, dreams are destructive, wishing is wasteful. I know I’m supposed to be grown, but I’ll write my notes in sparkly ink in a damn unicorn notebook as a way to toss out the bland confines of the typical five subject college rule. I know I’m supposed to be grown, but I will fight a little kid for a swing instead of fighting for my sanity. I know I’m supposed to be grown, but every time I pass 5550 Pioneers Boulevard and see the dull white and pine green painted wood, I remember my castle, The LEX(IE)ington.

CANDLE

NAKIA BRAATEN

THE END OF THE WORLD KAUNG NYI

Technology has affected the lives of billions of people in negative and positive ways. Unfortunately, the negative has outweighed the positive. In 2036, more than 10.5 billion people were unhealthy and unemployed. They always ate unhealthy foods, they always watched Netflix or played video games, so they never got any exercise, and people didn’t want to go to work or help keep their world a clean and safe environment. Eventually, Earth became so contaminated that it was dangerous to be outside for too long. From space, Earth no longer looked like a blue marble, but a rusty ball bearing. People started calling it Post-Apocalyptic Earth, but one man had an idea that would change the lives of people forever. His name was Arno Stark. Arno had already decided that it was too late to try to save humanity in his time, but what if he tried saving them before it even happened? He decided to construct a time machine so he could go back to the year 2000 to warn people about how their laziness had caused Earth to become a tarnished planet, which was no easy task. Arno studied time travel and read hundreds of books for a decade. It was finally 2046 and Earth’s condition had only gotten worse, but Arno’s time machine was finally ready. He walked into the machine, set the time to 2000, and with a few clicks of a button, blinding white lights started to flash, and all of a sudden, everything was black. Did it work? Am I in 2000? Arno thought. He walked out of his time machine into a room completely new to him. He definitely wasn’t in his lab anymore. He found a door and rushed outside to reveal something he had never seen before: Pre-Apocalyptic Earth. It was the most beautiful thing Arno had ever seen. Trees were green and swaying in the wind. Red rose bushes danced as the sunlight shined on them to reveal their beauty. The sky was a solid blue with strands of pure white clouds floating blissfully. Arno suddenly remembered his mission and he didn’t have much time before the machine warped him back to his time period. It was November 7th, 2000, the date of the presidential election between George W. Bush and Al Gore. Arno had planned to sneak onto live television when the election started. Nighttime finally rolled around and Arno was posing as one of the crew members. There was no doubt he was nervous. “We’re going live in five,” said the producer. Okay, this is it. You can do it, Arno thought. He grabbed his backpack that he hid underneath a table and rushed onto the stage. As soon as he stepped foot onto the stage, security rushed at him, but

he came prepared. He switched on a device that set up a force shield around him. “STOP! I am not a threat to anybody here!” he yelled. “My name is Arno Stark and I have travelled from the year 2046 to come warn everybody of what’s to come in 60 years.” He then pulled a newspaper from 2046 out of his backpack and showed everybody. Arno went on to explain what had happened. It wasn’t easy to convince everybody that they caused Earth to be in the condition it was, nevermind the fact that he was a time traveler, but eventually, people seemed intrigued. “You’re saying the world became a dump because of our laziness and addiction to technology?” questioned George Bush. “Yes, but in addition to that, health problems have skyrocketed in 2046. There are more than one billion cases of diabetes and over 8 billion people are overweight. Technology needs to be used more for research and educational purposes than entertainment, otherwise what I have shown you of the world will become true. Interact with each other in person, peel your eyes away from the screen and do something productive.” Arno turned to the camera, which was still live, and said, “Remember these words: Our civilization will fall and the world will crumble if you do not choose to be less addicted to technology. That’s all I can say.” With yet another white flash, Arno was returned to his time and was back in his lab. He rushed outside and what he saw brought tears to his eyes. 2046 was completely different. There were skyscrapers that stood nearly 1000 ft. tall that weren’t there when he left. He was in awe as he saw magnificent golden sculptures placed along the sidewalk. They had to be at least 10 ft tall, but the most beautiful sights of all were the smiles of families as they strolled through the park with their children. There were tons of people outside just talking and enjoying life without a phone or tablet in sight. Arno’s crazy idea that seemed far fetched was no longer far fetched, but was instead reality. He did it. Arno Stark had saved humanity.

