Issuu

thalia 2021-2022

Staff Head Editors: Catherine Zarr and Lia Hoang Fiction Editor: Henry Hamilton Poetry Editor: Chloe Hoyt Playwriting Editor: Mark Hart Spoken Word Editor: AC Anderson Nonfiction Editor: Lia Hoang Artistic Directors: Coco Davis, Ruby Ross, Tevy Sek Social Media Coordinator: Gianna Razack Editorial Staff: Sasha Amos, Ava Casto, Ashlyn Corbin, Tatum Duncan, Abby Everett, Samara Gerstle, Grace Gibson, Chris Gonzalez, Foster Good, Camille Gracia, Arden Grant, Sophia Hernandez, Maura Kahuda, Caroline Lacina, Grace Lacina, Jamie Lim, Ruthie Mayfield, Allison Mills, Andrew Perryman, Dai Pham, Gianna Razack, Kate Roemer, Kaylee Shaw, Ava Sinnott, Emerson Smith, Luke Snow, Collin Snyder, Caroline Sweet, Emma Vanacek, Vinny Worsley, Shawn Young

A Note from Your Travel Agency Congratulations on your upcoming trip through the seasons! Unlike most of our voyages, this one will take you primarily through time rather than space (although you will get the chance to visit a variety of different destinations along the way). We’ll be starting with the meditativeness of fall before descending into winter’s sharpness, springing out into spring’s optimism, and finally settling into summer’s joy and life. We recommend this course to get the full experience of a year’s passage, however, you as the traveler can decide your own route and your own pace, whether that be through the seasons, bypassing certain seasons, or in a different order altogether. So, remember to pack layers, pause to appreciate the scenes around you, and have a wonderful trip!

Table of Contents Cover

Coco Davis

Poetry A Collection of Thoughts

Caroline Sweet

Garden

Shawn Young

Never Has She Ever

Camille Gracia

A Bird, Flying

Samara Gerstle

Snake Eyes

Clara Kanthack

I Can See It Devour Me

Jamie Lim

Through the Hourglass

Chloe Hoyt

ADHD

Christian Bowman

What’s a Mole?

Tamam Haque

Okay

Jillian Ivy

The Unseen Thing Before Our Very Eyes

Jamie Lim

Ghosts

Vinny Worsley

(Pro)nouns

Samara Gerstle

Mask

Marga Lee

Grabbing Air

Samara Gerstle

Distillations of Spirit

Henry Hamilton

Because I am a Woman

Anna Fahy

The Days Pull An Elastic Band

Ashley Shahi

Red Pen

Abby Hooker

Snow is a Celebration

Eilea Andrews

Feeling Low Letter: Take a Walk

Ruthie Mayfield

Epic Simile

Vinny Worsley

The Impact Zone

Chloe Hoyt

Holy Maiden

Henry Hamilton

Purpose

Marga Lee

An Ode to Consonance

Emerson Smith

Resonating Tones of Epic Proportions

Emerson Smith

Laguna

Arden Grant

Cover Squirrel

Kate Roemer

Who Called the Conference?

Catherine Zarr

Reaching Hands

Ruby Ross

Untitled

Sophia Hernandez

Holding On

Gianna Razack

The Winter Heron

Kate Roemer

Two Left Hands

Allison Mills

Dead Stare

Itzel Muñoz

The Slippery Slope

George Kalpakis

Pots and Horses

Ruby Ross

Lonely Soul

Coco Davis

Eclipse

George Kalpakis

Engine

George Kalpakis

Ants

George Kalpakis

Modern Constructivism

Caroline Lacina

Yosemite Falls

Collin Snyder

Waterfall

Jamie Lim

Surreal Phones

Ruby Ross

The Hands

Chelsea Morrow

Joshua Tree

Collin Snyder

Hooded Merganser

Jamie Lim

Abstract Nature

Caroline Lacina

Color Block Art

Ruby Ross

Skipping Boy

Coco Davis

Chance Encounters

Catherine Zarr

Squiggly Building

Sofia Klein

Glass Details

Ruby Ross

Black and White Shell

Kate Roemer

Doom

Henry Hamilton

Lamprey

Kate Roemer

Art

Fiction

Taking Out the Trash

Ruthie Mayfield

The Historic Bog House (excerpt)

Henry Hamilton

Play Date

Vinny Worsley

Dear TVS

Jillian Ivy

An Adopted Asian-American

Tatum Duncan

Chernozem

Martin Krylov

Vinny Worsley

Tick Tock

Don Carlson

Threading the Needle

Don Carlson

Quarantine with Bob Ross

Larissa Sosa

Adolescence

Maggie Knapp

Paradojas

Rachel Thompson

Rowyn

Don Carlson

Killdeer

Austin Johnson

Recursive Tree

Phillip Taylor

Self-Portrait

Phillip Taylor

Creative Nonfiction

Playwriting Misunderstanding

Faculty and Staff

John Graves Award Judge

This year’s judge for the John Graves Award is Erin Elizabeth Smith. Erin Elizabeth Smith is the Creative Director at the Sundress Academy for the Arts and the Managing Editor of Sundress Publications. Her third full-length poetry collection, DOWN, was released in 2020 by Stephen F. Austin State University Press. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Guernica, Ecotone, Mid-American, Tupelo Quarterly Crab Orchard Review, and Willow Springs, among others. She earned her PhD in Creative Writing from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi and is now a Distinguished Lecturer in the English Department at the University of Tennessee.

