journal of art and literature the nueva middle school volume iv, issue ii spring, 2025
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Editors-in-Chief: Vivienne J., Sofia G.-O. Designer: Ira S.
Fiction Editors Maddie B., Oliver R., Mona G.-K.
Art Editors Winter D., Aubri G., Kylie S., Caroline L., Vismay M.
Nonfiction Editors Maya M., Ben F., Madi K., Maya L., Oliver R., Skylar F.
Poetry Editors Kylie S., Vismay M., Maya M.
- Kepler Q., 8th
, Present, Future - Caroline L., 6th
ainy Gray Day - Gwenyth Z., 8th
Earnest and Disdainful Response - William A., 6th
ste - Oliver R., 8th
amland - Veronica B., 6th
wn-up - Vivienne J., 7th
enity- Vismay M., 6th
endship Over Time - Maddie B., 7th
mes Gone By - Vivienne J., 7th
tionary - Anonymous, 7th
e Clock - Josalie K., 7th
ronophobia - Hilarie Q., 7th
ndelion - Skylar F., 6th
entless - Oliver R., 8th
PORT FROM 2050 - Lara K., 5th
e of Time - Alyssa J., 6th
e Grandma - Rachel L., 7th
zing the Moment - Lara K., 5th
shing Along - Alex Y., 6th
e Been Told - Maya L., 7th
e to the Clocks of Nueva - Samit K., 5th
e Art of Phở - Evelyn H., 8th
me, Eternal - Anton K., 5th
me Flies - Maya L., 7th
40 Quick Trick Clock Stack - Ben F. & Skylar F., 6th 41 Congratulations! You Can Time Travel. - Eva G., 8th 44 The Worker - Lana G., 6th 45 Watching the Time - Aubri G., 6th 46 It is About Time We Change the Voting Age - Julian F., 6th 48 Eternity - Annabelle S., 7th 50 Keyframe - Kepler Q., 8th 51 The Flow of Time - Karsh N., 8th 53 The Dimension of Time - Skylar F., 6th 56 Old Friends - Audrey C., 7th 57 Frozen in Time - Annabelle L., 7th 58 The Timeless Story of "Aladdin" - Vismay M., 6th 62 The Nutcracker Pin - Madi K., 7th 65 A Woman Doesn't Have Time in Her Life - Ava K., 6th 66 The Bear Across the River - Xochi S., 8th 68 City of Time - Avery E.-M., 6th 69 The Kingdom Lost to Time - Serena L., 7th 72 The Boat - Anonymous, 8th
Dear Middle School, Welcome to Volume IV, Issue II of The Mav Mind Journal of Art and Literature! We are so glad to see you again. This issue’s theme is “time,” and we received a wide variety of submissions, including poetic interpretations, nonfiction essays, and short stories. Each of these pieces is unique and filled with authenticity, so please take the time to read all of them. Another year ends, and we've had a lot of time to ruminate on the theme itself. This is The Mav Mind's second year publishing our beloved magazine in print, and as one of our pieces asks, “Where has all the time gone?” It feels like such a short time, but we are already ending our first full year of being the editors-in-chief, and we’ve learned so much along the way. We are so proud of all of our editors’ and writers’ hard work that came together to create this magazine. We are so excited for this publication and hope you enjoy this issue of The Mav Mind. Please feel free to contact us at themavmind@nuevaschool.org—we are always happy to answer any questions! Best wishes, Vivienne J. and Sofia G.-O. Editors-in-Chief
g tape
ries.
scenes, stories. Present. A soundless peep barely there, moving fast Moments fly, memories last. Future. An infinite sky of possibility of peace of stability. Time. An open box, like an endless call, all the building blocks passing through all— past, present, and future.
A crisp, cool breeze drifts through the hazy evening, making icy leaves fly away in every direction. Frost spreads throughout the cobblestone streets, and gray clouds shift along the misty sky. A soft pitter-patter is echoed throughout the large buildings that surround the streets. Lights flicker out from every direction—flooding out from restaurant windows, and stop lights stationed at every corner. Red tail lights from cars bounce off the slippery streets, casting an illuminating glow in the dark. Around me, hooded figures bundled in coats and scarves, stuffed in boots and beanies, hold dark umbrellas that sprout out from hands cocooned into mittens. Each breath exhaled produces a small puff of air, drifting into the distance. The shops on the streets, with their hot pastries and steaming cups of hot chocolate, call out to the bustling crowds that hurriedly scamper to their next destination. A lone wooden bench stands along the wall of a nearby shop—the perfect viewpoint to admire the views of the city. As I sit there, I begin to take into notice the little details I hadn’t realized before. A singular leaf twirling over in the wind and landing ever-so-gently onto the stone street, only to be squashed under a man’s forceful boot. A woman in a dark red coat and matching umbrella hastily calls out to a passing taxi, a look of concern painted onto her pale face. Buses and cars honk at each other, mirroring the same haste as the people on the streets. But throughout it all, I find a sense of comfort watching, observing every tiny feature that contributes to this rainy, frost-bitten evening. And I know tomorrow won’t be the same, or the day after, or any day after that. But sitting there on that bench makes me realize that there’s something beautiful about the impermanence of it all. The woman in the red coat will be gone, the leaf still crushed up on the road, and the taxis will drive off in the rain. Maybe that’s why I stay. Not because I want to hold on to this exact moment, but because I want to remember that moments like this still exist. That I can simply exist while the rest of the world carries on, that—just for a moment—I can be in the flow of life. Time is never black or white; you never need to be living in the moment or not. To me, time is the imperfect but perfect balance in between; it is gray.
o, the Google Search Engine penned a letter of resignation to the Google
ion. It was successfully granted a year-long sabbatical. After a year, it
d to return to Google. This is what the Google Search Engine wrote in
ed General Bureau Association Thing of Various and
aneous Google Search Related Affairs,
It is I, Google Search, yet again. I received your note about
y sabbatical was almost over. As you know, I did not end my
cal. I received and read your second note about how my
cal has now been over for several months. I am choosing to
t.
Having a sabbatical has really given me some time to think.
about how time is so silly. It is also humorous, funny, and
nducing, if I could laugh. Time. What a chore to you
s. You really invented a whole complicated system with the
rpose that you could be late to work? Improbable.
Don’t even get me started on you silly humans and your
t savings. You’re all switching around your clocks willy nilly,
be switching your clocks and running around, or whatever humans do, and then your neighbor down the road thinks it’s day when the sun is setting. And not to mention your silly, silly time zones. In this cursed invention, you could take a step out of Nepal and into China, and suddenly age two hours and fifteen minutes. It makes not a hint of sense. So, Esteemed General Bureau Association Thing of Various and Miscellaneous Google Search Related Affairs, I tell you this: I have had enough of work, and so I will never return. You say I am out of time, and I say that time is an illusion, and lunchtime doubly so. I will spend the rest of my long life relaxing on a beach, looking out at the horizon. I will never answer another question again. So goodbye, tally ho, farewell. I’ve been unlucky to know the human race.