THE LOST FIGHT KAREN TELLO

You know when you can’t win. It’s a gut instinct one cannot ignore. So...why do we keep fighting? We’re in a sinking boat with no life jackets Having all odds against us. We still cling to the fleeting hope that we can swim. What is this strange feeling? Our brains tell us No, Our hearts tell us Keep Going. Though our feet may tremble Trip and succumb, We look up to see the downfall. Why? What is this nonconformance? Can one not accept when the fight is lost? Like childish tantrums we refuse to lose Despite the knowledge, people, physical barriers, distances, and time... Holding fast that somehow Fortune will smile upon us And that the sun exists behind the foreboding clouds

COTTON CANDY SKIES LAUREN SHERMAN

TRAPPED

DELANEY ASHMORE Every day she walks through the door and her smile fades into a blank expression. She doesn’t want to risk the possibility that he asks, “What’s so funny?” If he does, she’ll have to find a way to explain that she’s happier without him. No longer paranoid about what she says when he’s not around. Finally able to show a little personality, or what’s left of it, when he’s not breathing down her neck. She’s constantly looking over her shoulder when she gets a chance to leave their apartment alone. Although she has a little space to breathe, she’s never really in the clear, he’s always watching and listening. He says:

I love you, and Of course I trust you. But in reality, he means:

I love controlling you. I love that I’m the reason you’re so far underground that no one can hear you cry. More than anything, I love how easy it was to brainwash you, and Of course I don’t trust you or your friends, you might actually consider leaving me. She’s lost all hope and no one can help her. They want to, and have tried, but no one knows the monster quite as well as she does. She tells herself everyday that she’s saving another girl from his claws and preventing another broken soul, so that one day she might actually believe it. All of the people who tried to pull her out of the hole in which she dug herself are only background noise now. She’s so deep underground that she’s given up all together. It’s too late now. She’s gone. It was up to her to realize the mess she was in and to dig her way out, but the small voice in her head keeps her from trying. The once outgoing girl has no fight left, no energy to help herself. In the end, when she’s finally had enough, she just might gain enough strength to find her way out. For now, she’s in a hole in the ground with only the company of the monster.

MY TRUTH ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL LAUREN SHERMAN

I’d like to start by calling out every movie that displays a high school environment: Not once have I served detention with four other students and at the end of it walked across the football field and threw my fist into the air; no boomboxes have been held over heads, nor have I ridden on the back of a lawn mower; the feud between the gym and music teacher is nonexistent and musical numbers aren’t sung sporadically in the hallways; a single clique does not rule the school, establishing dress codes for days of the week, nor have I ever experienced a raging party that ends in the destruction of a house and an expensive car in the pool. Long story short, high school is not like the clichés I’ve watched in the movies. They are chock-full of lies. In reality, my high school experience has been far from any of those depicted in the movies. Instead of being shoved into lockers by upperclassmen my freshman year, I was shoved into a pit of isolation inside myself. Regardless of my personal struggles, I made honor roll and pushed through. I was frustrated by geometric proofs and was bored by The Odyssey like the rest of my peers. I was never invited to a party, no upperclassmen were attracted to my innocence, and my little girl dreams of being elected homecoming royalty were unrealistic. Actually, my homecoming date didn’t even acknowledge me the entire night. I did score a corsage out of him though. By the start of my sophomore year, my expectations had decreased significantly. I tried to be more involved by joining Spanish Club as well as Pottery Club. However, I skipped out on Student Council, even though I had once dreamed of being the president and walking down the hallways feeling like I ran the school. Would I have won Student Council presidency? Probably not. Would I have had time to keep up with the demands of it as well as the workload of my other classes and rigors of dance? Definitely not. The idea displayed in movies of a student meeting exceptional standards of academics and athletics, as well as being involved in extracurricular activities was impossible. These were shoes I learned I would never be able to fill. The start of junior year hit me hard. What everyone said about it being the toughest year has thus far proved to be true. I can’t enjoy myself with friends at football games or search for a homecoming dress on my week-