A Collection of Thoughts Caroline Sweet I was chasing gray clouds and profound ideas When all I needed was blue sky and simple thoughts “I have never seen that tree before, cutting through the blue,” I say, utterly sure of myself When, in fact, I certainly have before I feel I must write about it And its profoundness But it cuts through blue, not gray And I am having trouble I am slogging through the words I have thought of words to share with You I spend my time waiting for them But they don’t come And I don’t remember them now And I don’t think I ever will

There is too much in my head too many words too many trees too many new bare trees too many old green trees too many leaves on the ground too much blue cold and not enough red hot too much red hot and not enough blue cold and too much wrong oh god oh god oh You

The songs in my head won’t help

They have You and your cold melodies, your minors and sharps and flats, your rock and your bluegrass, your righteous red anger and your righteous blue sadness, and your winter, and your woodsmoke in the winter Yesterday I smelled woodsmoke But it was not cold; instead, so very hot And I found myself confused because I am utterly sure it’s time for woodsmoke There is too much wrong Who are You whom I mentioned? Is it You who can sit on stage In your sparkly white suit Fingers stroking keys, fingers scampering over strings? You (You) are the one to whom they sing hymns, the one to whom they laugh, the one to whom they cry, the one about whom they will not stop caring and You Matter to Them and My (forgotten) Words Matter Not to You But even greater than Mattering You (You) can put your head back and listen to, control The orchestra The hearty cello, listen The swelling violins, listen The pitter of a flute, listen The tangling piano, listen The cold piano, listen The absence of the piano, listen

How can one hear absence?

I can hear it in my head, no– I can feel it in my head, no–

I can hear/feel it, no– I can feel/hear it When there is no cello and violin and flute And especially no piano I can feel it when the trees are still I can hear it when there is woodsmoke I can feel it when it is too red I can hear it when it is too blue I can know when You’re wrong I can feel it when I’m hopelessly turned around I can hear it when the mud catches hold I can feel it when I want to win (I greatly want to beat this confusion) I can hear it when I don’t (I am stuck in perpetual quicksand)

Which way is up? To the blue, I am utterly sure To the sky fractured by the bare tree I am utterly sure To the abrupt ending Of this collection of thoughts? I cannot be sure Is this blue enough for You? John Graves Award Winner

Garden Shawn Young After Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman What is a legacy? Lin sings from the screen I don’t understand what the weight of the world What I think it does to a person Do we all need to be like Atlas I carry the weight of a mantra and The weight of human sadness I realize as he sings that this is the path some take Some choose to carry the whole world on their shoulders That stranger on the bus has no idea What the weight of the world does to me They don’t know the weight of the garden I hope to plant for my sons John Graves Award Honorable Mention

Never Has She Ever Camille Gracia Never has she ever Spiraled this far To the absolute depths of the ocean Never has she ever Felt a more violent urge To empty the contents of the ocean Never has she ever Pleaded to the vastness of the ocean To let her have some control Never has she ever Felt a sinking stone attached With the sole purpose of drowning her out Until She has ever John Graves Award Honorable Mention

fall

Cover Squirrel Kate Roemer

A Bird, Flying Samara Gerstle After Emily Dickinson A feather - I assume is floating but not in a liberating way The wind drags it along to where she believes it should go It follows. It will land on grass or a tree or a road: pressed down by cars and feet It doesn’t matter The feather will wisp along until she no longer decides to.

Who Called the Conference? Catherine Zarr

Snake Eyes Clara Kanthack The snake looked at me across the room He sensed the shadow near The air - chilled with desolation An unfamiliar melancholy Outside of my door Dusk was approaching on his soul Desert sun penetrated the window Yet there was no light His snake held the truth behind its eyes But tried to shield me from it It was only a fleeting glance A quick visit But the memory is here I left the snake in the desert The shadow has lifted I can see the sun now His eyes provide the light

I Can See It Devour Me Jamie Lim After Emily Dickinson I can see it devour me - when I laid the paint The light touches of the brush The light touches of the pencil Freeing the bird inside the cage The ticking clock - unresting, unstopping And storms that were roaring and raging The witnesses - seeing a new world After the storms have receded The bird perched - the brushes moving Everything free - flying and singing Full of harmony - there it stood The colorful painting The dripping water - orange and yellow The wet floor - stained with color A masterpiece finished and varnished There my thoughts flourished