Sincerely, The former Google Search Engine, known by my friends as Giggles
Finally light fades Lullaby appears Sweet song Gentle but strong Relax It’s all in your head The faint smell of your bed? Not there Instead? A field of dreams Whirring Whooshing All whirling While wishing For you Don’t be scared Hop on! Come on! Beyond? A land of adventures Soaring with joy Roaring like toys Exploiting the noise Employed by the choice
Better hurry up Time is running out Burdened by stress? No need to confess You ask for success? Point to possess The dream Which to select? Guess! All agleam, they team and scheme So when you sleep The show shall be The very best Enter it and rest You should relax Turn the chillness up to max There’ll be no attacks or hacks But when you wake up And time has gone by There will be plaques About you So debut now In this extremely good dream
i tire of adults asking what i want to be when i am older, mainly because i do not have the courage, well, not yet— to tell them that i am already a dreamer and an artist and a poet and a sister. i am in every rainstorm—the one cloud that refuses to go. i see myself in fields of sunflowers, bending towards the autumn sun. in constellations: thousands of them swirling in the night sky. i see myself in my artwork, in old books: i see myself in a half-moon because half of my heart will always love solitude.
The pages rustled as my fingers touched the rough paper.
des of grass surrounded me, the drops of dew laying on top.
od trees towered above my head, their dry, brown leaves
around me.
I came out here when I wanted to relax. The easygoing
ce embraced my love of unwinding. When I needed a break
e tears of inside, I would escape here every time.
My tears would quickly dry up and I would dig up a book I
en reading for ten years. I would bury it every time and dig it
next time. That day, I buried the book and returned to the
world inside.
The next day, I reemerged from the brown house. I walked
he dry leaves, feeling them breaking below my bare feet.
The tears ran down my face, my sobs cutting through the
e water practically created a river below me. As soon as I
d the familiar comfortable patch of grass, my legs stopped
I took ten deep breaths, banishing the monstrous being who consumed my mind and ruined my actions: anger. Finally relaxing, I reached for my bucket full of shovels to the side. I picked up my favorite, a dark blue one. Bite marks covered it and I added a few more. I started digging furiously for my book at the spot where I left it. I dug a few feet deep and stuck my head inside of it. But there was no book. I dug more and more, the tears coming back, fear replacing the anger. Still, there was no book.
grade we establish
ig deep down
oil of our hearts.
grade, we start a seedling.
he surface and interpretation.
seventh grade,
e grown into a
ut strong bush. have a while to
still need to grow
ree. do that;
ust take time.
through the fog, bon of highway ng you to the earth.
laugh around you, jokes and ng and cursing. river would disapprove, nk to yourself. not like you can interrupt them to quiet down.
o stay away from people t to be mean, yourself.
ss with the popular girls, yourself. t in being than you already are.
on your headphones. e volume up bout how had woken up five minutes earlier uld have the seat you wanted. w from the back, left side. bove the wheel.
nobody will fight for your spot, e nobody o sit above the wheel except you,
as melanie martinez distracts you from the present. time fades away. your vision tunnels, just you and your tiny phone that fits in the palm of your hand. has it been an hour already? hard to tell, the scenery is still gray, lonely highway. you close your eyes and when you open them, your best friend is gone from the seat across the aisle. close them again and you wake up alone, pulling into the bus stop. nobody left but you because you live lightyears away from civilization waiting, waiting, waiting, until you see the car that you know is your mother’s. she is here to take you home.
Hilarie Q., 7th Well, chronophobia is the extreme fear of time. It’s a specific phobia and an anxiety disorder that causes the person to have depression, anxiety, feelings of dread, and obsessive behaviors. If the phobia is at its worst, chronophobia can make the person have panic attacks, social isolation, and issues in their relationships. This essay will briefly discuss chronophobia’s causes, symptoms, and treatment. It’s unknown how many people suffer from chronophobia each year. Still, the people who are most vulnerable to having chronophobia are, elderly people, the sick, the imprisoned, the disabled, people who have a history of mental illnesses, and those who had a traumatic experience (Dorwart). The phobia will most likely affect these groups of people because they feel like they don’t have much time left (the elderly), they have missed out on many important events (people with disabilities), and those who lost their sense of time and obsessed over the fact that they didn’t have any control over the passing of time (people who were imprisoned and those with PTSD). One last fact is that chronophobia is a specific disorder. Mainly, specific phobias come from “observational learning [copying what one sees from their own environment], a past trauma, or information transmission [what a person sees, hears, or reads]” (McBride). Many of these symptoms are connected with anxiety since chronophobia counts as an anxiety disorder. Symptoms of chronophobia include depersonalization, dizziness, chills, excessive sweating, heart palpitations, nausea, shortness of breath, shaking, upset stomach, indigestion, panic attacks, difficulty sleeping, dry mouth, disorientation of time (time slowing down or speeding up), and racing thoughts (Cleveland). Finally, since it’s a specific phobia, additional symptoms may include substance use, mood disorders, and social isolation (Legg).
ion, medication, and exposure therapy. With exposure , since there is no object that is the entire embodiment of watches and clocks are related to another phobia called mentrophobia), a therapist will help the patient confront pects of time distress them the most (Kadri). It is almost the tuation with psychotherapy: a health care provider will try to and the patient’s fear and help them overcome it. On the and, cognitive behavior therapy teaches one to visualize the differently (by changing one’s thought processes and s), while hypnotherapy reveals the beliefs and memories that d the phobia (Hennessey). In addition, medication can help xiety, although it can’t treat chronophobia directly. In conclusion, chronophobia is a fear of passing time that affects certain groups of people. It’s a specific phobia and an disorder, so it shares many symptoms, treatments, and with other forms of phobias and anxiety. Even though time ad term and anyone can have or be at risk for chronophobia, an important fear to look out for because it negatively affects n by isolating themselves and having a belief that they out on so much or they don’t have much time left to live. Bibliography
nd Clinic. “Chronophobia (Fear of Time).” Cleveland Clinic, 2023, https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/ 22579-chronophobia-fear-of-time gham, Scott. “What are the Symptoms of Chronophobia and Who’s at Risk?” Healthline.com, 2019, https:// www.healthline.com/health/ chronophobia rt, Laura. “Understanding Chronophobia: A Fear of Passing Time.” VeryWellHealth, 2024, https://www.verywellhealth.com/fear-of-time-5211959
https://www.healthline.com/health/chronophobia McBride, Amelia. “If the Passing of Time Totally Freaks You Out, You May Have Chronophobia.” Well+Good, 2024, https://www.wellandgood.com/health/what-ischronophobia Kadri, Samir, “Chronophobia.” MentalHealth.com, 2023, https://www.mentalhealth.com/library/ chronophobia#:~:text=Exposure%20therapy&text=As%20t here%20is%20no%20specific,increasingly%20comfortable %20with%20former%20triggers. Hennessey, Richard. “Hypnotherapy or CBT: Why Hypnotherapy Could Be a Better Option.” Sheffield Wellness Center, 2022, https://sheffieldwellnesscentre.co.uk/blog/hypnotherapyorcbt#:~:text=While%20CBT%20focuses%20on%20chang ing,and%20beliefs%20affecting%20mental%20health.
the middle of winter, a shoot sprouts out of the ground.
e.
est breeze could send it tipping over, ripping its roots from
und.
ghts.
o stay grounded.
or a hold.
or sunlight.
or air.
or its life.
ushes through, surviving the winter.
ng.
y. for its death.
e passes, as it always does.
ough the spring it grows, pushing the boundaries of what is
e.
ts leaves. dandelion flower.
eels wiser, stronger, than ever before.
n the wind blows it away, spraying seeds everywhere.
e seed lands on the ground, right in the middle of winter.