ends. While everyone is at the dance Saturday night, I will be working on the abundance of homework assignments and materials I have to study. I can assure you that I will not live the fairytale of being asked to the dance last minute, having a beautiful garment presented to me, and driving off in a limousine. Actually, my date is about 700 miles away going to college in Texas. The truth is, high school has not resembled anything I dreamed of as a young girl. It is work, work, and on top of that, more work. I sacrifice outings with friends and my mother’s birthday dinner to finish essays and projects. The stool that sits at our breakfast bar has a permanent impression of my butt on it because of the hours I have spent sitting. High school is the gigantic callous I have on my ring finger and the hand cramps I get from writing. I have papers on papers littering my Google docs. Rather than getting eight plus hours of sleep every night, I get around five. I am stressed, I am overwhelmed, and most of all, I am exhausted. High school is not a breeze, but every ounce of work I’ve put into it has paid off. I have lettered, pinned, and am definitely the most academically successful child in my family. So while high school has been blood, sweat, and mostly tears for me, it has also been a prime source of achievement. I suppose I can accept the fact that Heath Ledger will never sing to me from the bleachers. Mediocre school dances, sleepless nights, and an organized planner will have to suffice.

EIGHT BILLION UNIVERSES TAYLOR BAKER

If you look into someone’s eyes, you see a galaxy, the colors of the Milky Way, the planets and their moons, and the distant stars and suns. Each of these stars is a thought, an idea, a memory. Our stars form constellations that create our story. The stars, the colors, the constellations: they all come together as one to form our person, our universe.

MENTAL DISORDERS ALEXIS DAVIS

My Brain is as messed up as this world. Why? The doctors say medicine will help. This is just too much. The therapists say talking will help. I hate this. They don’t know. No one understands. No one can help. Please, take me away from this. No one can stop the voices. It’s consuming me. I feel alone and broken. Everyone always leaves. My anxiety makes it impossible to learn. I’m so stupid. I feel as stupid as a squirrel that runs in front of a car After running away from it. I’m a failure. Depression is breaking me. My heart is in pieces. My life is as messed up as a word scramble game. I’m done with this… *BOOM*

UNTITLED JACI TUBBS

THE CHEST

TRAM NGUYEN It started out with this old wooden chest that I found in an antique store down the street from where I worked. It was quite a massive rectangular thing--somewhere around three feet wide and two feet tall--with intricate light bronze detailing running vertically down the top of it. It reminded me a lot of the treasure chests seen in pirate movies with the handles that dangle on each side of the chest and a hard metal latch with a keyhole right in the front. Except, this particular chest didn’t have a rounded top to it, it was just flat. Now being the crazy book fanatic that I am, I just had to have that chest, and being priced as cheap as it was, I was in no way leaving it to collect dust in an old store. Plus, I could use it to store my collection of books that have been sitting underneath my bed since I had nowhere to store them. I bought the chest and hauled back to my apartment and threw it in the corner of my bedroom right next to my pile of dirty laundry. I hadn’t really thought about how it was going to fit in my tiny home. As soon as I concluded that there was absolutely nowhere else it could possibly be placed, I popped open the top of the chest and began hard at work stacking my massive collection of books inside it. After finishing my task, I snapped the lid shut and went out for dinner. Unfortunately for me, I never had the chance to sit down with a nice book until about a week after that since I turned into a hermit crab to cram for my college finals. My friends weren’t so pleased with that considering how I practically never left my room, and none of them were ever allowed into my room. I couldn’t have any distractions. So when I finally did have the chance, I couldn’t have skipped to that chest any faster. I pulled off the latch and let it fall, listening to it elicit a satisfying clink when it smashed into the surface of the chest. Then, I grabbed onto the corners of the lid, and slowly propped it opened before immediately slamming it back down in shock. I stared at the chest for a few seconds in absolute astonishment before grabbing onto the corners of the lid once more and pushing it open. It was completely empty. I stuck my hand inside the chest to feel it’s rough wooden bottom and continued moving my fingers around it in disbelief. I swore this chest had not been opened since the day I brought it home. I pulled back my hand, and like the weirdo I am, I decided to physically stick my head inside, hoping that I was just hallucinating everything. Regrettably, my head was not rammed into thick hardcover books, but instead I saw a piece of paper tucked in one of the edges of the wood. After pulling my head out of the chest, I reached in to grab the note. The paper itself looked old and worn with little rips on its edges. Then right smack in the middle of the sheet was very lovely cursive handwriting that looked as if it was written with ink. The words were very simple and to the point: please send more.