Reaching Hands Ruby Ross

Through the Hourglass Chloe Hoyt I am not a math test, nor am I one of the great scientists from your textbooks. I am not a mathematician, nor am I a perfectly linear graph. We’ve met many times. Introduced at birth, I became your best sense of self. I walked with you as you took your first steps, and I was present the first time you ever felt pain -- as a signal in your brain, sending tears down your cheeks as the shock ran through your veins. I am the reason you know how to color inside the lines, and how not to fall off your bicycle. I am the reason you know how to smile eighteen different smiles. The reason you run your hands through the water, to feel the energy in the waves gliding through your fingers, is because of me. I am the reason you can remember your sister’s name, and put puzzle pieces back inside their frame. I am the logic in your head that convinces you to procrastinate your homework ‘til the day it is due. I am your vocabulary, and the verbose, secret signals you exchange with your best friend through a simple exchanged look in the other’s direction, silently saying, “Isn’t he cute?,” “Am I trying too hard?,” or “Can you believe she said that to me?” I am the one who helps you win at checkers, and the reason you can’t keep track of all of the rules in a poker game. I am analytical — you depend on me to decode sequences and complicated Latin texts. I am probability, and, without a doubt, your best bet on learning their name. I am the reasoning in your head, and the blush in your cheeks, that stops you mid-reply every time the boy you like says good morning to you. I am how you know when to exit a conversation, and your fight or flight response in every scary situation. I am the way you make your parents smile on their bad days. I am how you get up in the morning and the reason you sometimes go to sleep too late, just to stay on the phone with them for an hour longer. I am the seconds, and the minutes, and the hours, and the months, and the years that pass you by. I am how you made time, and how you know that it runs out. I am not one of the artists from your history books, nor am I one of the many legends you have posted on your walls. Many names have I — passion, desire, sentiment — but these matter not. By now, you and I are well acquainted. You know me not by name, but by the strange and sudden beating of your heart, clinging fiercely to you through every rush of emotion. I am the reason you feel the need to lie when you’re afraid of getting in trouble. The reason you yearn to be wanted -- by him, by her, by anyone, or even everyone -- is because of me. I am the version of yourself that are trying to mold into — sugar, spice, and everything nice -- pieces of who you’re told to be, to act, and to look like. I am the very feeling that sends your heart into your throat when

you drop from the top of a rollercoaster, and the burning in your lungs and legs as you race down green grass hill tops. I am the pounding of your fists in the air, and your heart in your chest, to the rhythm of the music, as you dance alone in your room. I am the reason you struggle to fall asleep on the night before Christmas, and cry while watching the Notebook. The smile that brightens your face, as the first snowfall whispers the eve of February, is because of me. I am the reason you feel everything at once, and on other days, nothing at all — I keep you drowning beneath the waves or dying from the thirst of wanting to feel something, anything at all. I am the impatience stirring in your bones, and the frustration threatening to boil over, when someone pushes you too far. The reason you prefer tea over coffee, and can’t fall asleep with the lights on, is because of me. I am the soft smile on your lips, and the warmth in your belly, when someone gives you a gift, and a note, saying, “This made me think of you.” The reason you can’t stand to wear mismatched socks, and prefer red lollipops over orange ones, is because of me. I am the only reason why you long to see the world — Greece, Italy, Bali, Spain, Korea — your muse from every angle, I am the very reasoning behind the way in which you perceive the world. Make no mistake, I am not time. I am how you know you’ll never have enough of it.

Tick Tock Don Carlson, US Faculty Clock, you’re crude and graceless, Tsk-tsk-tsking relentlessly With that blank look on your face. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not polite to point?

Untitled Sophia Hernandez

ADHD Christian Bowman Page, after page, after page. A Normal boy can flip through a book without issue, and keep his eyes upon a page. Page, after page, after page. A normal boy can lend his ears to the teacher without falter and keep his concentration forever more. But, unlike a normal boy some cannot place a book within their sight and feel the words seep into their brain, some can’t hear the teacher over the noise of a fly flapping it’s cold dry wings through the wind two seats away. Some can only sit, their ears poisoned by the venom of noise, their concentrations penetrated by the blade of distraction. An evil vile, aura of disgust plaguing their mind destroying the brittle confidence of being Normal. That, destructive black tar upon their mind. Simply know, by four innocent letters, A.D.H.D

Dear TVS Jillian Ivy Dear TVS, I was tasked with writing “something that the TVS students needed to hear,” and for a while I had no clue what to write. I was trying to think of a big idea that I thought would be important for TVS to know, but I just couldn't choose. After thinking for a long time I finally decided that there was no one issue more important than another, and that it would do no good to list the hundreds of things we as an educational village could work on. So, I simply decided to speak on my experience as a young Black woman who attends a PWI (predominantly white institution). Schools with a predominantly white population usually approach activism and diversity work from one of two angles: the first being forced diversity and the second being conscious ignorance. The first is common in schools that want to be inclusive but don't know how, and the second… Well, let's just say the second is not who we want to be. Forced diversity could be asking POC to pose for the cover of magazines, or specifically asking POC students to be the face of the school during tours so that the community appears more diverse. But I think it could also be a little more than that. Forced diversity could also be asking minority students to present in assemblies and asking POC students to voice their opinions on issues pertaining to diversity and inclusion. Although it might not be a popular position, I don't think that every aspect of forced diversity is necessarily bad; the problem arises when minority students are expected to carry the brunt of the work that needs to be done. POC cannot be expected to do all of the work. We are frequently asked to be the voice, the face and the sounding boards for, basically, everyone. Forced diversity can be a push in the right direction, but it can also push away the voices needed to change a community. There is a trope, the strong Black women trope, that I think is a great example of what I’m talking about. It’s not a secret that Black women have been oppressed for the duration of their existence in America, and as a response to that adversity they fight for their humanity just as any other person would. However, the power and strength that black women exude doesn't always play in their favor. In exchange for appearing to be “superwomen,” Black women are often hypermasculinized, viewed as overly aggressive and brutish, and seen as animalistic in comparison

to, specifically, White women. The Black woman is viewed as the antithesis to femininity in the eyes of the oppressor; she is often portrayed as a loud and aggressive creten who obnoxiously fights for freedoms she supposedly already has. This depiction of Black women often has a negative toll on their identity, and further shuns them away from speaking out. I often feel that way on campus. Not necessarily like an animal, but like a nuisance. I feel tired too. Tired of standing up for myself, tired of speaking out, tired of fighting for my humanity. Black women are just as human, and feminine, and beautiful as any other woman, or person for that matter. Black women need to be cared for, and nurtured, and loved in the same way that people of color on our campus need to be. We eat, sleep, dream, cry. We are human. Acknowledge our humanity. Don’t make us fight for it. Don’t make anyone fight for it. Don’t assume that POC students can always carry the load our movement requires–we need outside help too. We cannot do it alone. This is what TVS students need to hear. Listen. With gratitude, Jillian Ivy