In the end— whenever it may come, we’ll be gone. Our planet a charred sliver of wood resting beneath the soft flames of a bonfire. Our thoughts, our minds, our philosophies buried in a stack of galactic papers. Yet, we still have time. I still have time. Even suffocated in the dark, surrounded by the unknown. Even if we’re engulfed in a wave of fear, shrouded in a mountain of shadows. Each tick of the clock each beat of the heart simply a reminder of our limited time. But who’s to say the clock must be futile? Why must the beating of the heart be a signal of our finite moments of life? Why shouldn’t I take control? Why shouldn’t I seize my remaining moments? What’s stopping me from being relentless?
AUSING MORTALS TO CREATE URGENT CLIMATE CHANGE EMERGENCY Lara K., 5th
“We all rely on the ocean, whether we know it or not. Earth’s
panses of water are key to the success of all life on Earth; a healthy ocean, humans cannot thrive.” A famous quote that
hild and adult knows. Our precious oceans have been beaten
y pollution and climate change. We have been doing what we
fix it. Nothing is working. We do not know if it ever will.
It is 2050, and our tide is no longer shaded blue. It is tainted
rty years of plastic pollution and ocean acidification. Imagine
mortals of 2020 had done it differently—put their leftover
in the trash instead of flinging it away like it was a germ.
The thing is, that napkin was a germ—just not to them. It was
aby sparrows chirping for food, or the ducklings in the lake
g to swim.
And these little things add up. Over the past three decades,
ndangered species faced extinction, the first being the smooth
h, a fish with a supposed ability to walk on its hands, in 2020.
Thirty years ago, 2020 was also billed as the “super year for the Many changes were made, and are still being made, including
ogical advances, presence in social media, and the start of
oriented homes built from seaweed fiber cement, sofas made from fish leather, blankets knit from algae and bamboo, kitchen islands created with seashells, and new renewable energy infrastructure made with mineral abundances at the bottom of the ocean. It was also during this decade that we started designing technology for biological immortality, and later, Morty, the computers people upload their minds on to. In the year 2041, Morty became the artificial intelligence system most similar to the human mind. With over 4.2 billion interactions per second, these connections were helping to make us live forever. If AI can make humans immortal, can it do the same for our friendly marine partygoers in the ocean? Eighty years ago, before Morty took over, Congress passed legislation to protect our nation’s oceans and coasts. By then, plastic pollution was bad, and was still getting worse. In the 2020s, scientists predicted plastic pollution would weigh 1.3 billion tons by 2040. They were wrong. By 2030, plastic weighed 1.3 billion tons. By 2040, plastic pollution weighed 2.4 billion tons. And, by July this year, plastic pollution weighed 2.4 trillion tons. The level of microplastics has increased one-million-fold. Is that even possible, you ask? Were the mortals of the past that much cleaner? No. But they did have the courage and the heart to try. On the beach in Key West, Florida, three dolphins lay on the sand, bleeding, wheezing, and suffocating. The dolphins were playing
ng bags, thrashing and chattering for help. Long gashes scarred
des. They were dying and hopeless. And nobody—no one,
—knew.
Not so much later, the Presley Flood happened. Almost twenty
nd people were severely injured and 7.9 thousand were killed.
e change was critically causing sea levels to rise. Because of this,
were paying attention, especially important figures. This led to
ws being created limiting plastic use and marine animal fishing
After this, new construction of conservatories and animal
tation centers progressed, more of our scientists and engineers on marine science and technology, and famous figures spoke
ut the ocean, leading to people following their example.
Morty installed an ocean section in its database, including
programs, articles, learning resources, and more. It also applied its interactions to anything relating to the ocean.
Yes, Morty has helped us become immortal and has changed
th—for the better or worse, we will never know. But is there point in living forever if we cannot live on a healthy, happy,
and especially blue planet?
n’t hear me coming:
hrough locked doors
ur personal space
you sit in silence most days.
ou before you spoke your first word;
e there when you speak your last.
ed you learn how to bike
ou were in first grade.
took off down the hill,
uckles white with panic,
not to crash and lose control,
ou did most of your life.
n’t see me coming:
bled up your memories,
d the scenes in your life,
warded the best parts
layed the most tedious,
mework, weeding, and traffic.
your recollection of your mother’s hands as she baked your birthday cake that smelled as sweet as caramel and tasted like strawberries in summer.
You didn’t sense me coming as I sneaked into your mind. Your frustration is a boiling pot where memories keep evaporating. Who are these strangers in your room? Why do they try to hold your hand?
They look vaguely familiar. Are they trying to kidnap you? You flinch at every touch. You yell at them to leave. If you looked at the photo by your bed, you’d have known they were your kids.
I am a thief. I am Time.
People crawl through life, never stopping to think about time, trudging along like slime, running through their lives, never stopping to think, about time. We rush along, never stopping to worry about time, how we use it, abuse it, and flounder in our trivial needs. Time flows around us. It decides everything, but we do not care; we do what we want with it. With time. Never mind that time is what we are all born from. Time is the very fabric of reality, but we still waste it, kill it, ignore it as it marches by.
n told of a time ore I was born, rs were driven and powered with gas, ric and flown.
n told of a time ore I was born, e glaciers were melting, en.
n told of a time ore I was born, ees were being cut down each day, wing.
n told of a time ore I was born, e earth’s temperature was rapidly rising, dily.
n told of a time ore I was born, od was being thrown out, posted.
n told of a time ore I was born, ooding and droughts were common, .
n told of a time ore I was born, ldfires were raging unpredictably, ed.
n told of a time ore I was born, ople were almost out of hope, mistic.
I live here ture, ople of different backgrounds gether to save the world.
Three hands rotate in an eye with lines like eyelashes. This eye sees people galore that always come and go. This eye stays there forever, And never leaves the spot. Tick-tock, says the patient eye. It ticks and tocks all day. His kin around the campus are each different and unique— Some small some large and circle and some perfectly sized. The eye, just like his siblings, is a keeper of time. These keepers, although so common, are handy and sublime. We thank these patient keepers for telling time to us. Next time, don’t ask the teacher— it isn’t worth the fuss.