WHAT BEING UNSURE LOOKS LIKE PAM CANTÉ

I endlessly wonder how stars manage to keep shining, engulfed by blue and purple hues stacked on top of each other in millions of layers to form a solution of an almost pitch black pit.

I see the majority of myself reflected from the vast vault of heaven and smaller parts in the stars. My starrier parts barely survive and struggle to burn in the infinite ocean of tenebrosity.

THE RIVER

SARAH WATERS When I was younger, I would go down to the river. It was a place where I could be alone and free. I’d walk through the river with bare feet, and I wouldn’t worry about what would happen to me. Everything was fresh and alive. The grass would tickle my feet, and the air smelled like life. Birds sang under cloudless skies, asking the sun to never leave again. Deep in the forest, I would go to this river, and I’d sit on the bank of this beautiful, winding stream that eternally rushed forth to better things. I hummed a tune of a song that I heard once long ago and the river roared in response. I wondered if rivers communicated with each other across long distances, but my logic would disagree with me. How dare my mind defy me with the petty logic of the world! I’d stay at the river all day and try to see how far it would go. I walked along the riverbank trying to reach its end, but it was always too far away. I dreamed I’d see it one day. I dreamed that I would reach the end and see the world beyond these riverbeds. I’d see it one day. There were days when I would come down to the river just to think and to breathe freely in the open air of the world. I’d take this beautiful world into my lungs with one deep breath and imagine that one day I’d be as free as I was in that moment for the rest of my life. I’d try to take in the peace--the quiet forest and the gentle river--and let go of all of my worries. I would lay among the flowers in the grass and not let a single thought pass through my mind. Atop a blade of grass, a ladybug crawled towards the sun, and I watched out of the corner of my eye. As I got older, I didn’t visit the river as often. People told me over and over again that it was unsafe to be so close to the rushing water and that it was too polluted to visit but I knew that it would never hurt me. I longed for the time when none of that mattered. I so desperately longed for the freeness of mind that comes with being a child. I’d still go down to the river to think. I’d think about where the river was going. I’d ponder over what I had learned in school that this river would one day meet an ocean. It would become a part of something greater and I wondered if I would ever become a part of something greater like this river that I so dearly loved. I’d think about how this river meets obstacles all of the time. There’d be boulders in the middle of its path or parts where it’d slow down, but it still kept going. It got right through those obstacles with no problem; I wondered if I could ever do the same. Could I ever be so valiant and persistent on getting through life

like this river? I think back to when I was a child and I’d walk along the riverbank with barefeet, existing fearlessly. I was not my worry. I was not my doubt. I was not my insecurities, nor my anger at life. I just was. I was me. I existed with nothing to hold me back, and I was so loudly me alongside the only other person who was there to care: the river who kept roaring along with me. We were both free from the weight of life on our backs. I wish to always be as brave as the river.

UNTITLED NAKIA BRAATEN

THE GREAT WAR MAURICIO JIMENEZ

Throughout the ages of this world, the Guardian Clans have provided protection to the Earth from anything that disturbed it. Their heroic acts will forever be stored in ancient books known as The Guardian Chronicles. Each book tells the biography of a guardian. They are the ones chosen from birth by our deities, known as the Ancients, and destined to save the Earth from an eternity of darkness and suffering by the hands of the Dreadnaut. I read about it a long time ago in my room with my best friend Lila. When we were little, we looked through my window and saw the most beautiful sunset above the clouds in the sky-city of Angels, or Sin Cara. Lila has been my best friend since we were babies. We loved to go to the highest point in the city, the capital building, and just gaze at the golden sunset. After our years in advanced stage education, we parted ways because I was The Guardian, the all powerful being, blah blah blah. The high council required me to join the military so that I could go out and save the day, while Lila went on to be an artist. Man I do miss her. She wrote me a letter saying that she misses the sunsets in Sin Cara. I wrote back that I missed her, and I speak the truth when I say that Sin Cara was very dull without her. The military is a very tough place. I was always jealous of her; I mean she gets to see the world, draw or paint it in her own image, and sell it, while I’m standing guard in here, my home sweet home, hoping it doesn’t blow up or something. Is it stressful? Yeah. Is it boring beyond all compare? Yes, to that too. Do I hate it? Well not really. I mean the place is completely void of action at the moment, since I, The Guardian have returned. When my day was all said and done, I went back home and began to read an old book of my childhood, and it reminded me of her. I kept reading the book, and by the time I got to the end, I fell asleep. It was just a book with a bunch of nursery rhymes in it. When I woke up to an explosion, I saw a swarm of fighter planes coming this way. I sprinted back to headquarters to see everyone was ready to fight. The pilots were already taking off. I grabbed my halo, my rifle, and my firstaid kit. I ran toward the door. After a few minutes of running against a river of horrified people I opened the door to see the city was going up in flames. With people panicking and dying left and right, I looked up and saw bombers. I searched for a crest of some sort and saw