What’s a Mole? Tamam Haque Mr. Price. Mr. Price. Mr. Price. Mr. Price. Mr. Price. Mr. Price. Mr. Price. What’s a mole? I haven’t read that far in the book.

Doom Henry Hamilton I saw a man ride into town on a horse last night. It's quite odd in these times to see someone riding a horse, not very efficient. I overheard someone on the street stop him and ask why he was up there riding that horse. He responded, “I just enjoy the ride.” That man, I met him again today. He passed me by and I happened to turn around and started walking on beside him, he was without a horse now. I thought I’d try and hear his story, I thought maybe it would be a good one. He laughed at me. He told me his story wasn’t for me. I kept walking next to him anyway though, and I asked him to get a drink with me. That’s all there is to do here, get drinks and share stories. He agreed to that, so we’re getting a drink. To warm him up, I share my story with him now. I tell him about the storm and the babies, the girl and her cow, the town that was raised to the ground by the sun and only the sun, the man with the sword and how we travelled together for some time, the rock I sat on for 3 days and 4 nights, and, finally, I mention my home and where I came from. He seems to be altered by my story. I admit, the journey I’ve had has been an arduous one. The man turns to me then, he asks me if I’ve met death, known doom. I can’t say I have. Well, he definitely has something to say, it appears as if I’ve deshelled him and I prepare for his story.

“In a ravine far beyond where you were born, I was searching for water one day. My horse and I ran across a spring under the shade of the ravine mouth, some 40 feet above us. We stopped to drink, we had found what we were looking for so of course we would. But, as my horse stepped toward that spring, a chord of some instrument I’ve not known before or since rang out from a dust-painted wall along the ravine somewhere. Now, mind you, I am still one to indulge in the technology of today. I may ride a horse but I am not some kind of crazy who won’t touch those electric miracles. So, I had a GPS on me. That’s how I knew to look for water in the first place. But, the music I heard echoing out of the mystery of the ravine before and after me is not reproducible. It wasn’t such a bad tune though, only one that I didn’t know. I got down from my horse and then again down to my hands and knees to start sipping at that spring. My horse joined me. The music stopped right as my lips touched the water, the cursed water. That water descended through me and I felt pangs of loathing more powerful than I used to believe I could conjure. My nonchalant was totally broken and everything I knew was hate. I wanted to turn around and murder, take the life of those who I had been riding away from, kill those I was riding toward, envelop the whole of the world in the vision of hell I already saw it as. The end of the world, surely it would fix some things. Then, as strange as it may sound, I met Death. Death spoke to me and I spoke to Death, and we parted ways.” He halted his story. Is that the end? I asked him. Yessir, he replied. My horse and I mossied into town while not in the eye of a cyclone of killing, so is there any other way it could have ended? How did you meet Death without dying? Well, I didn’t really bother to ask Death why I wasn’t dead at the time; I suppose Death just goes along how Death likes. I have to walk away now, the story this man told me about him an his horse is simply odd. I have got to process this outside the drinking establishment we find ourselves in at the moment. So, I step outside. The roads still carry people from origin to destination. The people still move at the pace they’re needed at. The wind still passess through the gaps between buildings and manages to snag my coat, to make it billow. I’m thinking I might go out on a horse, maybe explore what’s left of the plains and their water supplies. I quietly thank the man who rode in on a horse and I step forward onto the road. Death and Doom await me, but I’ll approach at my own, steady speed.

Threading the Needle Don Carlson, US Faculty Measure carefully As you unspool it. When you’ve cut your thread, Moisten forefinger and thumb, Lightly twist and smooth The fraying end. Hold the needle still Up to the light, Push thread into the eye Until it passes through Grasp the end and pull. It’s what I remember best Of all the tricks my mother taught Or tried to teach me About patience and care– You make the thread Slide through that tiny loop As wonderfully as If a camel could learn To crawl through a small hoop Or a rich man grope his way Into the Kingdom.

Holding On Gianna Razack

winter

The Winter Heron Kate Roemer

Lamprey Kate Roemer My fingers flutter with the leaves. I roll my jacket sleeves and move towards the shoreline. The wind shifts, and I get a chill. A small bird's dead body is lying on the shore. There is flesh still clinging to the bones. A larger bird waits for the opportune moment to feast. There is a balance here. When I was younger I couldn't stand camping. I didn't enjoy the unforeseeable wilderness. I went fishing and camping because it meant I could spend time with my dad. All little boys want affirmation from their old man. After he passed, I would camp just to feel near him, but it grew on me. I am camping for myself now. I don't recall the last time I felt this content. I haven't slept in my bed for over three weeks. I'm just off the shore of Lake Huron. God, it's beautiful. My dad brought me here when I was around 14. It's been a long time. I watch the sun rise upon the glowing lake and remember why I'm here. Back home the only event even slightly exhilarating was the sunrise. If I could only grab the light, hold its fragility in my brawny palms. Maybe then I could have felt something. So, I left. I take these trips to recharge, body and mind. I match my breath to the breeze. The air cleanses my whole body beginning with my lungs. I spread my fingers and hold my hand up to the sky to test the direction of the wind.