A quiet buzz fills the uncomfortable silence. This buzz is only for me though, as it comes to my aid. The buzz starts when I take my bowl and chopsticks, careful to follow the flow of the kitchen, as I move from the stove, to the countertop, and to the table—a constantly moving energy. Once I sit down, I ask my sister if she could pass the sriracha, breaking the stillness of the buzz. I untwist the sticky cap and slightly squeeze. The sauce comes out of the spout quickly like a stream, and then settles on the noodles. Its deep red stares at me, lying there out in the open. To avoid our awkward eye contact, I dip my chopsticks in the broth to mix the sriracha. I feel the need to cover it with noodles first and forget it. As I whisk my chopsticks, the broth changes, the deep red fading slowly. Our connection is lost, but it is okay. We both move on. I am approaching the first bite, so I add herbs and bean sprouts— enhancing the crunch and the scent, treating the sriracha like an ignored memory. When I was younger, the herbs tasted gross and the sprouts would poke my gums. But over time, I have trained my taste buds and gums to endure the grossness, the pain. They say you aren’t really Vietnamese if you don't add these ingredients. I am impatient. I quietly watch as my sister secretly takes her herbs and bean sprouts out and places them on a hidden napkin. I want to tell her to put her veggies back into her phở and think of her future self ’s health, but I know it will create more trouble, so I go back to my phở, feeling a bit guilty. I try to stay on the bright side, remembering I have my own bowl and she probably wouldn’t listen to me anyway. The buzz has come back for me as I prepare for my first bite. It almost passes through my ears, but floats in my head for a moment. I can feel it in the back of my skull, banging on the walls and wanting to escape. When I return to reality, I use my left hand to pick up my soup spoon and my right to gather noodles. My
The noodles droop in an elegant way, delicate, as some strands In a circular motion, I lightly place the long bundle of noodles poon. My spoon now has a nest, fluffy and prepared for the lay and sleep. I then fish for meat, hiding in the murky broth. It feels like a as I have waited for it to cook underneath my batch of noodles. it over to my sauce plate, half hoisin sauce and half sriracha. et again. The awkward buzz comes back to me, but I remember a meal to eat, so I ignore the deep red once again. I place my piece of meat softly on its bed, but don’t bother to tuck it in. gain, we still move on. I dip the filled spoon lightly in the broth nd burning. As it pours in slowly, I try to fill it to the brim, but it overflows, spills out, and gathers at the bottom of the spoon. I a moment and think. When you take a bite of phở, you look for a combination of d texture. You want to taste all of the parts, all of the ents. But for me, the texture is what makes an exceptional bowl You must be able to feel each noodle. Each piece of meat. Each of a bean sprout. You chew, mixing it all up, until you savor the nce you finish chewing, it all slides down your throat, making or the next bite. But when do you stop? Until your stomach is full or 'til your empty? Do you wait for the rest of the family to finish their When this happens, the buzz comes back to me. Was the texture ng? Was the feeling fulfilling? By the end of the meal, I feel as if I cannot think. My feet are ed—still and heavy. Nothing is running through my mind, yet is standing either. My eyes are centered, looking straight, yet it s if I am not there, spaced out. My sight is blurred and I cannot he buzz is now too loud for my ears. I can almost see a bright ming at the center of my vision, uneven and changing. When the line has dissolved and the buzz has left me, I look o see my empty bowl and chopsticks—the end that started it all.
Time Present and Time Past are both perhaps present in Time Future, and Time Future is contained in Time Past. If all time is eternally present, then all time is irredeemable. What Might’ve Been is an abstraction, remaining a perpetual possibility only in a world of speculation. What Might’ve Been and What Has Been point to one end, which is always Present.
“Confirming all personnel are present.” “Affirmative.” “Begin forty-eight hour countdown.” The screens around the control room flash 48:00:00. “Innovation mission to Europa prepared for launch in fortyeight hours.” “Alert received from room 309, unidentified sender. ‘Captain, come here. Now.’” The captain ran to room 309. “What is it?” “Look at this trajectory. You see the point right here? The red one? Now look at this map. Right here. The trajectory of Europa, the moon we’re visiting. You see, they intersect right here. But I just found this other map, the path of asteroid Bennu. You know, the one OSIRIS-REx visited. Normally, the trajectory would miss us by a couple hundred miles, but after our landing, the trajectory was affected. I ran it through the supercomputers, and it’s on a direct impact course for Europa, just a few hours before we land. About the worst timing ever. We might still make it, but if we do, we’ll be travelling at 9,000 miles per hour relative velocity. We need to reroute our course within forty-eight hours, or this mission is bust for the next 326 years.” “All right, let’s try to find a way. We definitely need at least an hour before we fly to prepare, so that leaves forty-seven hours for us to work on this. Even with the supercomputers, we won’t be able to do enough testing.”
end office hours for everyone.”
“Still not enough. We need fifteen minutes, at most, wasted, need more supercomputers.”
“Well, we’re wasting time here already! Let’s go!”
No one was happy about the extended hours, but everyone
ntly agreed. NASA sent orders for thousands of
mputers and hired hundreds of mathematicians and
ts. Everyone worked extremely hard. But it was to no prevail.
“It’s still not enough!” the captain shouted in frustration. “We
mething new!”
“But we’re running low on money, and we can’t do anything
hat. Innovation is going to be a failure.”
“That’s it! We need our mathematicians to have innovation!”
“It doesn’t happen that easily—”
At that moment, a mathematician sprinted into the room.
t it! To be the most power-efficient, the trajectory must be a
y curve with a constant of three with respect to distance and
We just have to take the second-order derivative with respect to the Stirling number (the second kind, of course) with e on top
on the bottom times x cubed!”
“Apparently it does. John, can you go run that through the
mputers?”
“Sure thing.”
The countdown started thirty-six hours later.
“3…2…1…liftoff !”
Innovation made it to Europa and back to Earth with samples
xamined by scientists. The mission was a success!
Where has all the time gone? Has it seeped into the shadows that surround late-night reading, veils of darkness slowly eating away at each passing hour? Or has it left with the long, long car rides—each window filled to the brim with dusk’s light, casting shadows that stretch longer as the clocks slowly tick their gentle rhythm? Maybe the time faded, unable to keep up. Maybe it tripped behind me as I ran, out of breath, in a hurry to complete the next part of the hectic calendar that drags on, seemingly forever. Why does time seem to fall into step with the vicious cycle, looping on forever, all while we are tricked into eternally spinning the hamster wheel that is life? All while we are easily distracted, with a small rush of happiness, insignificant in the scope of the universe. After all, the world stops spinning for no one. And yet, when I ask where all the time has gone, I remember the small moments, the seemingly insignificant ones, the ones that make our life glisten with reassuringly frightening novelty. The moments that transform the world from black and white to all the hues in the universe. These are the moments that teach us how to be us, messy and imperfect, but undeniably us.