that they were human vehicles and they were dropping bombs on top of our base. The bombs weren’t falling any slower, so I ran inside to get a running start and spread my wings. I could hear the whistling the bombs made when falling. I was out the door, and I jumped. I flapped my wings as hard as I could, then BOOM! I was sent flying even further than I intended, but hey, works for me! I was zooming through the air when bullets zoomed past my face. I looked behind me. It was an enemy plane, but I couldn’t get a good read on what kind it was because he would’ve shot a hole through me. I pulled the rifle out, but I didn’t get a good grip. My fingers jolted because of the bombings and another bullet barely missed me. I dropped my gun. I tried to lose him, but I just couldn’t; he really wanted me dead. He missed again and again. I knew I was going to get pretty tired really soon, so I felt around for a weapon, and I remembered that they required us to always carry a pistol. I grabbed it, turned my back to the ground midair as adrenaline was pulsing through me, and I felt like the sky was falling around me. I took aim and shot the window repeatedly: four shots in the same area. With the fifth shot, the glass shattered and a blotch of red splattered all over the window. The plane lost control and crashed into a building. AAA guns were doing their best to shoot the bombers out of the sky, but it was a slow process. I flew home and saw a plane had crashed into it. I felt so helpless at that point. My home was gone. I flew in to check the damage. My window was shattered, my bed was in pieces, but surprisingly, my books lived to see another day. Then I heard grunts of pain and realized it was a human pilot. He was a 5’4”, white male with freckles on his cheeks. He pulled a gun on me and threatened to shoot. At least, that was what I guessed. I couldn’t understand him so I looked around for a manual to get an idea of his language. I found one and read through it. Boy were they right about needing these deciphering skills in advanced stage education! “Are you ok?” I asked in a strange accent. “Asdfghjkl!” he screamed, “What’s it look like to you!” The voice was a little high pitched for a male, probably just his genetics. “Looks like you could use some proper manners,” I said under my breath. I looked at his leg, and he had a glass shard about the size of my head in it.

“Gah, just help me get this out!!!” he exclaimed. “Okay, but you are going to need to take off your helmet because you might pass out from the pain. You will need the air.” “N-no I’m fine,” he said nervously. He put his hands over his helmet, but I disagreed and took off the helmet and goggles myself, and then beautiful golden hair flowed out while sapphire blue eyes stared up at me. Butterflies danced through my stomach. At that moment I realized that soldier was a woman.

BLOSSOMED SHADOWS SARAH WATERS

STAND

HARLIE DAVIS I know you are afraid to stand on your own, but I will stand for you. We live in a world where the privileged white continues to be the voice of the forcefully silent. How hard it must be to share this world with others who do not look the same as them. Although, I am white, I refuse to be one of them. I am a woman and more often than not, my voice is being silenced. I know you are afraid to stand on your own, so I will stand with you. And together, our voices are strong enough, and powerful enough to break the barriers. On our own, our voices can’t be heard so together, we will stand for you, and for me until our voice, is the voice of equality.

FALLEN CONSTELLATIONS LEXIE BELGUM

Sometimes the stars become too heavy with the weight of the universe. Gravity betrays them in a way so that they plummet towards our atmosphere. The burning of their outer shell melts all that’s insideand when they finally break through the clouds, they are created into something new. A spatter of freckles, a pigmented lake on your skin. Sometimes they become someone else, swirling the dust of what was once around the minds of what now is. They will press the destroyed memories of themselves to your skin, so you will remember their stories of life and beauty.

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