"Thalia" 2025-2026

Thalia 2025-2026

Thalia 2026

EDITORS & STAFF

Editors:

HeadEditors:EdytheClineandMadelineYorkston

PoetryEditor:OliviaCarey

AssistantPoetryEditor:NiyaTalati

ArtisticEditors:ClaireKauffmanandSarahConnally

AssistantArtisticEditors:AngelinaBwimboandRavenRussell

FictionEditor:SaairaGatta

AssistantFictionEditor:AnnaGracia

CreativeNonfictionEditor:AnnaWillmann

AssistantCreativeNonfictionEditor:AyomideAgboola

PlaywritingEditor:DalyaChandler

AssistantPlaywritingEditor:MarcyEverett

Staff:

IzzyBachim,HarmonBaker,KatherineBatton,SaifullahBhatti, AveryEwing,EleanorHamilton,AsherHeydenburk,Emma Khan,KerrianKwofie,LukeMayfield,HaleyMunshi,Victoria Nguyen,BellaShipman,SivaniSubramanian,ThrishaSukesh, MadisonWalters

FacultyAdvisor:DanielleSellers

EDITORS’ NOTE

Thepublicationof Thalia representsarareandspecialopportunity toseethewiderangeofartcreatedbytheTrinityValleySchool studentbody.Inthisway,itissacredtoourcommunity.Wewould liketothankoureditors,whoapproachedsuchresponsibilitywith bothprofessionalismandzeal.

Humansliketosortthings,andthisyearwehavegroupedthe piecesintoseasons.Whilesomeoftheseworkshaveexplicitseasonal motifs,othershavebeenassignedinasubjectivemanner,basedonthe feelingstheyevokedfromusasreaders.Artisdelightfulbecauseof itsabilitytoelicitvariedemotions,sopleasedonotgiveanyspecial credencetoourcategorizations.

Duringtheschoolyear,wehostedtwothemedcontests aScary StorycontestinOctoberandaValentine’sDaycontestinFebruary. Weareespeciallyproudofthefactthatthesecontestsenticednew artiststosubmit;ittakescouragetohaveyourworkjudgedbyothers. Foreachcontest,wehaveincludedthewinnersandhonorable mentions.Also,becausethereweresomanyexcellentsubmissionsfor theScaryStorycontest,wededicatedanextrasectiontothem. Awarmthankyoutoallcontributorsforsharingtheirartwithus. Itgoeswithoutsayingthatwithoutyou,thereisno Thalia.

Thalia 2026

JOHN GRAVES AWARD

ThisYear’sJudge:AlexLemon

AlexLemonistheauthoroffive poetrycollections: All Us Beautiful Monsters (MilkweedEditions, 2026); The Wish Book (Milkweed Editions,2014); Fancy Beasts (MilkweedEditions,2010); Hallelujah Blackout (Milkweed Editions,2008);and Mosquito (Tin HouseBooks,2006).Heisalsothe authoroftwomemoirs: Feverland: A Memoir in Shards (Milkweed Editions,2017)and Happy: A Memoir (Scribner,2009).Lemon istheeditor-at-largeatSaturnaliaBooks,thepoetryeditorfor descant,andaseniorproseeditoratTupeloQuarterly.He teachesinthelow-residencyMFAprogramatAshland UniversityandatTexasChristianUniversity.

JohnGravesAwardWinner

FallingIntoAscent

VictoriaNguyen

Aninevitablewanting nothunger,buttide. Iwillcometoourcity withbothhandsopen, asiftheskylinewereathroat andIknewhowtopray.

Myfootstepsdescendintoyours knowingtheearthremembers whereithasbeenpressedbefore.

Once,IthoughtIwasDaisy, alllightandarrival. butbornburdened -Gatsby, Imistookdevotion fordestiny.

Onlyatrueromanticdares toworshipwhatmayneverkneel.

Betweendoubtandascent,Ilurchwantonly. Couldyoueverbesmitten byabrazenmuse, asdevotedasme?

JohnGravesAwardHonorableMentions

Mississippi-ColoredGlasses

OliviaCarey

It’shardtothinkthisplaceisbeautiful. ThoughIstillremembermakingsnowcreamscooped freshfromthebackyardonwintermornings, thepoolpartiesatMotherGooseDaycare, theredDoubleDeckerbusesinthetownsquare, thestorytimeheldinsideSquareBooks,Junior, wrappingmyscarfaroundFaulkner’sbronzeneck.

InsteadIrecallthedarknessthatlooms likedeathandblackberries.

Thiscountry,stainedinred,white,andblue, belongstofew,theirsinstuckedaway.

Ifthesewillowscouldbellow,I’dask

whatstoriestheywouldtell,whatscreamsthey’dgive ofslavetradehorrorsandtheblood-soakedfields, ofplantationswherepeoplestillarewed.

Ifoakscouldspeak,they’dtellofredandblue Confederatemoralshardenedfromtheirlimbs, theirsinsburied,fossilizedinredclay.

Thesestoriestrampledbygentlelies ofsweetenedteaandheat,andtheenvy ofScarletO’Haraandwhitewraparound porcheswithrockingchairsandhounddogs, andConfederatestatuesinthetownsquare,

AndGod.

IfIweretogoback,itwouldn’tbethesame. Thisplaceofpoetryandfailure. AplacewhereIdonotbelong.

CircusTimeinMallorySquare,KeyWest OliviaCarey

SittinginthepassengersideofawhiteVolvo,Iwatchpeople. Iknow,itsoundscreepy,butit’sawaytopasstimeinthiscountry. Sittinglikeaqueenwithlegscrossedthatcoulduseashave, IwaitasmyMomasksfor$20on2. Peoplewatchingsoundsweird,likeI’mhidingbehindabushorcrazy. Butit'salearnedhabitIhavecarriedforyears.

VisitingMallorySquare,overtheyears whereBibleBill,StiltMan,andjugglers,craftspeople whohavestunnedmebeforeIknewofcraziness.

Thesoulofcultureinthiscounty arethosethatallowthemselvestobeamemento. Ioweitalltotheheftymanwalkingbywithafreshshave.

MymomandI,jabbingeachother,ourethoshaslongbeenshaved awaywhenamanwithapigeonhiddeninhiscoatwalksby,ayearly insidejokebetweenherandI,we,theonlytwo whoappreciatethesecretcircusinpeople.

Beneaththehumidpalmfrondsofthistown, itspeopletimeandtimeagainprovingitisbeautifullycrazy.

Stormcloudsabovemearegreenandangryandcrazy withsalt-airandseaweedsingeingmynostrils,makingmecrave theperplexityfoundinonlytheeyesofthefree,ofthecountry withbystanders,likeme,whoaretooafraidtobecrazy. Likewindowshopping,peeringthroughtheglassatpeople whodonotcarewhatothersthink,likeanuneditedphoto.

Momreturns,makes me pumpgason2. Ismiletomyself,proudofthisworldgonecrazy. Weseethebeautyinthestrangestpeople, avoracityforalifethatnoonecraves. Performingthisritualforyears, missingitmostonthesandofthiscoastalcountry.

Wepullbackintotheveinsofthecountry, likebeetles,theheartofAmerica,justustwo, leavingthehumidlandwe’velovedovertheyears.

SomemightsayIwriteaboutthisplacetoomuch,crazy tofindthestrangenormal,butit’stheconnectionIcrave, tofindthebeautyinpeople.

JusttwopeoplegoingNorthontheOverseasHighway,whowillcrave thecrazycountrytillthenextyeartheyseeit.

Fall

MyHeadphones

JaydenChandler

Myheadphoneshavehingesthatclose, andsometimesgrabmyhair,brownthread; takingoutbitsofmeeachtime

Itakethemoffmybigdumbhead

Myheadphonesarestained,orangepaint, maybeacrylicorchalkdust; carryingbitsofmefromwhen

Idreamtofbeinganartist

Myheadphonesaremeanttobewhite, buttheyhavepurpleontheside; keepingbitsofme,anoldme, ofwhenmyrattyhairwasdyed

Myheadphonecushionsarewornout, they’refadingandturningdarkblue; tellingme,‘youneedyourmusic.’ AndIknowforsurethatit’strue

Withmybrownhairinthehinges

Withmyorangepaintonthesides

Withmypurplehintsontheright andbluecushions

WhereIamandwhereIwillgo

Askmyheadphonesandtheywillknow

Homemaker ClaireKauffman

WheretheFliesDie OliviaCarey

Thewindowisopen, butnotreally.

Themeshscreenisathinfantasy oftheForty-Niners withtheirsluiceboxes,stakingclaims

onairandland thatneverbelongedtothem.

Theycamewithdredgesandhatred, dustintheirmouths andgoldbetweentheirteeth. TheytoretheMaidupeople's Sacramentomountainsopen likewounds. TheForty-Ninersdugdeep, andthelandmourned, butnoonelistened.

Maidumeans“people” buttheywerenot consideredpeople.

Iwatchanoldfly barredfromitshabitat, pressagainstthemesh. Itssmall,clearwingscracking, asenseofdoomrising, itshemolymphrunscold.

Screenswerenotbuilt toholddreams,onlytofilter. Butsomehow,theykeepout everythingthatmatters.

AndIsitwatchingit–

listeningtoitsblackbuzzing, araspingmetallicflutter asit'strappedintheveil. Thelastofthelight filtersthroughthatfailedfrontier. Thegoldwasneverthere. Onlythedesirewithhands toogreedytocare whosewingstheybroke. Theflywantsout. ButIdon’tmove. Icouldletitfree. ButIsitbehindascreen inahousebuiltonbones.

Porsche

KadenKahuda

LucyJohnston

StickyNotes

AnnaWillmann

Tenfeetofcrisp,whitebutcherpaper.That’sallIneed.It’smycanvas andIknowjustwhattocreate.Iuseittotellastory,startingin1675 withKingPhilip’sWar,followedbyPontiac’sRebellionandthe ProclamationLineof1763,catapultingmestraightintotheAmerican Revolution.

SiftingthroughmyAPU.S.HistoryAMSCO,Ibeginstockpilingproper nouns,appropriatelyarrangingthemincolor-codedvariationaccording tolegislation,policy,conflict,courtrulings,presidencies.Withoutdelay, mysimplesheetofpapertransformsintomyownpersonalwindow

intoournation’spast.Stickynoteafterstickynote,Iaddbothapieceof historyandapieceofmyself.

Formostofmylife,thiswindowdidn’texist.Idistinctlyrememberthe presidentialelectionof2016.Iwasinsecondgrade.Myeight-year-old curiositywassuppressedbyastrictschoolpolicy:notalkingabout politics.BeforeIevenknewwhatthewordmeant,Iwastaughttostay silent,totreatthesubjectasimproperoroff-limits.Asaresult,Igrew upwithoutaclearunderstandingofpoliticsandthehistoryofour nation.Ifoundmyselfinthedark.Iputonafacadeofunderstanding, actinglikeIkneweverything;Iknewnothing. ButAPUSHchangedthat.

Ibecameexposedtopoliticsandhistory,andasparkofcuriosity transformedintoaroaringinfernooffascination,drivingmetoconsume alltheinformationIcould.Ispentcountlesshoursindulginginbooks, podcasts,anddocumentaries:Meacham’s American Lion, American Elections: Wicked Game, the“TurningPoint”series.Iwascaptivated.

Ibegantoresearch,write,andpublishpodcastepisodesandsocial mediacontent,toteachotherstudentsimportanttopicsofournation's past,withthehopesofinformingotherswhohadbeenlivinginthedark likeIwas.Intheclassroom,controversialmatterswereaddressedhead on,andpoliticaldiscoursewasencouraged.Iwasempoweredto becomeanactiveparticipantinpoliticsasIeagerlyjumpedintoand shapedtheconversationsI’doncebeentoldtoavoid.Ifinally understoodboththenationIliveinandmyroleinit.Forthefirsttime, historyandpoliticsbecamepartofwhoIam.