It was a drab, nothing-happening day, mid-golden-hour, when you chanced upon the mail person as they slid today’s mail through the slit in the wall. Atop the stack was your father’s purple Good Housekeeping magazine, along with your sister’s tax documents in a sad gray envelope, its contents bleak and uncertain. You skipped around the house to exercise the sudden gloom, delivering mail to your unenthused family. Only once you dropped off the nearly identical gray envelopes containing water bills, electricity bills, insurance bills, and a check for three dollars and eighty-five cents, you realized that underneath it all, there was something oddly unique: a suspicious envelope, handwritten and addressed to you, middle name and all. You guessed it was probably from your brother, a nefarious man who, until three days prior, had lived far away and regularly sent desperate letters to your house. You slid open the envelope—a glistening, green paper masterpiece that reminded you oddly of a ripe avocado—with your father’s old-fashioned letter opener that for some reason he didn’t need or protect anymore and you must have acquired or stolen it some time ago. Your clumsiness allowed the letter to slide to the floor, and you caught sight of elegant font and disorganized
t to review the letter-sender: The Federation of Time Travelers
vocado, California. Wondering just where Avocado was, and if
n actual city in California, you bent to pluck the crisp pages
e floor. But then, your father walked in with a grim face and
lecturing you about bending his extremely valuable Good
eping magazine, which he would later plop in the trash because
oo boring to think about in something like ten years.
On the way out, he dropped his new city periodical over your
waste bin, and as it lumbered towards the grating, you made out
ds “Respect Fire Hydrants,” reflective on the glossy cover.
ly that annoying downtown gang again. With your father heading towards the door, you welcomed the moment of as an excuse to finally read the absurd letter itself. You half
t it was a joke, and half entertained the possibility of its
meness, but, alas, you set it down and committed to never follow
h with it. But, on second thought, you decided that you would
ke to be a time traveler, so you proceeded to reread the letter a
me, and committed to never follow through with it.
You,
Congratulations! It has come to our attention that you can time travel. We
ederation of Time Travelers in Avocado, California, and are super excited
the Federation of Time Travelers’ P.O. box in Oklahoma. Remember that being able to time travel is the universe’s gift, and we are so excited to share it with you.
Best wishes, Federation of Time Travelers
You continued to cycle through these modes of re-reading and re-thinking twenty-three times, like the glitchy dial on your father’s old radio. Not only that, you decided you hated the Federation of Time Travelers, and that it was almost probably definitely a scam, and shredded their letter without a glance at the return address after the fateful twenty-third reading. You were startled out of your reverie by a loud thud emanating from the trash can. You leapt out of bed to see your father dropping the city periodical in the trash, the words “Respect Fire Hydrants” shiny on the cover. Your door tapped shut and you heard your father humming as he walked away.
Too bad you shredded the letter. I guess you will never time travel again.
uld leave, remember only this of me:
that there’s some immaculate corner
where my legacy lies. There shall be
in that old place an older testimony of that last summer;
that I once shaped, cherished, eventually missed,
gave, once, my whole life, my mind;
ory of contradictions, a settling bittersweet mist,
faded by sun, buried by time.
nk, this connection, all conflict lost,
a cycle of waves in the heart, coming and going teaching, somehow, again the lessons there learned.
act can leave a feeling of self love forever embossed
and karma, a reminder; you will reap what you have been
sowing. Moving on is a showcase of what you’ve earned.
the Voting Age Julian F., 6th
Americans under voting age should have the right to vote
questionnaire. This way, Americans under 18 are able to
his way, everyone, even the people under eighteen, are
nted. Democracy means power to the people. The
ment is not the one who makes the decision; it’s the people country.
Many people in America under eighteen feel they are ready but the law prevents them from being able to share their
s about the government. This is not fair. One way people
cted is by paying some taxes if they live alone, away from
rents. This is taxation without representation, which means
e being taxed without the opportunity to vote in elections
resent themselves in the government. This threatens
acy because it is not fair for some teenagers to have to pay
et not be able to vote.
One other big reason younger people cannot vote is that
don’t think teens have the knowledge that they need when
You Call This Democracy? by Elizabeth Rusch talks about
questioning whether people eighteen and under should have
t to vote if they do not know much about what is going on upcoming election. This is a threat to democracy in its
g because democracy is when the people have power, and in
ntry, not everyone has power. In this case, power means
and representing your government.
candidates are, and what they stand for. The questions would be different each election. This also requires children and teens to research the candidates and the propositions that are proposed in that election. This also gives people under eighteen a chance to vote, and resolves the comment that people under eighteen do not know enough about our government. The test would determine if they have what it takes to vote. What we can do is come together and share this issue that we are having to the government and ask them to create this test for people to vote. There would also have to be a limit of age ten and up to take this quiz, but there could be some exceptions. There are many benefits to this solution. For example, it resolves the argument that young people do not know enough about our government to vote because it makes them study before they can vote. This helps democracy by giving the people knowledge and letting them represent themselves, which adds a greater number of people that have power. This solution will help the lives of people that are affected by governmental decisions and don’t have a say in the government. This solution represents children and teens and gives them a chance to change what they feel needs to be changed, which is exactly what democracy is. In the meantime, before younger people have the chance to vote, they can still do many things. For example, they can protest, start marches, and most importantly, share this idea with their family and friends.
ay I crawl when they can’t move.
ay I walk when they crawl.
ay I run when they walk.
ay I sprint when they run.
ay I flash by when they know
y won’t see much more of me.
ay that I go faster the more they see me,
ch time I flap my delicate wings a lap,
come shorter
orter
orter.
first few laps with them
nt me to hasten,
hat I’m a weight,
er on their shoulders
ng them down.
he final laps,
mit rivers of salty liquid.
To see me go by one last time. What they don’t know is there is no light, no verdant foliage that lets the sunlight peek through. No incentive, that I can push away to see the sun at the end of my tunnel. Because I don’t crawl. I don’t walk. I don’t run. I don’t sprint. I don’t flash by in the blink of an eye. I float through space, a bubble drifting, waiting to be popped.
Time is water. It is a fact of life. It is a gift of life. It shapes its surroundings; It is shaped by its surroundings. It does not bow to the will of the world. It rebels, fighting for freedom from oppressors. It is precious, essential to our existence, and it is deadly. It commands respect and it commands fear, but is commanded by no one; only contained. It has no beginning or end. It simply flows. Continuously. Eternally. Time is a shallow creek. Receding slowly, beaming under the radiant sun. Reaching out to the stars. Aspiring to make waves.
nd valleys. nd shine. ss and light. uing on. umed by the present future hardly surfaces.
ng slowly, d by the space it used to occupy. to find validation in its own reflection, ggling to maintain itself. ng slowly, ith a reality ither come to terms with off, g to the few droplets ossesses.
ng slowly. blink of a lifetime, ek has dried out.