The wind's coming from the west. I dip my hand into the water. The moment my flesh touches the water, I feel a sense of closeness to the wilderness that is incomparable. I hear a splash not too far from where I am standing; a welcome interruption. I hear a mallard, and I am reminded of a man I met last month downtown, who, if I can recall correctly, was a truck driver. He had a mallard whistle that was incredibly inaccurate, but he was proud. My dad had a faultless wooden mallard whistle. The trucker's name was Doug, I think. No, Derrin. I never intended to speak with him, but he sat next to me. There were many empty seats. I would've preferred them to stay empty. He had a week in Michigan, and was savoring his ability to drink. He told me that truckers can't drink on the road, so when we started talking his words had already begun to slur. He was a big man with a bigger mouth. I've never enjoyed making small talk at the bar. I just wanted to drink and leave, alone. He kept asking me about my life, it was getting on my nerves, but after a couple Miller Lite's I began to enjoy his company. He seemed genuinely curious about me. I told him I will be traveling to Lake Huron, a great fly fishing spot. His eyes coruscated for a moment. I could tell he stopped listening, and I let him speak. He proceeded to tell me about his experiences in Bay City, seven miles North from where I am now. Although I assume the bulk of his stories were slightly distorted, I listened. I had nothing better to do. The one story that caught my attention was about a jawless fish. He furrowed his brow, "The name has slipped me, but I've seen em in Huron. They don't have fins or nothin'." He chuckled,"I one time found three of em' on a bucketmouth." He got a shiver while speaking. Darrin remarked, "I've never seen one that could hurt you real bad, but the folk back home used to call them the snake sharks. Them little buggers will leave a hickey on ya." I'm deeper into the water now. My soul is coherent with the soft murmur of the current. The water is cold, as expected. I am only about a foot deep, but I can already see the bank runners around me. They swim past my boots. They aren't worth catching, except maybe for bait. I am nervous with each step. The moss is slick, and the bottom gets harder to see. It's unpredictable. I am now waist-deep into the water. I've been fly fishing since I was twelve years old. My dad taught me how. I don't fish because I must, but because there is a feeling of pride in myself when I am able to make a catch. I'm distracted by a pebble in my boot. I hold onto a branch sticking out of the water and remove my boot to shake the pebble out. I'm struggling to keep my balance. My waders are sticking to the boot. I roll up my pant leg and wiggle my foot out. My pants fill with water, but I don't mind. They are getting very full now. I'm beginning to struggle. I need to restore my balance. My right

leg is getting very heavy. I need to go back to shore. I have to fix my waders. I feel a sharp pain in my foot. I have hard hands and feet, cracked and calloused from many years of hiking and climbing. My feet and hands should be impenetrable, but I can feel pain inside of me. I lift my leaden leg from the water. I watch in horror as my flesh begins to move from within. My heel throbs as I reach for it. The long, snake-like figure is burrowing into my foot. It has latched on. I think of Darrins fish; this isn't just a "hickey." The movement alone could stop my heart from beating. It goes further into me, up my foot and into my leg. I pull my pants down. The water rushes out of them. They are loose around my ankles. I must not trip. The noise that comes out of my mouth is a shriek of pure agony. I am staggering to the shore. The more I limp, the deeper I can feel it. I believe it has penetrated my bone. I realize that the only thing to do is cut. I still have my fishing belt. My dad gave it to me. I have to hack through my flesh to retrieve the parasite. I bite my arm as I slit my foot open. I can't even muster a scream. My teeth dig straight through the layers of muscle and skin. I removed the bloodsucker with a net knife; small, but it did the job. My dad gave me that knife. Digesting, the beast squirms once more. I kill it. My dad used to love to fish with me, before he killed himself. My body hits the edge of the bank with outstanding force. As the knife hits the creature it secretes a dense warm liquid-mostly my blood. I dare not look at my foot

Two Left Hands Allison Mills

Okay Jillian Ivy He wanted to get over it. He really did. Well, he did but he didn’t. It was just an easier prospect To think about–the sensation Of living and feeling And believing that it Happened for a reason– Then his pain and disappointment was. He wanted to play into the Feelings of complacency, to be Content with thinking it was okay. But it wasn’t okay And it never will be. The deep seated despondency Of this realization burrowed in his bones For the third time that day And he made an effort this time, not to Shrug it off, but to revel in it. To just let himself feel. He thought that Giving into this emotion would Curb his desperate desire to move on. It didn't. But it did spur the thought that, Maybe it was okay that it wasn't okay. Maybe it was just Fate. Whatever it was, He really wished that it hadn't happened The way it had. He wished that he had done better. He wished that it and them, And where and when Could all be rearranged, thrown out, rearranged, thrown out

Until there was nothing left but unnerving perfection. Not a trace of malice. He wished for his sun to shine again. He wished for his hunger to be sated. He wished for his beautiful light, That shone oh so bright whenever it Laughed or smiled, or felt joy, To breathe again. To say hello. But maybe it’s better for him that wishes Don't come true. Because if they did, He’d be a ghost. The abuse he endured wasn't okay. Murdering them wasn’t okay. But he was. And that's all that ever mattered anyway.