Myeyeswerefixatedontheprojectorthedaywelearnedabout redlininginthe1930sandthe“ComoWall”thatservedasaracial barrierinmycity.Iwasshocked.ForthepastsixyearsIhadtaught studentsattheComoCommunityCenterandhadneverheardaboutthe wall:sixfeettall,tenblockslongofsolidconcretetoppedwithbarbed wire.Embarrassed,Iwasdeterminedtolearnwhythiswallhadbeen erasedfromconversationsaroundme.

Ispentthefollowingweeksengagedinmyownpersonalinvestigation: researchingthepracticeofredlining.Green,blue,yellow,andredmaps remindedmeofthecolor-codedtimelineonmywall,onlythesecolors weren’tstickynotes,theyrepresentedrealneighborhoods,realfamilies, realinequality.Topursuedeeperunderstanding,IwenttoCityHall,met withthemayor,andattendedabudgetmeeting,observingfirsthandhow historyimpactspresent-daypolicy.

HistoryisinseparablefromwhoIam,theproductofanationwitha complicatedandfascinatingpast,whichremainedhiddenmostofmy life.Eachdecision,politicalfigure,andpolicyhasshapednotonlyour country,butalsowhoIamtoday.Thishistoryispartofallofus;my stickynotesreflectthestruggles,achievements,andcontradictionsthat makeourhistorysocomplex.Learningmoreaboutmycountryhas helpedmeuncovermyownidentity,instillinginmeacuriosityto understandwhatcamebeforemeandaresolvetochallengeinequality. Iwillcontinuetomakemytimeline,tomeasuremorebutcherpaper, addmorestickynotes,untilmyentireroomisfilledwithglimpsesinto ourcountry,andpiecesofme.

AndrewAudi

DragonsareSlippery AngelinaBwimbo

Asundragonwithwhite,gold-tippedfeatherssproutingfromits headandelbowsslithersoutofthecornerofmyvision,smirkingwith theblackslitsinitsyelloweyes.It’sbeenflutteringinthebackofmy mindforyears.ThedragonwasfromthisbookseriesIreadatmyold school.Thebookswereinthefrontofthelibraryondisplay,closetothe door,withother,lessmagical,earlychapterbooks.

Ipickeditbecausethedragonswereamixofprettyandcool.The sundragonwasmyfavorite.ItfeelsweirdthatIonlyread6ofthese booksbecausethetimethatIwasreadingtheminmymemoryfeelslike morethanjust6books.Everyweekforthelibraryvisit,Iwouldcross myfingers,hopingtherewasanewbookwithanewdragonandanew dragonrider...newdragontamer...dragonperson?EventhoughIcould

seemostofthedragonsclearlyinmymind,Ididn’trememberthetitle. Iguessitslippedmymind.

Ididn’trememberitwhenImovedontoanotherdragonbookseries, andIdefinitelydidn’trememberitforthenext5yearsuntilI volunteeredatthelibrary.Switchingschoolsandbeingstuckinside duringCOVIDdidn’treallygivemeachancetolookbackattheshelf. Oneday,Ifoundit,hiddeninthebottomrightcorner,theseriesgoing farpastthepointwhereIhadstoppedaboutadecadeago.Isifted throughthebooksI’dreadandthenewbooksIhadn’tread,withmore than10newdragontypesIhadnevereventhoughtofbefore.Aruby dragonwithstone-encrustedredspots,apurplethunderdragonwitha lusciousmanethatfloweddownitsback,andadragoncoveredin brownfeathersandfluffcalledtheLegendaryDragon.Thereareso manythatIwonderiftheauthormightberunningoutofideasbynow. Thedragonsfreezeinmymind,likeadeercaughtinheadlights.That day,Ileftthelibrary,happythatIhadfinallyputanametoabook cover.AndthenIforgot.Again.Thedragonsslippedrightoutofmy ears.

AsherHeydenburk

Bitterlikecoffee

Ithateswithpassion

Itinfectspeoplelikeadisease

Bitternessisadark,grievinggraycloud,thatyoucan'tgetridof

Ittrapsyouinitsclenchingfist

Everyonelooksatyouwithjudgmentintheireyes

Buttheydon'tknowthatthecloudwon'tleave

Bitternessisloneliness,itlocksyouaway

Itisagrudgesoheavyit'slikeabarbell

Ittiesyoudown

Soyouhavenoescape

Bitternessdoesn'tjusthateothers

Ithatesitself

Likeaintricateplantoselfsabotage

Scary Stories

ScaryStoryContestWinner

Ma,I’mHungry VictoriaNguyen

Thefireneverstayedlit.

EverytimeIstruckthematch,theheatradiatedforaninstant,briefly defrostingmyfingertips,beforeaflurryoficywindrushedinand smotheredit.Thesounditmade,thatsharphiss,waslikethemountain laughingatus.Itriedagain,myhandsshaking,anothergustofwind. Anotherdeathoflight.

Bythesixthtry,Icouldnolongerfeelmyfingertips.Thepainhad dulledintoastrangekindofcomfort,thenumbnesslikealullaby.I pressedmypalmstogether,triedtorublifeintothem,butmyjoints refusedtomove.Itfeltlikemyfingerswerecarvedfromthesameice surroundingus.

“Ma,”Imurmured.“It’snouse,Ionlyhaveonematchleft.”

Shedidn’tanswer.Iheardhersomewherenearby,breathingslowand shallowunderthelastwoolblanket.Ithoughtshe’dalreadygone. Ileanedbackagainstthetree,myeyelidsheavy.Thehungerwas unbearableatfirst,butthenitsoftened,fadingintoanalmostpeaceful emptiness.Iletmyselfthinkintothatthought.Ipressedmyshoulders againstthesnow–soft,weightless.Icouldfeelmyheartbeatslowing,

pulsatingfaintlybeneathlayersofice.Ithoughtofhome–ofsummers wheretheairsmelledoflaundrysoapandfryingoil,ofmymother scoldingmeforleavingthedooropen,orforrunningthewaterfortoo long.Icouldalmosttastehercooking,thoughsheneverreallycooked.

Mawasstubborn,tooproudtolearn“Americanrecipes.”Shesaidfood waswork,notlove,thatitdidn’tmatterifittastedlikehomesolongas itfilledthestomach.She’dboilvegetablesuntiltheylostcolor,eatin silence,andtellmetostopchasingcomfortinflavor.

Butnowuponthismountain,mystomachhollowasIdriftinto unconsciousness,IsworeIcouldsmellsomethingrich.Something human,somethingloving.

“Wakeup,”Mashookmyshoulders.“Ifoundfood.”

IthoughtIwasfantasizing,butthenshepushedasmalltinbowlinto myhands.Inside,somethingwarm,thick,salty,andreal.Mymother hadnevermadeanythinglikethis.Itwasthefirsttimeinmylifethat foodmademeclosemyeyesandhum.ItwasthefirsttimeIunderstood whatitmeanttobe home-cooked.

WhenIfinished,warmthspreadthroughmychest.Icouldalmostfeel myfingersagain.Thefireroaredhigh,fedbysomethingIdidn’tgetto hearhergather.Istoodup.

“Comeon,Ma,”Isaid,myvoiceshaking.“Let’sgohome.”

Shedidn’tanswer.

Butwherethereshouldhavebeenlegs,therewasonlyair.

Adeepcreakshudderedoverhead,thesoundofheavybranchesbowing undersnow.BeforeIcouldmove,theairsplitwitharush.Thesnow camedowninonegreatsheet,collapsingthroughtheair,smothering everything.

Thefirehissedonceanddied.Andnow,Iwasreallydyinginthedark.

HonorableMention

Room212

AlaynaBhaloo

Thehospitalalwaysfeltdifferentatnight.Thelightsweretoowhite, likeaninsecttrappedinajar.Samanthawalkedthroughtheemptyhall, herfootstepsagainstthetile,andtheclipboardheldtightinherarms. Everydoorshepassedhadawindow,andineveryonelayapatient, aliveordead.

Samanthawasonlysupposedtobecheckingthemonitors,but somethingfeltoff.Whenshereachedroom212,thelightabovethedoor flickered. Jeremy Carter saidthechart.Shefrownedasshedidnot rememberJeremybeinghere.Thedoorcreakedwhenitwaspushed open.Theroomwasdim,onlylitbythepaleglowoftheheartmonitor. Someonewaslyinginthebed,buttheblanketsroseandfelltooslowly, asifthebodybeneaththemlackedabreathingcycle. Hisfacewasturnedaway,butshecouldstillseetheshapeofhisjaw. Shesaidhisnamesoftly,“Mr.Carter?”Themonitoransweredfirstwith alowtonethathummed.Then,itstopped.Thelineonthescreen flattened,andsodidtheairaroundher.Sheblinked,andtherewas nobodyinthebed.Thesheetswerestillwarm.Shewalkedtowardthe door,butsomethingcaughthereye:areflectionintheglassofthe monitor.Afigurestoodbehindher,watching.Whenshe turned,theroomwasemptyagain.Samanthastumbledintothehallway, gaspingforbreath.Sheran.Butthehallwayskeptturninginon themselves,leadingherbacktothesameplace:room212.Now,the

lightabovewasglowingred.Shedidnotwanttogoin,butherhand reachedfortheknobanyway.Therewassomeoneinthebedagain.

Themanwassittingupthistime.Hiseyeswereopenandstaring straightatSamantha.Hisglassyeyesreflectedthelightsinbroken pieces.“Youleftme,”hewhispered.“Whoareyou?”shestruggledto say.Themanlookedatherandtiltedhishead.“Youknowme, Samantha.”Andsuddenlyshedid.Thenameonthechart.Theaccident. Theblood.Jeremy.Herhandsbegantoshake.Sherememberedthe sirenswhereshehadbeenbehindthewheelandthemomenthisvoice stoppedmid-sentence.Thelightsdimmed,andJeremy'shandreached outtowardher,paleandshaking.“Youleftme,”hesaidsoftly.The monitorslowlybegantobeepagain,matchingSamantha’sheartbeat. Shefeltthefloorfoldinbeneathherasthesoundbecameendless,and chillsfilledtheroom.

Whenthenursesarrivedthenextmorning,room212wasempty.The monitorstillhumsquietly,andtherearetwosetsoffootprintsonthe floor:oneentering,noneleaving.

HonorableMention

It’sstrangehowahousecansoundalivewhenyou’retheonlyone insideit.Itstartedwithawhisper soft,curious,andunmistakablymy ownname,breathedbehindthewhiteplaster.OnthefirstnightIswore itwasthecreakingofanoldhouse;bythefifthIknewIwasnotalone.I wasnotaspiritualperson.Iwasbroughtuptobelieveincold,hard facts,noneoftheheeby-jeebyvoodoothepeopleofNewOrleans believed.Thewhispersinthecrumblingbuildingwerenothingbutold pipesandstrongwinds,despitewhattherealtorlikedtotellher

impressionableclients.Nothingtosee,nothingtohear besides,spirits werebestleftalonewhenhauntingahouse iswhatIwouldsayifI believedinthem.

ThewhispersstartedtwoweeksafterImovedintomylatemother’s home,convenientlywhenastormfronthadbeguntoplaguethecity. Thedecrepithousecreakedandmoanedandshudderedonits foundation,barelykeepingtheoldbrickstogether.Theshuttersbanged openandclosedallnight,thewindhowlingfrightfullythroughevery room.Itwastheonlynoiseinthenightsforawhile nomatterhow muchtapeIusedtokeeptheshuttersclosed,orhowmanyblanketsI putonthewalls,thedilapidatedmansionstillmoanedandgroaned.The windswerewhyIbrushedoffthequietmurmursorthelightscratching Iheardoccasionallyinmybedroomwall.Mustbethesettlinghouse,I said,orsomewaterloggedmicetakingcoverinthewarm-ishhome. Nothinganexterminatorandsomeloudmusiccouldn’tfix.