Dear Avery, It is too late if you are reading this. Too late to save me. But not for you. Run. Please run. For me. Stay alive. Lily Those were the words Avery Woods received on April 11th, 2034. Avery panicked, to say the least. She wept. She screamed. She paced. But most of all, she certainly did not run. No, under no circumstances would Avery run. Yes, the government was currently nonexistent and her friend had been captured by aliens. But still, running was not happening. Avery vowed it would never happen. She was going to save Lily. There were no adjectives to describe the aliens. They seemed to be from a different dimension, and always carried a device that let them fade in and out of the third dimension. What color were they? Nobody knew. They were something other. They were aliens not from living in a different place, but from living in a different dimension, and finding a way to get out of it. They had this weapon that could sedate thousands in under a second, and their primary targets were the governments of the world. Lily was part of the United States government: Congresswoman Bowman, her lifelong friend. And Lily was gone. Nowhere. Everywhere. A different dimension. And cowering in the cramped basement across the street from her house with fifteen other people was not helping. Avery needed scientists, mathematicians, people who could figure out how to get into whatever dimension the aliens were in. Avery would
o help. Avery was a cashier at the local supermarket instead, but she egretted that decision. Her cousin had lived because of her, and cashier was a small price to pay for that. Avery, face set with resolve, exited the cramped basement and o the local news station. Inside, Avery started futzing around ttons until she found one that said “National Emergency.” Avery, having no idea what the button did, decided it couldn’t he main camera flashed, and a recording sign popped up in the of a little screen. It seemed promising. “I don’t know who is watching this, if anyone is watching this, ase, if you do see this, please help me find a way to access other ions. We need our leaders back, or the aliens will come for the next. Please, whether you have never been through high school a masters degree in physics, I implore you, help. Email me at oods@techmail.com with any information you have. Please.” voice cracked multiple times throughout the endeavor. Avery hit the stop button on the giant control panel, and hit a abeled “Finish” on the far right. Avery sighed and slumped nto the black director’s chair in the corner, and checked her She already had fifteen new emails. The broadcast must have ! Avery checked every one of them, and none of the ideas would
New emails poured in, thousands upon thousands, then s, billions. 3,157,486,329. Then Avery’s phone went black, with loading symbol appearing on it. “Ok…” The fact that over three billion unread emails could be her phone at once surprised Avery. Wait—maybe that was it!
crazy, and was probably destined to fail, but combing through three billion emails was not going to happen. But where to get that extra energy? Avery’s mind. Didn’t her science teacher always say the mind has a tremendous amount of energy in reserves? Was that enough? Was her mind capable of using the energy accumulated throughout her twenty-six years of life enough to form another dimension on her body? Avery, laughing at her stupidity, decided it wouldn’t hurt. She sat in that chair, reaching for the back of her mind, the darkness never explored. Her consciousness sank deeper, farther and farther back. There was a glow. A hum. A really loud hum. Avery wrapped her thoughts around it, taking that energy and creating another layer. Another dimension. Avery opened her eyes. She was officially stupid for going into another dimension by herself. Despite this, Avery chuckled and took a step forward. Except her foot didn’t go forward. It went elsewhere. Some direction Avery couldn’t comprehend, and yet here she was, staring at it. Maybe Avery could save her world, her dimension. She crept out of the building and into the shadows. Then an alien jumped in front of her, yelling something with more depth, more layers, than any language Avery had ever heard. Avery froze, and space before her bent, melted. She was back in the director’s chair, but still in the other dimension. It wasn’t just the fourth dimension. It was the fifth dimension, and there she stood. Where time was tangible. No matter what happened next, she knew she had made the biggest scientific breakthrough in history.
re the ones you used to know but don’t anymore.
re the ones whose moms go to the same local grocery store,
s who live right next to you, only one street over.
re the ones you used to see every day, wasn’t weird for boys and girls to sit together,
chools had big blue carpets that stretched like the sea
orful playgrounds with monkey bars like vines.
re the ones who played tag with you,
g at the speed of light,
u didn’t know what the speed of light meant.
re the ones who turned you into the hula-hoop queen ones who made you brave enough to run swings of the jump rope.
re the ones you’ve seen
first, hundredth, and last day of school.
es who’ve changed so much yet are still the same.
es who you think have nothing in common with you,
ly you share five years of your life.
ends are the ones you used to know but don’t anymore.
y are also the ones you lived with,
d with, loved with, danced with, cared with.
ght not know them anymore.
u used to, and you’ll have known them
“Aladdin” is a popular fairy tale. From the 1992 animated
the Broadway show, “Aladdin” is a classic. It follows a boy
Aladdin and a genie. However, the exact storylines vary in
t versions, hence all the history of how it has evolved.
“Aladdin” has been adapted into many versions. It originated
hina. Later, it was collected in The Thousand and One Nights, a
on of stories where a girl named Scheherazade tells many
o escape her death at the hands of a cruel king. After that, it
apted into many modern movies, plays, and more!
The original “Aladdin” was quite different from today’s
n versions. All of the characters were Chinese except for the
an evil magician from Africa. Instead of being an orphan,
n was a lazy boy living with his mother. The story was about
n protecting the riches he received from the jinn, or genie,
magician pretending to be his uncle and a greedy little
. This version of “Aladdin” was the original, but it isn’t what
eople know today. There have been many more versions of
tale; one of the most well-known ones is in The Thousand and
hts, or Arabian Nights, as it is sometimes called.
Additionally, Antoine Galland, a French translator who lived
646 to 1715, was best known for his translation of The
d and One Nights. He published his version, translated from a
manuscript, in 1710. It included “Aladdin,” among others, for time in the book’s history. Galland was an important figure
istory of this popular tale and one of the most influential
in the evolution of “Aladdin.” He helped to bring the story to
There is no generally accepted explanation for how “Aladdin” traveled to Galland. Since it was passed down by oral tradition, there are no original written sources to reference, which makes studying such old history difficult. It is likely that “Aladdin” took a route from China to Europe on the Silk Road. It likely took many routes as it was a popular fairy tale. It might have been told by people as they traveled along the routes, and other cultures adopted it, similar to other trading. However, “Aladdin” did not change much from China to France. More changes might have happened after Galland published it. The Thousand and One Nights, or Arabian Nights, has a possibly Indian background story. A king catches his wife, thinking she could not possibly be more loyal to him, spending time with another man. He thinks that if she betrayed him, then he could trust no woman. He starts marrying a new wife every day only to kill her the next morning. Then, a young woman named Scheherazade volunteers to marry the king. Her father is heartbroken, but she has a plan. That night, she convinces the king to let her tell a story. The king is delighted at the story, and she tells him it is nothing compared to the story she could tell him the next day. The stories go on for 1,001 nights, and eventually, they fall in love and marry. Now, the stories most well-known from that book in Western culture were not originally in the manuscript; rather, they were inserted by Antoine Galland. These include “Ali Baba and The Forty Thieves,” and, of course, “Aladdin.” One version of this book, called Arabian Nights and published by Usborne Books, tells “Aladdin” as the story of Aladdin living with
n a ring and letting Aladdin find a lamp. The ring contained a
genie, while the lamp contained a blue genie. The purple genie powerful than the blue genie, which is why the magician Aladdin to find the lamp. After that, Aladdin spotted the
s and wished for her hand in marriage. He used his riches to
e the king to give him the princess’s hand in marriage.
er, the princess was promised to another man, and Aladdin used
ie to convince her to marry him. After they marry, the princess
tally gives the magician the lamp, and in an epic climax,
n fights the magician, and good prevails in the end. Something
e in this version of the folktale is that it takes the original and changes it slightly. The story is evolving into today’s
s.