The Unseen Thing Before Our Very Eyes Jamie Lim Our eyes awaken from the light of the sun, Seeping through the cracks of the blinds. It shines like stars, like gems one finds. However, though it's something I always see, The light fails to reach me. As the shadows surround me, The dark, once again, engulfs me. Focused on the light we so strive to see, We become blinded to see both sides, However, as one says, “There’s light in every darkness” It is also true That there is darkness in every light. The shadows that bring about fear, Gives peace to those who understand it. The shadows that others scorn, Gives tranquility to those who welcome it. And now, I crawl back to the darkness, Unaware of the world’s likeness. As the night gives birth to the dimness, I feel the shadows bestow me.

Dead Stare Itzel Muñoz

Ghosts Vinny Worsley Little boy in a sheet is standing in the drizzling rain crying his hands limp at his sides waiting for someone to hold them tight and pull him out of the cold and the darkness and the wind that seems to pass right through him. A little boy standing waiting in the night in hollow spaces between the raindrops.

The Slippery Slope George Kalpakis

(Pro)nouns Samara Gerstle I am a person Before I am a woman I care and love and talk with ( ) (about) you - her I eat and drink and live throughout life - with her (them) I am a person before I am a woman Until it is no longer you - her It is him who cares (?) and loves (?) and talks to me Until they (masc.) walk in to eat and drink and live by me I shrink then not by intimidation or big words or bodies or tools Then I am a woman before I am a person But until then (with only you) Person Woman

Mask Marga Lee When I was young, I choose a mask Stiff and smooth and still. I wore it always, everywhere, And never thought it ill. When I grew up, I changed the mask To match the world around. I scratched and stretched and shredded it, So it would smile and frown. When everyone took the masks off, I kept mine near my face. People so loved the painted lie, Why would I change its place? When I now stand before myself, I’m scared of what I’ll see. For if I cut my wooden face, Would I even bleed?

Pots and Horses Ruby Ross

Grabbing Air Samara Gerstle I’m holding her hand I’m guiding her (God, please let it not be toward danger) She’s with me experiencing everything as I do But she’s wandered now no longer clasping my hand (I let go) I see her She’s sitting there, smiling with her legs crossed tightly I want to run and hold her I want her to hold me I need her warmth her simple thoughts her guidance She’s my only comfort: sitting there, smiling She’s right there She’s right here no longer She is she She is me no longer holding my hand

Lonely Soul Coco Davis

Quarantine with Bob Ross Larissa Sosa, LS Faculty

Distillations of a Spirit Henry Hamilton 1. Hooks There are hooks in my brain. There are hooks in my brain. Mom, there are hooks in my brain. I have a brain and it’s so soft in the hands of those hook holders. They drag my brain around like a color on a paintbrush. There are hooks in my heart. My love, there are hooks in my heart. I have a heart and it’s so hard. I can feel the hooks tugging. It’s gone hard to keep them from hurting. Now they just twinge. 2. Rocks I’ve been collecting rocks. Sometimes I look around and see that there are people crying over a

single rock. My inability to cry distresses me. Instead of settling on a single rock, I need to have many. I keep telling myself that each new tock is the one that will finally show me why people are happy with just one rock. But the rocks never do. They don’t make me cry and they don’t make me happy. I usually end up losing them, somewhere in my collection. I think they run away, as if our relationship failed. 3. Gas A sort of gas tends to fill my lungs. It smells like the rain, and it tastes like thunder. In my lungs, it whispers funny things to my head. The gas says I’m guilty. The gas says I should really shut up. The gas says I’m bad. But the gas doesn’t care. It tells me all kinds of lies, and I believe them anyway 4. Residue The residue, atop the distillations of a spirit, showed how long it had sat there. What remains in the spirit after its essentials are removed forms a film on the top and can be easily thrown away. This is good, because it is so often that residue is the problem—but not always. For this particular spirit, the residue it thick and foamy. It looks as if they had worn another person on themselves. This residue includes that fake person. I once drank curdled milk. It tasted a bit sour as the liquid met my mouth, but then a solid hit my lips. I spit the milk all over the ground. I looked into the glass in horror. A fake person looked up at me and moaned of fake pain. I dropped the glass, and I was in the next room before it hit the floor. I could still hear it moaning as loud as it had before. My parents told me to calm down.

Eclipse, Engine, Ants (top to bottom) George Kalpakis

Because I am a Woman Anna Fahy After Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman He makes the money Because I am a woman He screams at me Because I am a woman He hits me Because I am a woman He cheats Because I am a woman I do not make the money Because he is a man I do not scream back at him Because he is a man I do not hit him Because he is a man I do not cheat Because he is a man I do not want to be a woman in a world designed for men.