OneweekafterIcametothoseconclusions,themurmursbeganto beg.Acrooning,pleadingvoicebegantolullmyears.Theyaskedfor bread,water,coins,ahug.Anythingonecouldwant,theyaskedwithout shame.Irefusedtolisten,buteveryonceinawhileanangry,agitated voicepiercedthrough,askingformyears.IfIcompliedwiththeir requests,thepleadingwouldgetquieter.Welivedlikethisfortwo months,beforeIgotmyearschecked.Irefusedtobelievetherewere anysuchthingsasghosts.Myhearingwasperfect,andthedoctor believedIshouldseekspiritualsupport,whichwasnohelp.

Thevoicesquieted,forawhile.Forthreeweeksaftermyhearing wastested,thevoiceslulled,andIalmostdidn’trecognizethehouse withouttheconstantwhining.Then,likeclockwork,theybeganagain. Thistime,therewasnopleading.Ionlyheardtheminthedeadof night,whisperingmyname.Iwouldwriteinmyjournaleverytimeit

happened:October1st,10:08pm.Alow,cacklingvoicewhisperedmy namethreetimes.October7th,11:16pm.Novoices,butthescratching onthewallsintensifieduntilstoppingsometimearound12:00am. October11th,12:28am.Ihaven’theardanyvoicesbutone.Iam startingtorealizeitmightjustbeonespiritvoicethathasbeenmaking noisesallalong.October13th,1:09am.Iwokeupinasweathearing nothing,butasIdriftedbacktosleepIsworeIheardmyname.October 14th,2:41am.Thewhispersaretooloudforsleep.Iwokeuptohearit singingmyname,likealullaby,justbeyondtheplaster,butIdidn'tdare check.Thescratcheshavestartedagain,stoppingonceI’mfullyawake andstartingasIdriftofftosleep.Restissparse.

Istopcountingentriesthere.Iwassosleep-deprivedthatevery journalentryfromthenonwasmindlesschickenscratchthatnoperson couldmakeoutwhatIwassaying;evenIdon’trememberwritingthem. Iwasallaloneinthatlarge,creakyprison,andyetIwasneveralone.In themiddleofthedayIcouldswearIheardthevoice,echoingjustinthe backofmymind.Itseemedtomovewithmeinthehouse,eventhough thatwasimpossible.Anyspiritanimalthatmusthavebeentrappedin thewallcouldn’thavemovedbeyondthebedroom.Itsvoicestill hauntedme,though,evenwhenthelogicalpartofmybrainbelievedin physicallimitations.

OnOctober30th,Iwenttobedat9:06pm.Sincewritingtheentries inmyjournal,timewasawell-keptobsession.Iwokeup,oncemorein acoldsweat,alreadydreadingthenoiseIwasn’thearing.Itwas11:07 pm.Thescratchingwasuncomfortablyquiet,onehadtostraintohear, butitsoundeddeafeningtomyfinelytunedears.Idriftedbackoffto sleepat11:13pm.Iwokeupagainat3:33amtothevoicewhispering myname.Ithadbeensolongnowthatthevoicewasfamiliar,almost soothing.Iwhisperedback.Thevoicequieted,onlysoftbreathingcould

beheardbehindtheplaster.Iwhisperedoncemore,andthevoice eruptedmorevehementlythaneverbefore,taunting,laughing, whispering,screaming.Thesoundsfilledmybedroom,drowningout thehowlingwindsandthecreakyhouseandtheboomingthunder.I rushedoutofbed,holdingthehammerIhadkeptbesidemybedtheday Igotmyhearingchecked,slammingitdownonthewalloppositeme.It punctureddeepwithintheplaster,butthevoicesstillwereaceaseless beatinmyhead.Irippedapartthewall,usingthehammer,myfeet,my nailstoscratchawaythepaintanddecimatethecagethatheldthe ungodlyspirit.Itoreitapartuntileveryounceofstrengthwasripped frommybody,andamidstthedebriswasterrifying,unearthly,nothing. Thevoicewasn’tinsidethewalls.Therewasnovoiceatall.

I’velonghadsuspicionsthatmyhouseishaunted.Nothingtoo concerningeverhappens,booksIknowIplacedsomewhereelsego missingthenturnupsomewhereelse,mydogstaresandgrowlsatthe darkestcornerofmyroom,thesoundsoflargecrashesdownstairs promptaninvestigationbutwithnoevidenceofanythinghavingfallen.

It'sjustlittle,mundanethingsthatwhisperinthebackofmymind thatsomethingisnotcompletelyrightwiththishouse;easilyexplained occurrences,butwithouttheprerequisitecauses,likemybedroomdoor shuttingonitsown.Ofcourseitcouldbeabreezefromawindow,but therearenowindowsopen,therearen’tevenanywindowsinthispart ofthehouse.

Despitethesehappenings,lifecontinueson;onlyoccasionallydoI reallyhavesomethingtocomplainabout.

October26th,2024

2:13AM

Icheckthetimeonmyphone.2:13AM,great,awholefourhours untilsunrise,andnowImayaswellbeupforgood.

NormallyIsleepthroughthenight,wakinguptentofifteenminutes beforemyalarm,regardlessofwhattimeIsetitfor.Buttonight,well thismorning,isdifferent,Icanfeel.Achillrunsdownmyspine,nota normalchillyouwouldgetfromwakingupwhenyourbodyhasn’tfully raiseditstemperatureinanticipationofthecomingday,it'smorelike thefeelingthatsomething,orsomeone,iswatchingyou.

MymothersaysthenoisesIhearatnightandthefeelingsofbeing watchedarejusttheillusionsofahyperactivemind,shesuggestedItry

somemeditationtohelpmecalmdown.ButwheneverImeditate,the noisesjustbecomemoreprominent,almostasiftheydon'twanttobe ignored.

Tonightisnodifferent.

Iclosemyeyesinanattempttoforcemyselftogobacktosleep,but thistimeitisn'tafeelingthatbringsmeoutofmyattempt,it'sthesound offootstepsonthestairs.

Mymotherandsisterarealwaysasleepatthishour,andmyfather isn'tevenhome.Itcouldbeahomeinvader,atwhichpointIshould reallygetupanddosomethingaboutit;butthehousealarmhasn'tgone off,nordidIhearanysoundsofbreakingandentering.Ok,sonotan intruder.

Thesoundiseitherjustmymindplayingareallycrueljokeonme creatingthesoundsoutofnothing,orit'smymindplayinganeven cruelerjokeonmeconvincingmethatghostsarereal.Thedebateinmy mindisdoingnothingtohelpmesleep,soIdecidetosettleitonceand forall.Igrabmyglassesoffofmybedsidetable(afterknockingthem offatfirstandthenfumblinginthedarktofindthemontheground), openmybedroomdoor,andstepoutontothelandingofthesecond flooroverlookingaportionofthefirststorybelow.

Mytraitorouseyesdeceiveme.Shapesemergefromtheshadowsof thehouse,atallslenderfigure,awolfreadytopounce,whatlookslikea personstandingandlookingatme.ButIblink,andthey'realljust shadowsoncemore.

Satisfiedthatthereisinfactnotaghosttraversingthestairsatnearly 2AM,Iturntoheadbacktomybed.ThenoutofthecornerofmyeyeI catchmovementinthedark.

Thatdoesn'tmeananything,itcouldbemydogoutforalatenight stroll,oracarpassingoutsidecastinglightsintothehouse.But somewheredeepinmychest,dreadengulfsmylogic.

Nootherevidencepresenteditselfthatnight.WhenIponderabout thatnight,Icometotheconclusiontimeandtimeagainthatsharinga housewithaghostwouldn'tbesobad.It'sslightlyscarytothinkthatan undeadentitycouldbetakingupresidenceinmyhome,it'sevenmore terrifyingtothinkthatIcouldbemakingallthesymptomsupmyself.

TheStaticHour

PollyJohnston

Everynightatexactly2:47am,theradioinRiley’sroomturnedonby itself.Nomusic.Novoice.Juststatic,soft,steady,endlessstatic.She triedunpluggingit,movingit,evenhidingitinthecloset.Butevery nightitbuzzedbacktolife.Onenight,tiredofbeingafraid,shedecided tolisten.Shesatupinbed,heartpounding,andsoftlywhispered“who’s there.”Justforamoment,thestaticstayedthesame.Thenitchanged, shecouldhearthefaintoutlineofavoice,asifitweretryingtobreak through.Allshecouldmakeoutwerethewords“left...behind...”almost tooquiettohear.Rileyfroze,“Who’sleftbehind?”sheaskedintothe darkness.Theradiohissed,louderthistime...“you.”Sheyankedthe plugfromthewall,silencefloodedtheroom.Shecouldhearherheart thumpingoutofherchest.Thenextmorninghermomknockedonher door,buttherewasnoanswer.Herbedwasempty,herwindowwide open,andtheonlysoundintheroomwasthefaintbuzzofan unpluggedradio,whisperingonewordoverandoveragain.

MaximilianSchneiderman

Thecarcoughsacloudofblacksmokebehindit,obscuringmyview throughthereviewmirrorasitsputterstoastop.IgroanasIgetout, unfoldingmybodyandstoutlyignoringtheutterpainthatthecricksin mybackcause,fartoostiffandannoying.Mycarisfartoosmallfor me,therustbucket,butit’stheonlythingIcanaffordwithmyjobasa

TheparkinglotisemptyasIbegintowalk,thegravelcrushing beneathmyfeet.It’salmosthardtoimaginebeingcomfortedbythis whenIwasachild.Theforestloomslargeandmenacingoverhead,tall evergreensfillingtheairwithagreenscentofpine,asitalwayshad rightafterrain.Iknewfromexperienceitwouldnotbepossibletosit anywhere,thedecomposingtreestumpssaggingunderneathourweight andleavingbehindsoggychipsofwoodalloversoakedjeans.

Reedhadalwaysletmeusehisjeans,becauseashe’dsaid“I’mnot lettin’mylilsistersgettheirprettyskirtsallcoveredinchipsthat scratchtheirlegs.”

Igavehimasmallglareandheleanedoverandputmyheadonhis shoulder,“comenow,Bethie,Iknowyoudon’tlikeitwhenIcoddle youbutIgottaprotectyousomeways.”

“I’mnotachild,”Imurmured,“gosaveyourcoddlingforRivers, she likesit.”

“Riversisn’there.MaandPaneededher.”Hesays,lookingaround exaggeratedlybeforefinishingwithaneyeroll.

Iscowlagain,thistimefeelingmyeyebrowsscrunchuncomfortably atthebaseofmyhead.“Riversisfive,MaandPadon’tneedherfor anythingimportantandyouknowthat.”

“They’reeducatingher,she’sgottalearn.”

IslapReedacrosstheface,hisskinquicklyflushingred,“Rivers doesn’tneededucatin’, she’sthebestgirlwhoseeverlived.”

“‘Courseyou’dsaythat,Maribeth,”Reedpusheshimselfupfrom thestumpandwalksaway.Afewminutespass,Ibethe’stakenthecar andleftmeoutherebymylonesome.Yethe’slefthispairofsweatpants onthelog.Igivethemaglare,butit’swetandcoldandthey’rewarmer thanthisstupidskirt,soIstripdownandchangeintothem.They’resoft

andwarm,likeahug,andI’mtootiredtomove,evenasthedancing lightsoftheforestbeckonme.

Ipassbythespotagainstthepathwherethelogreallyshouldbe,but thereisjustasmallindentwherethedirtisdarker,asmallsapling growinginitsplace.Igrimace,it’sboundnottosurvive.Notallonits own,withnolightfromthesun.Theurgetostomponit,putitoutofits miseryisstrong.Igiveitasmallkickandthenleaveitalone.

Maybesomedayitwillbeaplaceofrestforanothersetofsiblings.I shouldknowbetterthantolistentothewind,butItiltmyheadallthe same.Italmostsoundslikemybrother’svoice.Iwonderifhediedin thatoldhouse,withitsdarkenedwindowsandfamilyofghosts.I wonderifhe’sstilllivingundermyparent’shands.