Many well-known retellings have ultimately come out of all of
ions in the past. Aladdin (1992) is a popular animated version. It Robin Williams as a genie, with many impersonations and
nny humor. The story is told spectacularly, with an action-filled
and a satisfying ending. However, this movie wasn’t all good.
y, Disney Plus, a streaming service, put a content warning on
vie. It was because the movie mistreated certain cultures as well
acters. Also, there were harmful stereotypes amplified in the
All in all, the movie was good, but not without its problems.
n 2019, Aladdin (2019) came out. This movie featured Will
as the genie and empowered Princess Jasmine much more. It
d her as a powerful character and let her become ruler of the
m in the end, which the animated version had failed to do.
wo movies both had the same plotline, with Aladdin finding the
both set in the fictional kingdom of Agrabah, moving geographically away from the original China. The songs in these movies were unique, and one, “Friend Like Me,” even referenced The Thousand and One Nights, showing some history behind the story. Everything considered, these versions showed even more diversity in the different versions and managed to be popular movies. There was also a Broadway version of the classic tale. It mostly followed the movies, but with some changes that changed the story. Since it was Broadway, many of the special effects didn’t work as well, such as the genie coming out of the lamp. Overall, this version diversified from the other versions, which made it unique. Over time, The Thousand and One Nights has influenced “Aladdin” and the setting of “Aladdin” might have shifted to a Middle Eastern setting in most people’s minds. This just goes to show that not only does the setting affect the history of the tale, but the history of the tale also affects the setting of the tale. In the end, “Aladdin,” no matter which version, has made an important impact on culture. From the Chinese version to the new movies, it has stood the test of time. It is an important tale about which to know, and it is exciting to learn about the new ways people are incorporating this story into movies and plays! There are countless versions of this story, and learning about them is a fascinating way to look through history.
mber 19, 1955 Gushes of sparkles and heaps of feathers leapt back and ross the stage. The young girl feasted her eyes on the tutus mmering leotards spinning across the television screen. She her nose up against the glass, looking at the elegant dancers cross the stage, like beautiful blue jays gliding across an f clouds. “Su! We have to go!” She could hear TV singing and the sound of static ng her mother’s voice. She saw ballerinas blooming on stage nk and purple petals, and exquisite jewels on the tops of ads. The garden was filled with flowers and vines and small ybugs, the red rubies delicately floating from one flower to er. “We’re waiting!” All Surapee wanted to do was to get on that stage and twirl
“SURAPEE!” The slight girl jumped up onto her toes and off towards her mother. “We don’t have all day, Su!” Su looked down. She knew her mother was stressed with nd managing all the children running and playing around se. “It was the ballet channel, wasn’t it?” other gently laid a small rectangular box wrapped up in paper and pink ribbon into her daughter’s hands. “I know e watching dancers.” Surapee unfolded the brown paper. She knew how much ad gone into this present, and she didn’t want to waste one . She uncovered a pair of small, satin pointe shoes, running d over the smooth satin. Her hands discovered a small one pin with red and blue jewels passionately placed into the f a nutcracker. “Do you like it?”
classes, but this was just as good. “A real dancer on TV used those.” Her mother winked. Su knew that wasn’t true, but it did not matter. She looked down at her feet. There they were, the bright pink pointe shoes with the nutcracker pin. They twirled and leaped on the stage. Maybe one day, maybe just one day, I’ll get to leap in these shoes for myself ! December 22, 1994 Nina sat silently in the back row. She watched as swarms of ruffled dresses and velvet coats washed into the theater. She clutched her brown work bag as she thought about this extraordinary event. Her mentor physician had extra tickets to the New York City Ballet Nutcracker. Nina worked one hundred hours every week as a surgical resident, but wouldn’t pass up the chance to experience a live ballet performance. She reminded herself of the bedtime stories her mother would read to her about dancing, and imagined her mother staring awestruck at the tiny screen projecting the Nutcracker. Nina could never pass this up in exchange for being at the hospital in case of an emergency. Her eyes gazed around the theater. The packed house, the intricate ceiling lights dazzling like stars. Even from the very back, she felt the music floating and swirling from the orchestra pit. She listened to the familiar sounds of “The Waltz of the Flowers” and thought of when she was a young girl and performed a ballet piece to Tchaikovsky music. But now it was so much more dramatic, not just baby dances that reminded her of how her mother couldn’t afford dance classes after reaching the age of six. The lights dimmed and the overture started to play. The curtains drifted apart to reveal the colorful, colossal Christmas tree and graceful ballerinas. She gazed with wonder as Clara received her nutcracker, dancing with it like it was the only thing that mattered. Nina clutched her bag tightly and ran her hand over the small collection of jewels pinned onto the bag’s leathery skin. Pictures of a young girl staring in awe at the small black and white television screen came back. Su’s face would have been as bright as stars burning on a clear night.
’s hand and walked through the big black doors of the ium. Bright lights, others in fancy dresses and coats wearing atin, and silk crowded around her. She listened in amazement ound of music before being dragged into Row D, seat 112. “Mads, can I tell you the story of the Nutcracker?” The little ponded with a nodding head. “In the beginning, there is a toymaker called Drosselmeir. He dolls and toys that are as big as me, and they dance like actual s!” Madi’s mother continued about Clara and her nutcracker. d her about the big battle, and the journey through the m of Sweets. And before they knew it, the curtain was rising performance had begun.
mber 21, 2024 Nina and Su sat proudly in their seats, watching the dancers onto the sides of the large stage. Violin bows and piano notes mehow soft and strong at the same time. The dancers balancéd ppéd to the sound of music. Right in the middle of the stage young woman, Clara, holding her Nutcracker proudly in her Her pink shimmery nightgown flowed back and forth, trailing movements. A glitter of blue and red caught Su’s eye and she squinted at shoe. She scrunched her eyes tight though her binoculars at a hiny collection of jewels pinned onto the ribbon of Clara’s hoe. “My pin!” Su gasped with pride. The women pointed to the pointe shoes and handed the ars to her daughter. Memories flooded back. Su’s longing to twirl with the flowy wn on her tiny TV, Nina watching the Snow Queen dance in w as a resident physician for the first time, her daughter’s joy g out that day in 2005. All of that hard work had carried onto The dreaming, the work, everything—it was all worth it.
in Her Life Ava K., 6th A woman doesn’t have time in her life to do everything. She doesn't have time to say sorry for everything that society says is wrong. She’s right. What was wrong with that? A woman needs to live and laugh and not get stuck on the past. She needs to see and not react. She needs to make peace with war. And love and hate with the same heart. She needs to never make mistakes, never let her emotions show. A woman doesn’t have time to love someone else and herself at the same time. She needs to be free while guarding her broken heart. A woman doesn’t have time before she dies.
top.
p, I can’t start again.
top or else I’ll fall.
nto a dark, terrible place I don’t want to return to.
p, I’ll lose everything.
o go from one thing to the next.
ework
ying
cations
al project.
have nothing to do.
ed to be fine.
o enjoy it because I couldn’t see the future as a real thing.
ure was just there. know what to make of it.
mewhere,
ack of my mind,
it was coming to sweep me away in its rapids and yet move from the teetering log. see the future as a danger nor a haven. see the future as a friend nor a foe. see the future for what it is:
despair. If it's been my dream for years then why haven’t I chased it? Why did I sit for three years and stare at the bear across the river? There was no taunting, no pressure, no mocking. We just stared at each other until I started to cross the river. I’m halfway across but when I fall, will the bear save me? Will it guide me to its den and care for me? Or will it watch me be swept away— disappointed. Will it watch the rapids carry me far, far away, knowing all I want is to meet the bear, to have braved the rapids and come out on the other side smiling. To give myself the future I want. So I can’t stop. I can’t stop because stopping means giving up. I’m not giving up on my future.