Modern Constructivism Caroline Lacina

The Days Pull An Elastic Band Ashley Shahi After Emily Dickinson The days pull an elastic band From one moment to another, Stretched taut from a foreign hand, That threatens to drag me under, Two successful shoes to fill, And failure I won’t dare forgive I run from point A to B until I have no time left to give, Carry on - carry on! Some cry and some plea, All the while adding strain upon, The elastic band pulling at me, Farther and farther it goes, Until soft silicon turns stiff, To where no one knows A broken raft long set adrift, But it doesn’t last eternity Even rock one day turns to scraps, The sun will set down inevitably, The day that elastic finally snaps.

Red Pen Abby Hooker As I walk into the classroom to take the test I was stressed, depressed, feeling lost in my head The pressure consuming me, like a boulder on my chest Awaiting the moment when I am empty of dread I begin to think again, “When will this ever end?” I wake up again, walking into a classroom once more I am consumed by the number written in red pen I feel lost of identity and my brain is sore Consumed by unworthiness, wishing I was still ten.

Adolescence Maggie Knapp, MS/US Librarian After a Japanese proverb Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow …hello?

Snow is a Celebration Eilea Andrews Snow is a celebration a rare occasion Once in a blue moon Between the slats of my window Frost, icing my room With the first look outside I can no longer see the grass Where the warm light once shown A sign of winter at last A burst of happiness A thrill like no other It’s almost like christmas Everyone cares for one another Lightly the snow falls Overnight like a dream We run and play with pink noses Eating snowballs like whipped cream The snowflakes pepper our cheeks As we smile and gather to play My friends only on these days Not after the snow melts away But then at last the day is done And the moon shines again Our smiles fade back to frowns Tomorrow- our normal lives and friends

Yosemite Falls Collin Snyder

spring

Feeling Low Letter: Take a Walk Ruthie Mayfield Remember all those who care for you? Remember all the times you’ve looked in the mirror and smiled at your own white teeth? Take a walk outside to walk out of your head, out of the wandering thoughts with shifting foundations Because you deserve to enjoy what the day has stored up just for you Don’t listen to the voices that pummel you down into those dirt-filled ruts you have dug, Why not listen to the trees outstretching, to smell the wind blowing, to feel the weather’s pressure drop into your being? Remember that feeling, and hold it in your hand like a spirit only you know. One that only you can experience. And know, you’re a good person who deserves to enjoy all that life has to offer, And to make the most of all the Love you can give, and All the Love you can get. The clichés seem cliché until you realize regret’s power, So climb outside, up the ladder to your treehouse of memories past, present, and future And toss confetti to the wind in all directions Only you can give what you can give, so add the spice And remember all the wonderful ingredients already baked in. Know all the good will overpower all the bad, and what’s good to you is only your kind of good. So take advantage of your wisdom and understand, That life is better than you make it out to be, it really is.

Epic Simile Vinny Worsley The freckled poet gripped the branch above with a sturdy hand and began to climb, As a river crashes into rocks with a violent determination, cascading out in all directions, roaming, flailing, bound only by gravity and willpower, When the wicked current’s fancy forces it to a waterfall, vertical and steep, And the spilling liquid hoists itself over the side and back again to the frothy droplets from which it came, Then surges ahead again, following its own wild, powerful path through the unmapped stream bed, So the poet scaled the tree, with hands rubbed raw from bark and a white-toothed smile painted over freckled cheeks, now slick with joyous exertion.

Waterfall Jamie Lim

An Adopted Asian-American Tatum Duncan What is your race/ethnicity? The question glares at me on every standardized test. Immediately, I pick up my #2 pencil and bubble in Asian/Pacific Islander. But how Asian am I? Am I Asian because of my skin tone, my hair, my birthplace? Or is being Asian being connected to Asian culture and values? Am I a pretender labeling myself as Asian? My last name is not Asian; I grew up in the United States; my favorite food is cheese or chocolate, and I used to DESPISE all Asian food except rice. I’ve even been to China twice. However, despite the similar features and my minimal knowledge of the language, China and its people were not home. If anything, I felt more out of sorts there than anywhere in the States. So all of this begs the question, who am I? For almost two decades, I could never answer that question. Every other inquiry, every other test, I could answer, except that one. Desperate to find answers, I researched how other Asian-Americans felt. Most people stated that they were the hyphen between Asian and American, East and West; society forced them to choose sides. Still, how does this answer help me? I’m adopted, I have no roots: my branch is fixed to another tree. As I kept digging, searching for a textbook or an article to give me the “right” answer, I could never find anything. My experience as an adopted Asian-American in Texas is unique. So, I attempted to solve the puzzle myself and, thanks to COVID-19, I’ve had plenty of time to reflect. My conclusion, which I finally realized, is that I am 100% Chinese and 100% American. 我是中国人和美国人。I am from China; I might be the first in my family to immigrate to the United States. But, at the same time, I’m also American through the culture I represent. Now, on a standardized test, I’ll bubble in both Chinese and American. Because that is who I am, an adopted Asian American.