Ifollowdownthepathsomemore,becausethereisnothingbetterto do.TodaywasnotmeanttobethedayIcameouthere,todaywasnot meanttobeforanythingatall.Isupposeitwasonawhim,andthe shadowsdancethroughtheleavesofflitteringbirchsobeautifullyIcan almostforgetthedarkvoidsoftheevertallerpines.Theysuckupallthe light,thoseevergreens.Theydidn’tusedtobethisheavywhenIwas young,thoughperhapsthatwasthecompany.

IholdReed’shandwithoneandRivers’withanother.Reedhasa largeblackeye,butinthelightofthesuneverythingglitters.Reed holdsapicnicbaskettohischestuntilwereachaclearingfullof flowers,allwhiteassnowandgleaminginthesun.Butterfliesdart betweenthemmillionsofdifferentshadesoforangeandyellow, collectingpollen.Noshadowscanexistinthisplace.Inthewoods surrounding,brightlightstemptusforwardsbutwedonotfollow.We haveeachotherandthatisallweneed.

Riversgigglesasshetakesalittlenibbleofapastry,andIbopheron thenoseandReedsmiles.Thegrassissoftagainstmylowerlegs.I stareupattheangrysun.

“Mare!”Reedcalls,“youseethoselights?” Theydanceblueagainsttheedges. “Yes.”

“Ifyouseethem,run.Will-o-the-Wispsaretricksters.” “Likerightnow?”

“No,no,onlyifyou’realone.Don’ttrustyoureyesorears.”

Reedalwayscallsmeapinetree,anevergreen.Hesaystheylive longerandareresilient,Ithinkthey’realone.Ilookaroundtheempty clearingandupatthequicklyfadingsun,deadflowersrotintothegrass filledspace.Itdoesn’tsmellanybitassweet.ThistimeIfollowthe flickeringlightsalongtheedges.ReedandRiversaren’thereanymore, butasIgetfurtherontothepathitremindsmeofthelasttimeIwent thisfar.

ReedsaysheandRiversarebirchtrees,glitteringinthesunlight,star pressure.Hesaysthey'llfallapartintheslighteststormwithouteach other.Iseethemoffinthedistance,chatteringaway.I’mtiredand angry,MacameatmewiththerulerbecauseIburneddinner.Myskinis soreandbruisedandIwanttostopandrest.

Riversdoesn’t,Riversisperfectwithherhoneygoldhairandher twinklingbabyblueeyes.That’swhatshewasnamedfor,thoseeyes. It’slateanddarkandthestarsshinebrightoverhead.

She’smineIsuppose,butreallyshe’sMaandPa’s.EvenifI’mthe onethattakescareofherandlovesherliketheyshould,Ma’stheone thatteachesherandPagivesusthemoneytogooutandbuythingssoI reallycan’targue.

IcometoaforkintheroadandrealizeI’velostthem.Ilistenhard forReed’sprettyvoice,andRiver’slightairyone,butIcanheartheir voicesechoingovereachotherinthewoods.Itakeastepback.

“Ifyou’reevercaughtalone,”Reedtoldmewhilewewereinthe pickup,Riversasleepinthebackseat,likehedoeseverytimewe’reout

here,“run.”Whatdidheseewhenhewasalone?

SoIturnbackalongthepathandsprint,sprintuntilIreachthetruck andthensprintuntilIcannotsprintanymore.Ineverdofindmyway home.

Thebirdssinginthetreesaboveme,Icometoaforkinthepath. Thisistheonethatmademerunaway,theonewhereRiversandReed’s voicesoverlappedinscreamingdisharmony.Istilldon’tknowwhich directiontogo.Iseeashadowoutofthecornerofmyeye,aglimpseof awhite-bluefiguregigglinginachildishtone.

“Rivers?”Myvoicetrembles,eventhoughIdon’tassumeshewould actuallybehere.SheprobablywentbackhometoMaandPaafterI wentmissing.

“Rivers?”Adeepvoicecallsbacktome,vanishinginandoutofthe shadowsanddowntheleftpath.“Rivers,didyouseewhereMare went?”

“Mare-Mare!”thelightvoicecalls,anditmustbeRivers.Havethey beenfollowingme?InotehowyoungRiversstillsounds.Isupposeshe nevergotthechancetogrowuplikeIdid.Reedwassixteenforsucha longtime,alwaystheolderbrother,alwaysoldenoughtocarebutnever oldenoughtoprotectus.

Iresenthimforthat,asIcontinuetoage.Magotmadatmeforthat, foraging,once.ShesaidIwastryingtoleavethem;IsupposeIwas.

Ifollowtheshadowsandthelightdowntherightpath,butthepath veryquicklybecomesadeadend.Sticksandleavessoftlycrunchunder myfeet,thegroundstillwetfromtheskycryingitseyesout,evenas thesunbeatshighoverhead.

“Reed?”Icallout.

“Bethie!”Hecallsinresponse,“Mare!We’resorryforleavingyou allalone,wheredidyougo?”

“Reed!”Icallout,duckingbehindtreessearchingfortheshadowed

figure.Ican’tseemtofindhim.Ifeellikealittlekidonceagain.Damn that!Ihaveacollegedegree,I’manadult,Icanhandletalkingtomy siblingsagain.“Reed,whereareyou?”

Riverssoundsonthevergeoftearsasshecallsformeoverandover again.Iplungedeeperintotheforest,evenasthegroundbecomessoft andmyfootstepssquishagainstit.I’mrunningnow.Icannotleaveher alone.Everythingisalwaysworsewhenyou’reonyourown.

Reedtriedhisbestbuthewasneverenoughtoprotectme.Iwas enough,IwasabletoprotectRivers.Hervoicecallstomefrombeyond thetrees,butIdon’tthinkthey’rebirchesanymore.It’sgettinghardto move.

“Rivers?”Reedsayssoftly,andit’sthefirsttimeI’veheardhim speaklikethat,weakandhelpless.“Rivers,Idon'tthinkshe’southere.” Ipauseinmysteps.

“ButIam.I’mrighthere.”

“NO!”Riverscalls,“I’mnotleavingwithouther!”Ilaughatthe ironyofthat.HowmanyyearshasitbeenforthemsinceIleft?Fivefor me,sinceI’dseentheirfaces,buttimehadalwaysbeensoweird.So maybeless,maybemore.

“Idon’tthinkwecan.”Reedsays,andsuddenlythelightsand shadowsflickeringinmyperipheryfadeaway,totheemptynoiseofa swamp.FrogscroakandhopagainstthedirtygroundandI’mstuck.My chestisbeingpressedinbydirt,andI’msofarinIcan’tmovemyarms andlegs.Istrugglebutitjustpullsmedeeper,terrifiedandpained.Mud fillsmylungsasIstruggletobreath,coughingandsputteringuntilI’m allthewayunder.

Time

JanieLesok

Tickticktick.Helpme.

ThedatewasOctober20thof2025.Itwasacrispfallmorning.AsI wasdrivingtoschoolIreceivedaphonecall.Thinkingthatitwas spamIhungup.Nothingelsehappened.Ithoughtnothingofitand continuedonmywaytoschool.AsIwaspullingintotheparkinglot Ireceivedacallfrommymother.Ididn’tacceptthecall.Shecalled. again.Ididn’tanswer.NeveragainwouldIactthatstubborn.Itwas thatverysamestubbornnaturethatwouldcostmemylife.

AsIenteredthefirstperiodsomethingseemedoff.Maybeitwasthe guiltgnawingatmeforignoringmymother’scall.Nomatterhow angryIwas,shewasstillmymother.ItoldmyselfthatIwouldcall herafterclass.

Whenthebellrang,Isteppedoutsidetocallmymother.Shedidn’t answer.Ithoughttomyselfthatitwasprobablynotabigdealifshe wasn'tgoingtoevenpickupthephonetoanswer.Iheadedback insideandtriedtofocus.

Answerme.

Iheardastrangevoiceinmyhead.Thevoicewasn’treal,wasit?I heardmyphonebuzz.Theunknowncaller.Ihungup.Thevoicegot louder.Answerme.Itcalledagain.Thistime,Ianswered.Iwasshocked tolearnthatitwasmymotheronthephone.Althoughsomethingwas strangeaboutthewayshewastalkingtome.Cold.Flat.Wrong.The

phonecallended.Iwentalongwiththerestofmyday.Thatis,untila policeofficershowedupatmyfrontdoor.

WhenIansweredthefrontdoortheofficergreetedmenervously.He askedmehurriedlythelasttimehehadseenmymom.Itoldhimthat Ihadseenherearlierthatmorning.Hecollapsed.Mydadcameto thefrontdoorhurriedly,hisfacewashardtoread.Therewasamix offearanddisappointment.Whenhesawtheofficerontheground, hetoldmetoleavethehouse.LikeIwastheonewhohadmadethe officercollapse.WhenIaskedmydadwhy,hecouldn’tanswerme letalonelookmeintheeyes.NotknowingwhattodoIran.Iranas farasIpossiblycould.Thenumbercalledonceagain.Ideclined.

ThatnightIhaddreamedofastrangeman.Whenthemanlookedinthe mirrorIsawmymother’sreflection.ThenextmorningIwokeupto thesmellofpumpkinpie.Pumpkinpiewasmyfavoritedessertthat mymommademe.ThenIremembered.IrememberedthatIwasfar awayfrommyhome.ButforsomereasonIwasinmybedinmy house.Iwentdownstairstoassessthesituation.Standingthere perfectlynormalweremyparents.Themomthatwassupposedlyout oftownandthedadwhotoldmetoleave.Yestheywerestandingin frontofme.IaskedthemhowIgottomybedroom.Theygavemea weirdlook.TheytoldmethatyesterdayduringschoolIhadfainted andneededtobesenthome.Somethingwasoff.Ijustcouldn'tput myfingeronit. Iwenttoschool.Peoplewerestaring.Ishookoffthefeelingoffear. Fearthatsomeonewaswatchingme,notjustmypeers.Iwenttothe bathroom.HopingtoescapefromrealityIsatdownonthefloorand gotonmyphone.But,myfearonlyheightened.Apersonwasstaring

atmeontheothersideofthephone.ThefigurethatIhadseeninmy dream.Thefigurethatwhenplacedinfrontofthemirror reassembledmymother.Fear.Terror.Dread.HowcouldIpossibly dreadsomethingthatIwasn'tawareof.Manifestation.Ilookedup.I felttrapped.Theonlywaytoescapewasthemirror.Istoodupand lookedatthemirror.Theimagereflectedwasfrighteningyet comforting.Terrifyingyetinviting.Ilookeddownatmyphone.The datereadOctober20thof2025.Mymomiscalling.ThistimeI answer.Helpme.Tickticktick.Timehasdisappeared.Nothingis real.

Winter

TheHumanWar NiyaTalati

Iwonder,whendidweforgettolove? Wesacrificeappreciatinglife, andletthebeautyoftheearthbelost, forgettingthatoutsideourconcretewalls aredepthsoftheoceanalmostallunknown, entireecosystemsmorecomplex thanevenhumanminds.Andyetbecause thehumanraceisblindedbyitsgreed, wefindtheneedtoburnittotheground. Forwealthandpowerwekillandplunder,all sowecansitonthronesofgold.Butwhenall thegoldisusedforthrones,westilldigdeep formore.Whenallthesilver,gems,andoil havebeenpulledfromtheirriversbelowtheearth,thenwe shallseethescarswe’vecarveduponourhome. Andeventhen,thewinnerswillnotturn theireyesfromthemoundsofcointhey’vewonwithblood. Insteadweturnthegunagain,andsearch forsomeoneelsetoblame.Wepreachoflove, butkillwithoutremorse.Weclaimacause ofrighteoushonor,standingatopafield ofdeathaswealthrewardsourviolentacts. Andthen,whenfriendandfoehavediedtokeep theirgold,thethroneswillhavenomorekingstohold. Sothegoldwillsitinroomsandvaults,above therocksfromwhichtheyweretorn.Theseaswillclaim

thecitieswebuilt‘tilallthat’sleftisruins, andwewillliealoneingravesofgreed.