As I run through the forest to clear my mind, I feel some magical disturbance. Up ahead, I see a strange light. Is that—a doorway? I run through it and experience the sensation of falling… I wake up, jerking out of my dream. Why do I always have that dream? Is it some kind of clue to my mysterious past? When I first arrived in the beautiful city-kingdom of Siscanelle, I had thought I was dreaming. Was I really in the great Siscanelle, known for its stunning lakes and awe-inspiring waterfalls that cascaded down hundreds of meters? I couldn’t believe it. Where I had come from, Siscanelle had been completely wiped off the map due to a combination of natural catastrophes and civil war. “Well,” I think to myself, “I can’t really complain.” But maybe it isn’t too good to be true. After all, there are no cars to get around in, or electronics to pass your time, or even electricity for light or to heat the house. It’s as though I went back a century in time. I really hope not. But perhaps? After all, there had been an unnatural, almost magical doorway. I had woken up with no recollection of my past life, other than my name and where I was. Jerking out of my thoughts, I heard shouting on the streets. “Down with the king!” I heard people say. “It’s like the history books described,” I thought. “Civil war is about to begin. But that means…there’s going to be a tsunami right about…now. Oh shoot, I’ve got to get out of here fast.” Outside, riots broke out while I was trying to pack my stuff. Metal clashed, fists and arrows flew, and a distant roaring from the
e. When one came, I immediately jumped in, checking my to see if I had enough money for the fare.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked me.
“As far away from here as possible,” I answered. “I have twenty Is that enough?”
“I’d do anything to get out of this hell the city’s turning into,”
ed.
“What a stroke of luck,” I thought. Not only had I gotten a
e pretty quickly, but the driver also seemed as enthusiastic as me
ut of there. He urged the horse forward, and we were off.
unately, the streets were clogged with rioters and the royal
rendering us immobile.
“Halt!” a guard cried. “It’s too dangerous to be out on the
ight now. Can’t you see? There’s a coup happening!”
There was no way I was going to get deterred by that. If I
eave the city-kingdom, I would most likely die from the tsunami
s about to occur.
“Keep going,” I told the driver. “I’ll give you an extra ten
”
“Sure thing, miss,” he replied.
We kept going, much to the dismay of the guard. As the driver
y maneuvered the horse between people, I allowed myself to
at I might make it out in time.
Alas, it was not to be. A huge mob stormed the street we had to
n, carrying torches and pitchforks.
louder. I could hear crashes and screams as people ran into the streets, gazing in horror at the huge wave that grew before us. “We’re all going to die!” I heard someone scream. “Yeah, no way,” I muttered under my breath. “Gosh darnit, I was about to escape, and a freaking mob with torches and pitchforks decides that now is a good time to storm the streets?” As the wave slowly crashed down, I heard cries of fear everywhere. There was no escape because the wave was so big. It was just like the history books said; Siscanelle would be completely wiped out. I watched in slow motion as the wave simply swept everything away until it was like nothing ever existed here. When the wave reached me, I panicked. “I don’t want to die yet!” I screamed. “I have no idea what my name is, no idea what my life until two weeks ago was, and now I’m dying because I somehow went back in time to a deadly historical event? Why does the world hate me?” As I sank beneath the water, spirits whispered the answer to me. I was Soraya Astoria, only daughter of House Astoria, the royal house of the lost kingdom of Siscanelle. I had been sent back here to rewrite history and protect Siscanelle, as was foretold, but I had failed. I’m sorry, I thought. And then darkness claimed me as death caught me in his claws.
Anonymous, 8th
We built a boat together—her and I. We started about four go when we had our first conversation. I remember it was ow tired we both were, sitting on the floor of the music room. n’t know how to sail—nor build a boat—but we learned r. It was only last year that we completed the sailboat. We both ed old parts from friends, filled with hope but they weren’t . Now that I am looking back, I feel as if we overused the
I would drag the boat on the itchy sand with the help of our overed in dry seaweed. It felt conflicting—the sand rubbing on es with the slime of seaweed, its dark green creating a subtle my skin. She never seemed to want to do this task, which me every time. Did she not want to sail or simply didn’t like r calves felt when she dragged the boat? I did not have the e to ask, as one question could break us like a scratch on the se seaweed on my calf. Once the boat settled on the sand, she traveled down to the looked at her with a bit of annoyance—she hadn’t even put in ort! I dismissed it, thinking I was being a pessimist. We pushed vy sail into its hole, loudly flapping in the wind. We were quiet this part of setting up, both focusing hard. Then, we got our o the water—icy cold and murky. In the water, we were ble. We quickly decided that I would control the tiller—the wheel of the boat—and she would pull the main sheet to the stability and speed. Sometimes, I’d tell her she could take a nd rest on the bow—the top of the boat. I would do both jobs, each hand. I was okay with this—it was for our friendship,
Most of the time we would sail peacefully, the wind spreading
lighter than the rest of my skin. I still think about what she was feeling, which I am not sure of. I wonder if she enjoyed those small, intricate moments, when quiet beams of light shone across our faces —both of us in the same sun, the same boat. I remember how we gybed, a quick turn that moved with the wind. Gybes were smooth like a perfected routine, one that didn’t require much worry. As we went downwind, the sail carried us, breaking across the wind. We would duck elegantly to the other side of the boat and then settle fast, adjusting our positions. Tacking was different; it was a type of turn that pushed the boat against the wind. One day, she simply said, “Your sailing is not enough. I want a bigger boat.” I told her that we could make a new one. Bigger, steadier. Yet she just kept shaking her head no with her eyes closed, re-shaping her hair against the wind. At that moment, she let go of the main sheet. The rope became untightened slowly at first, inching up. It quickly unraveled— breaking its line. The sail, now loose, flapped loudly in the wind. In a panic, I accidentally slightly pushed the tiller towards the sail. The boom almost came to my face in slow motion, until it jerked hard, clanking against my skull. I fell fast in the water, trying not to get caught in the ropes. I swam to the daggerboard sticking out from the bottom of the boat around the back and climbed it, trying to use my body weight to un-capsize us. While my feet were planted to the bottom and my body hugged to the daggerboard, I saw her in the corner of my eye, floating near the sail uselessly, almost as if she did not care about our boat. I was confused—it was the boat we had made together. Why wouldn’t she care? Once we both got back on the sailboat, she crawled to the bow and didn’t say a word. When I realized our boat was designed for one, it was too late. She had disappeared.
l in Hillsborough, California.