Freedom’sIllusion

MarcyEverett

Thedancerinthesnowglobe,frozen,poised Abovetheblanketofglitteringwhite herdelicatepirouette,motionless asstatuereadyforthemomentthat theworldturnsupsidedown. Thewoman’spirouettehassprungtolife Becomingaresplendentwaltzamong thebrilliantwhite.Thewindleadshertwirling, exquisitedanceandgentlyguidessnowflakes inaswirlingdancesimilartoherown. Theworldisshakingandshedanceson withthewind,gracefulasthefallingsnow aroundher.Eventhoughthesnowbegins tosettleonthegroundshedanceson. Thewindbeginstoslow,nolongerthere toguideherandshedanceson.Shesoars andglides,nowbarelytouchingthefallen snowunderneathherfeet.Thefeelingof infinitefreedomswellsbeneathherchest. Thenshecollideswithglassthatishercage.

TripleThinking NiyaTalati

Iwonderiforiginalityexistsanymore.Iwroteastoryonce. Inspirationstruckandwordsspilledontothepagelikeinklavapouring outofavolcanoawaterfalluntilanentirestorysatinfrontofme.An poorlyplanned,unedited,riddled-with-plot-holesstory,butastory nonetheless.ButthenIreaditover.Ireadthemagicalimmersive fantasticalmanywordsofmyfictionalworldandtheyseemedfamiliar, butnotbecauseI’djustwrittenthem.

DidIrecognizemystorybecause Iwasn’tthefirsttowriteit? MaybeI’dseentheverysame oneonthe internetandhadsimply forgottenwhere.Maybesomeoneelsehadtheexactsameideaasme, buttheirversionwouldgetpublished, makingminetheplagiarized version.DoesitcountasplagiarismifIwroteitfirst?Tosomeoneelse, itwouldprobablybeaprettygoodstory,butalltheideasaboutlifeand allthelessonsItriedtoconveyseemedunoriginal.Theyseemedtobe nothingmorethana regurgitationofthingsIhadbeentoldbyother smarterpeople.Whateverthereason,thewordsweretoofamiliartobe completelyoriginal.AndIknewalltoowellthedangersofunoriginal work.Afterall,howcanyouhaveahighschoolclasswithoutalecture ontheimportanceofcitations?SoIplayeditsafe.

Atensentenceparagraphwastrimmedtruncatedshortenedintotwo sentences.Along,detailedsentencewascutdowntonothingmorethan afewwords.Likea wavewashingalltextureoffacliffside,I erased mypossiblyplagiarizedideasuntilIcouldbesurethepaperheld nothingunoriginal.

BythetimeI finishedediting,the pagewasempty onceagain.

AnAtheist’sPrayer

JaydenChandler

AndifIdiebeforeIwake Ipraytheearthmysoultotake Andletmycorpsefinallylie andhearitheaveitsfinalsigh

Takemybones,nomatterhowyoung andputthemwheretheycamefrom LetmereturnwhatlittleI’vetaken stopyourcrying,stopyourshaking, Thegrass,thetrees,thedirt,thesea, laymewhereI'msupposedtobe andletmegohome.

WhatTapeCan’tFix

PollyJohnston

They’veseenthewholeworld.They’veseennewlifeemergingonto thisplanet.They’veseenlifebeingstrippedfromthosewhoshould’ve hadmoretime.Themostordinaryaccessoryholdsthememoryofa lifetime.Becomingasymbolofremembrance,theseglassesandtheir storywerewovenintothefabricofeachgeneration.Theseglassescarry thelivesofthosewhocamebefore.Minorcracksandimperfections begantoshow.Nothingalittletapecan’tfix.Theyhaveseenitall,from themagnificentsightofthemountainsinSwedentotheenchanting

simplicityofaflowingriver.They’vebeenthrough12houses,eachof thembecominghome.

Theglasseswererarelywornforthepurposeofimprovingvision, buttopreservethefeelingofthelifearoundthem.Thecracksgrew largerandtheimperfectionsshiningthroughoncemore-tapecanfixit butcan’thideit.Thoughthey’veseenallthewondersoftheworld,the onesdeemedpricelesswereseeminglyordinary.Ordinarylifeiswhere reallivinghides.It’sthelatenightgroceryrunsbecausethesodaboxin thefridgewasemptyorthesoundofanairtagdingingeverydaywhen keysgetlost.It’swhereloveisn’tonelavishgesture,butratherthearms thatstayopenthroughtheharddays.Theordinaryissomethingno mountaincouldreplace.

Glassesaremeanttoenhancevisionbutthesecapturemoments.Not themomentstransparentlypaintedinthemind,buttheonesfeltinthe soul.Maybenotthecolorofthewalls,buttheyellowwarmthofthe cheerafteronecousingotintocollegeorthepinksmellofrosesthat werebroughthomeasasurprise.Whilethefacesblurredthroughoutthe delicatepathwaysofmemory,presenceneverfades.

Theglassesnowrestonanightstanddrapedwithathinlayerofdust. Theyaredamagedbeyondwhattapecanrepair.Throughthegiftof time,theyaren’tworntobenefitvision.Theyareburstingwiththejoy ofthepastandcannolongercarryrecentmemories.Butputthemon again,eyesclosed,andallowthememoriestoecho.

AGhost?No.AWraith. RavenRussell

Thethick,drippingblackofshadowsfillmyroom.Isitandlookdown atmybed.Apalebodylaysthere,lipsblueandgaping.Asmall, glowingstring,frayedateveryedge,connectsmetoitforonemoment, thenitsnaps.Iampulledforwardlikeafishonaline,anotherstring wormingdownmymouthandsquirminginmylungs.Iflythrough wallsuntilIstareatthebackofahead,who-?Hewearsamaskbut... It’sthatman.Heisunawareofmyrage,butnotforlong...killerof mine.

thelonggirlwiththebracesasked, “havewemetbefore?” “no,idon’tthinkwehave” “well,myname’seleanor.” thegigglesandthesleepovers, thenightswestayedawake, themakeupstainsoncarpetfloor, theinsultsbymistake.

i’minyourfamilyphotobook, you’reinmine’schristmascard, i’llkeepyouinmylifealways, especiallywhenit’shard.

irecognizeyou,nowit’sclear, i’llloveyoutotheend, becauseiknow,ineverylife, we’vealwaysbeenbestfriends.

SoWhereAreWeGoing?

AngelinaBwimbo

Thelastoftheorangesandpinksofthemorningweredisappearing overthehorizonaslightblueblanketedthesky,speckledwithsmall wispsofcloud.Anunfinishedpainting.Thewindwhistledthroughthe air.Theicyairdriedouthernostrils,makingeverydeepbreaththrough hernoseburn.Soinstead,shebreathedoutpuffsofsmallclouds.

“Whenareweleaving?”Kritaaskedinherusualdry,nearly monotonevoice.Carlywasimmediatelybrokenoutofhertranceand swivelledherheadtowardsKrita.“Uuuum,inafewminutes?”Carly answered,“Didyoufinishputtingyourstuffinthetrunk?” Hereyebrowsscrunched,andhereyesnarrowedwithsomeslight annoyanceatthequestion.

“Yes.IfIdidn’t,thenIwouldn’thaveasked,”sheanswered.

“Ok,good.Then,youcangowaitinthecar,Iguess.”

“Okay.Don’tgetacold,”Kritacurtlyrepliedassheturnedand skitteredbacktothecar.Sheclimbedintothebackseatandhuddledup inherpurplepufferjacket.Sheburiedherheadintheneckofherjacket, leavingherbigpurplecurlspeakingoutoftheneckhole.

Carlyshiftedhergazetothewindshield,newlycleanedforthetrip.It reflectedatranslucentviewoftheskybehindher,themostlybluesky dottedwithcloudslightlysuperimposedoverthegrayinsidesofthecar. Thecornersreflectedthelightfromtheslowlyrisingsun.Therewere stillflecksoforangesandpinksontheedgesfromtheretreating morning.Thewindshieldalsoreflectedadarkened,see-throughimage ofher.Thebagsunderhereyeswereslightlylightertoday.Herwavy twistsrolleddownherbackandhershoulders.Someofhertwistswere tangledupinherface.Herfacewassmushed,withhermouthhalf-

coveredbythecollarofherdarkgreencoat.Aftertakingsometimeto movethewaywardtwistsoutofherface,shelookedbehindthe windshield.

Char,theonewhohadbeenplanningtobeonthistripsincethe beginning,satintheshotgunseat.Shewasslightlyfoldedintothecar seatduetohertallstature.ComparedtoKrita,shewasmore accustomedtothecold.Herhazeleyesreflectedthescrollingscreenof herphoneasshestareddownatitlikeazombie.Carlyturnedherfocus furthertowardsthebackofthecar.GariisinthebackrowwithKrita, physicallyshivering,butseeminglyoblivioustoitassherapidlytapson herthighsandhumstoasonginherblackandredheadphones.Carly couldn’thelpbutshiverinherjacket,evenwiththeinsulationfromthe wavydarkbrowntwistssurroundingherfaceandherthickcoat.

Carlysighedasshewalkedtothecar.“Aight,timetogettoit.”Char joltedupfromherphoneandgrinnedatCarlywhenshegotintothecar. “Youready?!”,Charasked,beamingwithexcitement.

“Yep,let’sgo.”

Charpracticallysquealedasshestartedrambling,“Yay!I’mso excited!I’veneverbeentoRealtabefore!This’llbesofuninagroup!I haven’tdoneoneoftheseinsolong.Imean,Iusedto,butthen everythingjustgotreallybusy.Butnow,we’rehere,andwecangoon anytripswewantto,andwecanbringallofourfriends!-”

“CanyouturnontheA/C?!,”Kritacrankilyrequestedwithamuffled voicefrominsideherjacket.

“Yep,wasalreadyplanningonit.”CarlyturnedontheA/C,“It’lltakea minute,butit’son.”

“Thankyou.”

Carlypausedbeforesheloweredhervoicetostartawhispered conversationwithCharwhileKritaandGariwerestillfocusedon keepingthemselveswarm.

“Char,whydidyouevenwantthemtocome?Itwassupposedtobejust thetwoofus.”

“Because...becausewe’regoingtothecity!Goinginagroupissafer,so themorethemerrier,right?”

CarlystaredatCharwithnarrowedeyes.Char’seyesdartedtowardsthe window,avoidingCarly’sface.

“Char,areyousureyou’renotavoidingsomething?Again?”Carly whispered.

“Mostlyyy,”Chardraggedout,“Theybothreallywantedtocomewhen Itoldthemaboutit!Idon’tthinkeitherofthemhasbeenbefore.Idon’t thinkeitherofthemhaseverhadachancetogothisfaroutoftown.I wantedtogivethemachancetodofunstuffoutsideoftown,too.

Besides,ifyouallgotogether,thenwecanallbefriends,andthenit won’tfeelstuckbetweenmultiplegroupsthatdon’tlikeeachother.”

“Char,Charlie,”Carlystarted,holdingontoChar’sshoulders,“you barelytalkingroups,especiallynotaboutyourself.Wecouldhave talkedandhadfuntogether...alone...without2kindarandomextra people.Youshouldn’thavetobetheirtourguidethewholetrip,ortheir chaperone.”

“It’llbeokay.Ithinkyou’lllikethem.Evenifyoudon’t,theydon’t actuallyhavetobewithus24/7duringthetrip.” Charsighs.

“Ishouldn’thavedonethatonsuchshortnotice.I’llgetthemtoleave usaloneify’alldon’tgel,okay?” “Okay.”

Carlysighedandlookeddownatthecarfloor.Thepocketsonher sidedoorwerefullofmiscellaneouspapers,pennies,andleftover stickersshewantedtoputonthecarthatshedidn’thavethetimefor. ThepocketsonChar’ssidewereemptier,withsomeslipsofpaperstuck tothebottomafterthefirsttimeshetriedtodeep-cleanthecar.Thefew

crumbsthathadsurvivedthecleaningsparselydottedthefloor.The smellofgrahamcrackerswasstillvaguelypresentifsomeonegotclose enoughtotheground.Shepulledherselfbackintothepresentasshe turnedthekeyandpulleddownthegearstick.Thecarwhirredtolife. SheslowlypulledoutofCarly’sdrivewayandpickedupspeedafterthe carturnedoutofherneighbourhood.

Thecarridewassilentfor40minutes.Kritaslowlypulledherhead outofherjacketlikeaturtlecomingoutofitsshell.Charalsobeganto unfold,puttingdownherphonetolookoutthewindow.Garicontinued totaponherlegs.TheloudestfragmentsofthesongsinGari’s headphonesescapedinsharpburstswhileshenoddedherheadtothe rhythm.Kritaopenedupabookandswitchedbetweenreadingand leaningonthewindowforquicknaps.Carlymainlyfocusedondriving. Markets,restaurants,andfastfoodplaceszoomedpastherperipheral visionwithallthedifferentfamilies,couples,friendgroups,andsome peoplewhowentaloneinside.Smallbrickmom-and-popshopsforhair andfood,withredlettersigns,gavewaytomorewell-knownclothing storeswithcolorfullogosonuniformexteriorspaintedoverwithwhite andbeige.AstheygotfartherfromCarly’sneighborhood.Whenthey gottothehighwaysandinterstates,mostofthebuildingswere restaurantsandfastfoodplaceswithbigneonsignsandcarefully paintedwallswithspecificthemes,desperatefortheattentionofhungry drivers.Theyevenpassedacircleofshopsthatfunctionedasanopen mallwithalittleFerriswheelandcarnivalboothsinthecenter. Eventually,bladesofgreenandyellowgrasstookoverthelandscape. Roadsignswithwarningsaboutcrossingdeerandrabbitsoccasionally showedupwhentheygottoforestedareaswithspinytreesreachingto theskies.Ontheroadsnexttoflatgrasslands,bigbluesignsshowed howfarawaythenexttownwas.

CharglancedbackandforthbetweenCarlyandthewindow,and

stayedsilent.Theairwasthickandawkward.Nooneinthecardisliked anyoneelse.It’sjustthatCarlydidn’tknowGariandKritathatwell. ThefewclassesshesharedwithGariandKritadidn’tgivehernearly enoughtimetogettoknowthem.AfewdaysafterCarlytoldChar aboutthetrip,ChartoldGariandKrita,andtheybothwantedtocome along.FromwhatshehadheardandseenfromKritaandGari,they couldbothbeobnoxious.Gariwasalwaysoneofthetopthreeloudest peopleintheroom,andshewasalwaysreadytoarguewithsomeone, whetherornottheydeservedit.Kritawasmoreofaknow-it-allwho wouldtakeoverinanygroupprojectinvolvingscience.Gariwasalso oneofChar’sfirstfriendswhenshemovedhere,andKritawas someonethatCharwasintriguedbyduetohermusictasteandherlab workoutsideofschool.Carlywasn’texactlyoverjoyedwhenChartold herabouttheextra2peoplecomingalong,3daysbeforetheyplanned toleave.Butitwasfine.Shetotallydidn’twanttogoonanicetripwith onlyChar.Shetotallywantedtohave2peoplethatshepartiallyknew fromschool,thatshewasn’treallyfriendswith,inhercarwithfull accesstoanysnacksorpaperssheleftinthebackseatpockets.Totally fine.Garidecidedtobreakthesilencefirst.

“So...wherearewegoing?”Therewasanothermomentofsilencebefore KritaturnedtoGariandasked,“Areyouserious?” “Ijustaskedaquestion.”

“Astupidone.Didyounotaskthisquestionbeforehand?”

“Look,IjustheardCharsayroadtrip,anditsoundedfun,”Garisaid whilesheglaredatKrita,quicklyrealisingthatshehadnochanceof winningthisconfrontation. Carlygrimaced.Theyweregoingtofightthewholetime,andshe wouldbestucklisteningtoallofit.Andthen,theywouldkeepfighting forthewholetripbecausethosetwohaveneverbeenabletowork togetherformorethanfivesecondsbeforetheywouldstartarguing.

Carly'sspiralwasswiftlycutoffwhenCharjumpedinwithan answertoGari’squestion.“We’regoingtoRealtaCity.Webookeda hotel,andwe’regonnaexplorethecity.Soundslikeaprettyfunthing forwinterbreak,right?”Kritacontinued.“Carlygotreservationsforall ofus,sowe,”KritapointedtoherselfandGari,“don’thavetopayfor ourselves.Wecanalsogoonourownwhenwegetthere.”

“Whydidn’tyoucomewithFriv?”Gariasked.

“He’ssick,andIdidn’twannaberottinginmybedthisweekend.When Chartoldmeaboutthis,itfeltlikeagoodopportunitytofocuson somethingelse,”sheconceded.

“Oh.”ThatwasthemostanyonehadheardKritatalkthatday.Thatwas alsomoreemotionalinformationthanGariwasusedtogettingfrom Krita.

“Sorryaboutthat,”Garimuttered,leaningbackintohercornerofthe car.

Thistime,Charwasquicktoendit.

“Randomquestion.Whichisbetter,carsortrains?”

Itwasaquestionthatsheprobablymadeuponthefly,buteveryone practicallyjumpedintheirseatstofightfortheirapparentlydeeplyheld beliefsaboutthestateofurbantransportation.

“Trains!”Gariyelled.

“Cars!”CarlyandKritashouted. Kritajumpedintoarguefirst.

“Carsgiveyouthefreedomtogooutontheroadwheneveryouwant!” Garicountered,“Yeah,butthenyouhavetodealwithtraffic.Trains haveasettime,andnotraffic.Notrainisgonnahityouunlessyougo intoitsspace.”

“Butthesubwayhassomanypeople!”Kritagroaned.

“Andtheroadhaslotsaofpeopleinbigmetalboxesthatcanflatten

you!”,Charadded.

Carlycouldn’targueagainstthat,soinsteadshesaid,“Atleastyoucan playyourownmusicinthecar.”

“Youcanalsoplayyourownmusiconthetrain.Youcanusethese thingscalledheadphonesandearbuds.”Gariretortedsarcastically.

“Speakingofmusic,”Carlyinterrupted,“whatdoy’allwant?Inthe car?”Carlypausedforaresponseandthenclarified,“Rightnow.What songsdoy’allwannaplay?!”

Theconversationpausedaseveryonelookedawayfromeachother.As chattyastheyallweresecondsago,noonewantedtheirmusictasteto beputunderscrutiny.Kritalookeddownatthefloor,buryinghermouth inherjacketagain.Charjustdraggedoutaquiet“um”underherbreath. Garihoppedupfromherseatandasked,“CanweplayBabymetal?Or wecouldplay100Geckos.Anyrockmusicisfine.”

“Oh!Iknowthose!”Charexclaimed,pointingatGari.“ButIwas thinkingwecouldplaysomepopmusicforgoodvibes.”

“Youweregonnapickpopmusicoverindie?Booo,yasellout,”Gari saidinajokingwayasshekickedChar’sseat.

“Imean,popisliterallyshortforpopularmusic.It’sliterallythemusic thatismostlikabletoalargegroupofpeople,”Charsaid,“Thenumbers don’tlie!It’snotallhorrible!”

“Thenumbersonlyprovethatit’smadetoappealtothehighestamount ofpeoplewhilemakingthemfeeltheleastamountofconnectiontothe music.That’snotaloveofthegame.That’sacorpo’sloveofmoney.” “Krita,yougotanysuggestions?”Charasked,chucklingasGari playfought.

“NonethatIwouldliketoshare,”Kritaanswered.

“Cmon,yougotnothing?”Gariasked,narrowinghereyesatKrita,“I thinksomeofthedubstepyouplayinthelabwouldbesomenice headbangers.”

Kritashrankdeeperintoherjacketandmuttered,“IlikeVocaloid...and EDMstuff.”

Carly’searsperkedupassheheardthat.

Shewhisperedfromthedriver’sseat,“IlikeVocaloidtoo!”

Krita'seyeslitupasshelookedatCarly.

“Oh,sweet,itseemslikeVocaloidwinsthen.Whatsongsarewegonna play?”

“Uh.”Carlytrailedoff,stillnotinthemoodtoplayanyofhersongs sincetheyweren’texactlythemostcheerfulorappropriatesongsforthe moment.

“Idon’thavemanygoodsongsinmindatthemomentthatIfeelwould befittingforthissituation.“Kritastated.

“HowaboutIjustturnontheradioandseewhatplays?” Nooneobjectstothat,soCarlyturnsontheradio.

Therestofthecarridegoessurprisinglysmoothly.Sometimes, everyonechatsorcomplainsabouttheradio’smusicselections.Therest ofthetime,theycomeupwithrandomquestionsortalkaboutschool andanyrestaurants,shops,ortouristattractionstheyseeastheydrive by.

Afewhourslater,Carlyshouted,“We’rehere!”Abigbluebuilding toweredinfrontofthem.“I’mgonnagopark.Don’tgoinwithoutme!”

Afewminuteslater,shesprintedbacktothem,herfluffypurple keychaindanglingoutofherpocket.Afloralperfumescentpermeated theairastheyallenteredthelobbyandapproachedthemanatthefront desk.

“Hello,Ibookedaroomfor2days,”Chartoldthehotelreceptionist. “Name?”heasked.

“CarlyWerein.”

Keysjingledwhilethereceptionistsearchedfortherightoneinthe drawers.Hishandrosefrombehindthedeskwith4shinyyellowkeys

danglingfromacircularkeychain.“Hereareyourkeys.Wehopeyou enjoyyourstay.”GariranfortheelevatorwhileKritaskitteredbehind her.CharandCarlywalkedside-by-side,withChargazingupatthe chandelierdanglingoverthelobby.

CharturnedtoCarlyandsaid,“Oh!Maybewecanlistentosome Vocaloidsongswhilewe’reoutonthetown!” “Onlyifyoushowmeyourplaylist.”

“Deal.”Carlythoughtaboutitmorebeforeshesaid,“Maybewecan playsomeofKritaand Gari’ssongstoo.”

Thecarridewasn’tperfect,butitwentbetterthanCarlyexpected.They actuallymanagedtohaveaconversation,morethanoneconversation. And,itwasactuallyfuntotalktothem.Thiswasn’therusualgroupof friends,butshestillhadagoodfeelingaboutthenextfewdays.Her suitcaseclunkedasshewalkedonthetilefloortowardtheelevator.

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day Contest Winner

What Time Cannot Take

Luke Mayfield

When age has turned her hair grey and thin, her fingers won’t pick strings the same way. Once the wrinkles begin to show on our skin, our hearts will be the only parts to stay. All of these changes will only make me grow fonder. Seeing her eyes like the sea, I know love’s not true if not felt wholly. What I want is walks on the beach and late-night drives, yet I still ponder: What if something goes wrong? So, being careful, we go on slowly, knowing that each of us can get hurt. But our laughs won’t age, and neither will our jokes that no one else alive will understand. Her cold hands on mine, we tighten our bond and turn the page. Our differences bring us close, as my love continues to expand. Once time is done, as one we go above. Risks are worth taking to spend life in love.

HowtoFlourishaHeart

Spring

OdetotheHenbitDead-nettle

MarcyEverett

Througheachbleak,sleepylatewinter’smorning, seemingendlessinitsfrostyblanketofgray; Everychillinggustofwindthatmakesmyeyeswater andmakesmetightenthefoldsofmycoat.

Througheachofthesestrugglesthehenbitdead-nettle prevailsandpavesthepathtospring.

Itslayersofclover-shapedshieldsofcourageandchlorophyll adornedwithcurved,spottedspearsofmagentaandlilac eruptthroughthesnowyfatigueoflatewinter, bringingpromiseoflongwalkssmellingofrain andthesoft,goldenraysofthesunonyourback asyouplantanewbatchofcherrytomatoes.

Withthebravehenbitdead-nettletolead, otherplantsofthespringbreakthroughthesoil’sramparts, andthecallsofbirdsandthescentoffreshgreengrass filltheair.Flowersofallcolorsbloom,breathinglifeintosmall cornersofbackyardsandcracksbetweenthepavement.

Amongthisnewlife,mysmallbodyclumsilyruns,laughing, throughthesoftgrass.Ispythevibrantlypurple flowersadorningthehenbitdead-nettle,piercing intothehazyafternoonlight,andstoptoinspectthem. Ipluckthesevanguardsofspringbytheirstems withchubbyfingersfromtheirtall,greenbarricades

ofgrassstrategicallyplacedbyametalfencepost. Iclusterthemtogether,eachonetrainedandarmed; abouquetformymother,whosegoldenhairshines likethemorning’ssunraysbesidethedefeatedblooms.

GrowingPains

NiyaTalati

ThetreesIusedtoclimbhaveagedanddied. Thelossofyouisheavyonmyback. Iaskifsayinggoodbyetomidnightsnacks andsecretlaughsisreallyworthmypride. Thewaywasclearwhenyouwerebymyside Thepathsthatseemedstraightforwardarecrossed, andcattyconversationsfilledwithfrost poursaltonwoundsoffriendshipsgonewiththetide. Yetthinkingbacknoteverythingisgone. Thememoriesofourcarefreedaysremain; yourlaughintherainstillsummonsmetodance. Wecan’treturntopicnicsonthelawn orplayinginthesand,butIwon’tstain thejoyofyouwithpainsofcircumstance.

Sparks

DeclanSmith

Aflamewithinastormynight, Shestandswherecrashingwavesarise. Hereyes,twinlanterns,softandbright, Reflectthestarsinvelvetskies. Herlaughterhumsinsecrettones, Likemusic,onlyheartscanhear. Sheisthewarmththatseepsintomybones, Alightthatdrawsmeevernear.

Adoredbyall,yetstillalone, Hersmilecouldmaketheshadowsblue. Ifshecouldlove,I’dmakeitknown ButsilenthopeisallIdo.

WhatifthesparkIkeepinside, Couldbloomintoaburningname? WhatifthetruthI’vealwaystied, Couldmakeherheartignitethesame? Enchantedbyhersoul’sdesign, I’llwait,howeverlongittakes. Toholdherhand,tocallhermine, Wouldbetheriskmywholehearttakes.

OdetoStains

OliviaCarey

Lookingback, atbabypictures, youmarkedmyclothes andmouthorangefromspaghetti asIwatchedviolentshowslike Tom and Jerry.

Inkindergarten, Iwaitedinthecar afterasoftballgame, mynosebleeding, tearsrunning ontomyorangejersey whilemycoachshouted forsomeonetofindher lostweddingring.

Asayounggirl,theonlyway IwouldleaveFloridaisifhorses wouldgreetmewhenIcametoTexas. Igrewupwithmuckstuck tothebottomofshoeslikegum, sweatanddirtpaintedontomyjodhpurs.

Icanstillseefaintbrownspots acrossmyplaiduniformskirt

fromearlymorningcoffee inmyfavoriteyellowcup. Dripsthatspreadlikewildfire.

I’msadIwon’tseethosegray,plaidskirtsnextyear, knowingmytheywilljustendupinayellow binwhenIgraduate.

MosttimesIdon’tnoticeyou, untilthedayisover,stainsright inthemiddleofmychest, Fearingyoumightdrawonmy bestclothes,likemyprizedcollege sweatshirts,myprettydresses,ormy“good”jeans Idon’twearthemout.

But,Ican’tstaymadatyouforlong.

NotwhenIsmileattheringsleftbyteacups onmybrownnightstand.

NotwhenImistakethefrecklesonmyarms forants, or,frompinkandbluefingers,who workedmasterfullyatdyinghard-boiledeggs.

Notevenwhenmascararingsmyeyes likearaccoon’s,becauseIknowIlookedprettywithiton.

And,everytimeIseeamango, Iknowtoeatthemshirtlessoverthesink, likemymothertaughtme, softbellycoldonthecounter.

Eventhoughitstillsplatters

mychin,mylips,mynose,myforearms, Iclosemyeyes,andfeelthesunonmyskin, evenwhenthereisnosun. There’snowheretoputthemess.

Youmakememessywithproof. ProofthatIwasnotonlyhungry butthatIlived.

LinksofLife

EmmaKhan

someday.

AyomideAgboola

someday

i’lldoit, i’lltakemychancesand crawlinthepathof uncertainty i’llclimboutoftheditch ofloathing ofpity.

someday

i’llexplorethedepthsofmy consciousness,avault teemingwithfervorandangst andguilt andi’llpurge, witheverysmearofcrimsonpaint andstreakofpen.

someday i’llshutthechasm anabyssofanhedonic emptiness acarnalityi sworei’dabandon, avoiddrawingme closer,even closer.

someday i’llbeaflower asweet,bloomingmagnolia withpetalsofpurity, fertile, worthyoflove. someday i’llwake fullofvigor, theskyand itsgoldenchildswelling withglisteningpride oncemore withwhichialso lookback atmywork acatharticrelease apotentremedy. someday i’lldoit, iwill.

Don’tDrinkandDrive

MarcyEverett

SunlightfilteredthroughthewindowsofMom’sFordExpeditionas wecruiseddownthehighwaytosomewhereinArlington.Mycar

sicknesspreventedmefromdoinganythingbutlookingoutthewindow

andlisteningtomusic,soIreadbillboardstopassthetime.Theywere alwaysinabundance,likeantsslowlycrawlingtoourdestination alongsideus,advertisingdentists,casinos,andBuccee’s.Mymind wanderedtomy6thbirthdaypartylastyearwhenmyparentsputselfrelightingcandlesonmycake.WhenIblewthemoutandthey continuedtoburn,Iwascertainawitchwasnearby,controllingmy candles.IspottedabillboardIhadseenmanytimesbeforewarning againstdrinkinganddriving.Thistime,however,Itookittoheart. Don’t drink and drive.Ipromptlyscannedthecarforanythingthat couldbreakthislawandspottedmymom’stumbler,whichIhad watchedherpourteaintobeforeweleftthehouse,inthecupholder nexttoher.Iwaited.Sheeventuallytookasip,andthankGodIwas theretoremindherthatdrinkinganddrivingwasillegal.

JuryMania

AngelinaBwimbo

“Count1:Guilty!”

“Count2:Guilty!”

“Count3:Guilty!”

“Count4...”It’sbeen5hours.Theprosecutortapshispenonthe tablewhilethedefenseattorney’sheadslumpstohisdesk.Thecrackof thegavelagainstthewoodechoesinripplesthroughthecourthouse. Thesoundblockisriddledwithdentslikebulletholes.500countsfor 500men,deadinamonth.Thewitnesseswhisperwiththewidows, sharingsorrows,sharingstories,sharingrecipes.Clapsintimewiththe gavelcrushthecriesofthemaninhandcuffs.Finally,somethingnewto talkabout.

ThatUnknownDistance MJBrannon

Summer

SpectrumatSea

LibbyBumgardner

Distance

LukeMayfield

Iwaswishingtheworldwouldstopwhenyousaidweshouldhead back.

smoke.

KateBatton smoke,rising,growing ithadjustbeenlightandwarmth nowitisbecomingnew changedforever smoke,spinning,twirling relishinginitsnewform silver,catchinglight finallyfreefromitsglowingcage smoke,flying,flinging highandlow,itspreadsout dizzyingtosmell, dazzlingtowatch smoke,swirling,dissipating itwasoncelightandwarmth butnowfleeting, sobeautiful,andgonesoquick.

OnlytheMadCanStay

SivaniSubramanian

Title:TheWonderlandFiles:PersonalCaseNotes–Transcribed from Dictaphone

Filedby:W.Rabbit

I’mlate.

Isprintdownthepath,prayingIdon’trunintoatree.Theonlything worsethanbeinglate,isbeinglatewithaconcussion.Finally,I’matthe MadHatter’s,hopingIhaven’tmissedoneofhisraremomentsof lucidity.Maniconemoment,depressedthenext,andsometimes suddenlylucid Ishouldhaveenoughtodiagnosehimanydaynow. Iburstthroughthedoors,feelingalmostdizzyasIspinaround,wildly lookingforhim.Theroomisdark,butthestrobelightsbringeachofhis wildlycoloredfurniturepiecesintostarkrelief.Thewholesceneis migraine-inducing.ItseemsIwastoolate;theteapartyhasalready begun.IquicklyfindtheMadHatter,andasItalktohim,onething remainsclear:he’sthankfullystillinthemoodtotalk. Isidleuptohim,watchingashepoursthetea.Suddenly,heturnstome. “Outwithit,mydearlong-earedtimelicker.Youusuallyrunquicker thantheteaIpour,andyetyoustandhere.”

Ashe’stalking,Iwatchastheteaoverflowsoutofhiscup.Whenhe finallylooksdown,heseemsunbothered,justsettingthepotdownand bringingtheoverfullcuptohislips,stilluncaringassomeofthetea sloshesout.

“I’mheretotalk ”Istart. “Talk? Talk? Whatistheretotalkaboutthathasn’talreadybeen whisperedbyspoonsandignoredbyteaspoons?”

“Ijustwantedtoknowwhyyouholdtheseteaparties,”Isay,ignoring hisoutburst.

TheHatterjustsighstheatricallyandsimplysays,“That that question iswhyIkeepthesepartiesgoing.”

Istayquietuntilheelaborates,“IfIstoppouringthetea,theystart asking why I’mpouringit,andthenIhavetoacknowledgetime.”

Heleansin,eyesflickeringasthelightsstrobearoundus.

“Didyouknowheleft?Time?Juststormedoutduringoneofourlittle fights.HesaidIwas‘unreliable,’whateverthatmeans.”

Hefrownsashesays,“Henevercameback,soInevermoveforward.”

Justassuddenlyashestartedtalkingtome,heturnsaway,leavingme tosithereandpuzzleouteverywordthatwasjustsaid.

Ithinkheknowshe’slosingit.ButIsupposehe’drathergomadonhis owntermsthanbesaneinsomeoneelse’sstory.

Ireallyshouldgo.TheCheshireCatwasapparentlyseenrecently,andI canneverseemtopinhimdownlongenoughtogetanyrealdata.He appearsanddisappearsatwill,makingitharderformetofindhimthan anyoneelsehere.ButwhileI’mhere...Icouldalwaysobservethe MarchHare.

Whycomebackonlytogetanothermigraine?

Iwalkovertotheothersideofthetable,wheretheMarchHarestarts explainingtheconceptofan“unbirthday”toyetanotherunsuspecting bystander.Beforehecanlaunchintosong,Istophim.

“Hello,Hare.MindifIjoinyou?”

Heflinches,eventhoughhesawmecoming.Hisanxietyispalpable, rollingoffhiminwaves.Hetapshisteacupthreetimesonthetable beforeansweringme,lookingaroundtomakesurenooneelseis listening.

“Sure,”isallhesays.

Islideintotheseatnexttohim,saying,“I’mjustheretounderstand.

You’realwayssocareful,vigilant.Iwanttoknowwhy.”

Helaughsnervouslybeforestaringathishandslikethey’regoingto combustanysecond.

“Somethingisalwaysabouttohappen.Always.It’sWonderland. Nothingmakessense,soanythingcouldmakesense.”

Iwaitforhimtoelaborate,butheseemsperfectlycontenttositthere andstareathishands.Itrytogethimtokeepgoing.

“It’scalmtoday,isn’tit?”

Hewhipshisheadtowardme,makingitclearthatwasentirelythe wrongthingtosay.Helooksaroundbeforeagitatedlywhispering, “Calmdaysaretheworst.Youknowwhy?Becausetheysetthetrap. Thequietisbait.ThenBOOM trial,beheading,tap-dancing porcupines.”

Perhapshis“paranoia”isn’tcompletelyunwarranted.It’salarmingly accurate,makingmewonderifitwascausedbyWonderlanditself. Aswe’retalking,Ilookdownatmywatchandfeelmystomachflip.I wasnotsupposedtohavestoppedthislong.Imutteraquickgoodbyeas Iboundoutthedoor.

I’mlate. Again.

IruntowardwheretheCheshireCatwaslastspotted,onlytofindempty air.Heonlyeverwatches detachedfromtherestofus.Heenjoys watchingothersspiralbutneverparticipates.He’llprovideyouwith observationsbutneverhelp.It’sratherparadoxical.

Ilookdownatmywatch,realizingit’stoolatetoeventrytogowithin tenfeetoftheQueen(shewouldhavemyheadforevensteppingonher groundsatthishour),buttooearlytotrytosleep.Isupposethatmeans theonlypersonlefttopsychoanalyzeismyself.IwanttosayI’msane, butwhoreallyishere?Technically,noonehereisbeyondsaving,but Wonderlandisn’tdesignedtosavepeople;it’sdesignedtokeepthem fromrealizingtheyneedsavinginthefirstplace.

IstartedthisprojectwhenAlicedisappeared.Atleast,theysayshe “disappeared,”butI’mconvincedshewasabletosee.Nobodyin Wonderlandjustwakesup,butAlicedid.

NowIwatchtheclockbecauseitistheonlythingthatmakessense.I recordeverydetailbecausemaybethenthisplacewill mean something. MaybesomedayIwillwakeuptoo.

Untitled KeatonLisenby

WheretheWildThingsGrow

MarcyEverett

Theplaygroundliestuckedbehindasmallcommunitycenteratthe endofmystreet,nomorethanhalfablockawayfrommyhouse.Itsits betweenabasketballcourtwithfadedpaintandasoccerfieldwithgoals thatareneverinthesameplaces,surroundedbyaconcretewallthat keepsthewoodchipsandthememoriesinside.Thisistheutopiaof toweringoaktreesandrecklessnessandbluesky.Thisistheplaceof castlesanddragons,thrillingadventuresandkingsandqueens.Thisis theplaceofcrackedpavementandroley-polliesandswingingashighas youcan.Hereiswherethesquirrelsarenomorethanstreaksofchestnut acrossthesoccerfieldandtheairisfilledwiththedelightfulsquealsof childrenandthecrispscentofnostalgia.Hereistheplaceoffallen leavesandracingdowntheslideandfallinginthewoodchips.Hereis whereeverythingseemssmallerwhenyoureturn.

There’snothingspecialaboutit,really.Thegrassispatchyand yellowing,thecolorpaletteoftheplaygrounddullandunexciting,and thewaterfountainhasneverworked.Butthisparkhadbecomethe foundationofmychildhood,theacornsandchippedpaintallingrained inmymemorieslikethenotesofafamiliarsong.Everycrackinthe sidewalk,everywaywardwoodchip,everysqueaktheswingapartof thecadenceofthismagicalyetordinarypark.

SometimesIwonderwhatsomeonewhohasneverbeentherewould see:asleepyoldpark,oradilapidatedone,ormaybetheywouldn’t thinkanythingofitatall.Theydon’tknowthispark.Theyneverplayed gameslike"TheFloorIsLava,""Tag,""Hide-and-Seek,"or"Squirrels ForagingforFoodfortheWinter"inthispark.IseetheparkwhereIput onatalentshow,thebasketballcourtwheremyoldersisterAbbybeat

meineverybasketballgameweplayed,thefieldinwhichIchased squirrelswithCocoa,ourAustralianShepherd,thehillAbbyandImade dirttrackswithourpinkandpurplebikeson.Mynext-doorneighbor andIusedtocollectthegrainy,detachedturfthatfellofftheroofofthe communitycenterinonespecificspotandmixitwithmud,leaves,and anythingelsewecouldfind.Wecalleditspecialsoup.Wecollectedthe turfneartheoldentranceofthecommunitycenter,whereeveryone alwayssliddownthegreenconcreterailings,whichwereaswideasmy armatleast.Wesliddowntheserailingssofrequentlythatthepaintis worninthemiddle,wherewewouldslidedown,revealingaglimpseof theredpaintbeforethegreen.Thiswasthecolortherailingswere paintedwhenthecommunitycenterwasaschool,in1927.SometimesI wouldlookatthewornrailingsandwonderifthekidswhowentto schoolthere90yearsagousedtoslidedownthem,too.

Eachtimewewalkeddowntothepark,Abbywouldchallengemeto aracetotheendofourstreet,andeachtimeIwouldreluctantlyaccept. Wewouldflyoverthecrackedpavementandthefamiliarpartofthe sidewalkwherethegroundseemedtohaveswelled,causingthecement tobreakapartinjaggedpieceslikeconcretepuzzlepiecesthatwould neverquitefittogether.Wewouldracepastallthedandelionswewould normallypick,allthebugswewouldnormallygawkat,allthewayto theendofourstreet.EachtimeAbbywouldbeatme,Iwouldbeupset, sayingthatshewoneverytime,andwewouldfightasourparents caughtupandwecrossedtothestreetuntilwereachedtheparkandall wasforgotten.

Oneofmyfavoritethingsabouttheparkistheliveoaktreesthat surroundit,likesentinelswatchingovertheunrulykidsandtheir vigilantparents.Thereisaspreadofrapemyrtletreesonthesideofthe basketballcourtthathavesmaller,lighter,andsmootherbranches.These weretheonlytreesIclimbedforalongtime,whileAbbyclimbedthe

rough,toweringoaktreeswiththemockingbirdsandmourningdoves andbluesky.Eventually,sheconvincedmetoclimbonewithher.Ihad climbedtheoaktreesbefore,butonlytheoneswithlow-hanging branches.Shewantedmetoclimbthesecond-biggestoneinthepark, behindtheplayground,onethatIhadtouseoneofthegreenpark benchestoevengetclosetothebaseofthebranches.Nervous,but eagertoimpress,Itried.Shehadtohelpmeupthewholeway,but whenIfinallyhoistedmyselftowherethebranchesbegan,Ifeltasense ofaccomplishmentlikenoother.Abbyencouragedmetoclimbhigher, higher,ashighasIcouldget,untilwepoppedourheadsoutofthetree canopy.Myhandsandkneeswerescraped,Ihadbarkinmyeyes,andI hadnoideahowtogetbackdown,buttheblueskywasworthit.

Ontheraresnowdays,theparkbecomesamagicalkingdomof white.Noonecaredthatthesnowwasonlyoneinchdeep,orthatthe snowwasn’tstickyenoughtomakeasnowman,orthatthehillwasn’t bigenoughtosledon,evenifwedidhaveadequatesnow.Theystill wenttoourneighborCharlie’shousetoaskforhistoboggan,andallthe kidstookturnsslidingdownthehillwhiletheparentstookturns pulling,orusedtheirownlaundrybasketsandsliddowntheir driveways.Onthedayswhenitwassocoldthatfrostpatternedthe windowslikeanintricatequiltandthetipsoftheyellowgrasspoking throughthesnowdisappeared,thebasketballcourtcouldbeturnedinto amakeshifticeskatingrink,andthosewhosleddownfromthehillslide ontothecourtbelow.Everythingseemedwonderfulinthesnow;evenif youweresimplyswinging,afamiliaractivity,itwasinfinitelymore excitingbecauseofthebitingcoldandthewhiteallaroundyou.When weweredonesleddingonthethinsheetofsnow,slidingaroundonthe icyplayground,andattemptingtomakeasnowman,wewouldwalk hometoacupofheartyhotchocolate,andIwouldwonderhow someonecouldeverbecomeboredoftheeternityofwhitewaiting

Covidremindsmeofthosesnowdays.Youcouldn’treallygo anywhereordoanything,andsuddenlytheparkbecamethemainevent ofourdaysagain.Exceptnow,theparkwasnolongeraplaceofmagic anddiscoveryandnostalgia,butamundanepartoftheroutine.My momwasdeterminedthatwegetourvitaminDonewayoranother,so wewenttotheparkdailyformonthsonend.Webeganrunningoutof thingstodo,particularlyafterthethirdweekofgoingtotheparkevery singleday.MylittlebrotherSam,whowasaroundeightatthetime, madeupagameforustoplaythatbecamejustabouttheonlythingwe didatthepark.AbbyandI,whowerethirteenandeleven,gotsobored oncethatweresortedtonamingthetreebranchesbasedontheir durabilityandlocationonthetree.Iwastooscaredtoclimbwithher,so Iwouldjustsitatthebottomandwatchherclimbandnamethetree branchesforher.Igavethemnameslikesketchybranch,becauseit lookedlikeitcouldbreakoffatanysecond,orswingybranch,because itwasfuntoswingon.Thiswasthemostinterestingpartofourdays, amidtheonlineclassesandquarantine.It’sshockingtothinkofthe differencebetweenthenandnow,thepreviousmagicofthepark comparedtoitssimpledullnessduringcovid.

Now,at16,Ihaven’ttalkedtomanyofmyneighborsinyears.Now Iwalktotheendofthestreetinsteadofrunning,andcontinueontothe parkwithoutneedingpermissionfrommyMomtocrossthestreet.Now Irealizehowimportantthisparkwastomychildhood,myfamily,my neighbors,andIwonderifanyoneelseappreciatesitasmuchasIdo. Backthen,themostimportantthingstouswerewhetherornotMom wasgoingtoletuswatchanotherepisodeofWonderPetsorwhogotto stirthecheesepowderintothemilkfortheboxmac-n-cheese.Now we’reconcernedwithgettingmoremoney,moreattention,more clothes,morefriends.NowIwalkthroughtheparkandseethefreshly

paintedbasketballcourtwithitsbrand-newnetsandthecolorful hopscotchpaintedonthesidewalkandthenewbutterflygardenandI wonderifanyoneslidesdowntherailingsandcollectstheturfanymore.

WorksCited

Clarksons.“FortWorthSchools.” Wiley G. Clarkson, https://www.clarksons.org/Clarkson/schools.htm.Accesed30 September2025.

CreativeWest.“ThomasPlaceTower.” Public Art Archive, 2025, https://publicartarchive.org/art/Thomas-Place-Tower/0ed2bbe5. Accessed30September2025.

Roberts,John.“ThomasPlaceCommunityCenter.” Architecture in Fort Worth, 2018, https://www.fortwortharchitecture.com/west/thomaspl.htm. Accessed30September2025.

TexasA&MForestService.“TexasTreeSelector.” Texas Tree Selector, https://texastreeplanting.tamu.edu/viewalltrees.aspx.Accessed 28October2025.

Nagaoka,Japan

MackenzieCrain

IntheTidalZone,SawyerKey

AnintergenerationalpoembyOliviaCareyandDanielleSellers Water is memory.

–YusefKomunyakaa,“BlackbirdingontheHudson” Inthecalmsaltriverthemoondrivesthroughmangroves anurseryismadeforlemonsharks,horseshoecrabs, crocodilesthatfeedonminnowswhoflashsilver inanygivenlight.Anursery,too,forus,wherewedig castlesdecoratedwithsanddollarsmarinesnailshave drilledtosuckthesoftbodiesout.Whenthetideruns, theseasoundslikeababblingbrook,scampering overgreen-algaedcoral.Brownturtlegrassbends withtheforceofitsmovement.Atlowtide, theinch-deepwaterburnsthesoulsofourfeet. Wearecarefulnottocutthemonwhatusedtobe animalspressedovereonsintojaggedlimestone nowhalf-buriedinthewetsandwesquishourtoesinto. Thealgaedrockstickle.Weshriek,wondering whatslithersintheperipheryouttodeeperwater. Spoonbillsandegretsstepgingerlyalongthestrand, nosingtheirbeaksforwaterbugs.Thetiretracks fromaRidley’sseaturtleheavingitselfonshore andtheeggsitburiesandleavesbehind aretheonlyevidenceofitsarrival.

Stobsofdriftwoodlaylikewoodenfences, alayerofdefenseforthemangroves thatdigtheirrootsintonowdryland.

Wewaitforthetidetoturn.First,itswirls aroundouranklesthencalves, theknobsofourkneesatdifferentheights.

Wewanttoplungein,refreshed,covered inthewateronlyourbodiesremember, whatallofourbodiescrave.

AveryKostohryz