The Impact Zone Chloe Hoyt Did you know that you don’t have to believe every thought that comes into your head? Maybe you did, Or maybe you didn’t, Or maybe you’re somewhere in between, Like me, Still struggling with the reality of who I am, Who I could have been, And who I will one day be. I am my own worst enemy. I hurt my own feelings when I weigh my value of myself and my emotions On the same broken scale. I like to pick myself apart, Thread by thread, Til’ I’m torn, shredded, and raw. This is the impact zone -Chilled to the bone, Drowning, barely breathing, Wave after tumbling wave crests and crashes on you, Sinking you further and further into the depths of your mind, Burying you in your worst fears and your most endeavoring insecurities. The voices in your head come alive at night, Scraping sin from your bones, Laying it barren upon the table -Just to haunt you And to taunt you. But did you know that you’re not alone? Did you know that everyone gets caught in the impact zone? I know that you know That it hurts, And I’m sorry to say that it will hurt, Now and then, And sometimes, all the time, But eventually, it will end, And when it does, You’ll feel lighter, You’ll feel clean, “Washed and made white as snow,” All because you chose to make it through the impact zone.

Misunderstanding Vinny Worsley Around 3,300 words in play, 3 actors needed. Dramatic Comedy. Int. Principal’s Office The first is Elliot, who has thick glasses and sits like he’s being electrocuted every time he moves. The second— Rafael— is perched forward with his head in his hands, wearing a nondescript hoodie. They both have backpacks by their feet. The only decorations are a standard wall clock, and two posters: one that says ‘NUT FREE ZONE,’ and the other that advertises a football game. Behind them, a door opens, and an adult (preferably taller than both of them) steps out. ADULT: Hello, Elliot. Rafael. Both boys sit up straighter when their name is called, adjusting themselves. ADULT (pause): Are either of you going to tell me what happened? ELLIOT: I.. I swear, it’s all a mis— you see, it’s a misunderstanding..! Rafael snorts, and looks away. ADULT: Is something funny, young man? RAFAEL (mumbling): No. ADULT: Is something FUNNY about your classmate breaking her wrist? RAFAEL: No, there isn’t. While Rafael rolls his eyes, Elliot is nodding so hard, his glasses nearly come off. ELLIOT: Right, you’re absolutely right. I am really, truly, extremely sorry about this misunderstanding, and I will go apologize to McKenna immediately, thank you for your— ADULT (cutting him off): NOT so fast, Elliot. I’m.. very sorry to say this...(spends a second gazing at him, looking sorry)...but an apology won’t get you out of this one. Not when the parents might sue. RAFAEL: ...And a child was sent to the ER. ADULT: Ah. Yes. Right. The adult is about to go back in through the door, when Elliot explodes out of his seat, unable to contain himself any longer. ELLIOT: WAIT! Wait! Please. I- I can explain everything. Rafael sits up, suspicious and interested. The adult tilts their head. ADULT: You can? Then, by all means.

Elliot gulps, and suddenly all the lights go out, save a single spotlight that goes up on him. He steps up and forward, clasps his hands nervously. The adult and Rafael are still frozen in the dark. ELLIOT: Well. So. It’s not exactly... it’s not the kind of story you would want to tell the assistant principal. It’s the kind of story you leave bits out of. Especially right before you’re about to go to the National Robotics Competition. Which, um, I’m the captain of our team, by the way. (He clears his throat, shaking himself out of it.) Not— not that it matters. The point is... I’m not the kinda kid who would end up here. I’m.. well, in movies, I would be called.. a nerd, and shoved into lockers. Or something. But... I’m not. Not here. Here, I’m.. sort of popular. Now, anyway. I just never thought it would go this far... (Sucks in a breath and looks around him, as if the situation is only now sinking in) ...Oh God, what do I SAY? I don’t think you can plead the 5th before you can vote... and.. (There is a pause, in which he grimaces, and chews his lip) My parents always said I was a good kid. But.. now... How can I tell the truth? The lights come back up, and as they do Elliot falls back into his chair. Time unfreezes, and he is in the same position he was left in. He tries very hard to smile naturally. He fails. ELLIOT: Well, you see.. I was.. I was eating lunch. It happened at lunchtime. I had my lunchbox open.. and McKenna wanted to sit with me, but.. The floor was wet. Slippery. It isn’t that much of a story— she just fell! Rafael is looking at him incredulously, and the Adult has their arms crossed tight. ADULT: And... how did she get up on the table? ELLIOT (voice cracking): What? RAFAEL: How did McKenna get up on the table? That's where she fell from.... Or is your memory giving you trouble? Before the boys’ glaring contest can get too intense, the Adult snaps at them. ADULT: Why don’t YOU answer that question, Rafael? Don’t think it’s just him who’s on the hook. RAFAEL: Easy. McKenna was trying to get away from the crowd. ADULT: The crowd was already there by then? Elliot is angrier than a wet cat (all directed towards Rafael) but his companion is serenely smiling beside him. RAFAEL: That’s right. They came because Mr. Popular over here was handing out treats. ELLIOT (overlapping): I WAS GIVING THEM CANDY.

There is a short silence, in which the Adult’s eyebrows lift very high. Then the lights go out again, except this time the spotlight is on Rafael. He doesn’t get up out of his chair, but he does turn to the audience, and his voice becomes deep and serious. RAFAEL: Candy. Candy. Is that really the best cover this kid can come up with? It has to be his first time getting caught... He was almost professional up until now. Thankfully.., (stands up, adjusts his hoodie) So am I. Officer Rackton of the Streetsboro Police Department. I’ve been deep undercover at this school for months, trying to find the dealer behind our sudden influx of teenage drug abuse. Specifically, in over-the-counter drugs. Ritalin... Some Adderall, we think. We’ve had numerous reports of kids snorting crushed up substances, and acting suspiciously... twitchy.. for at least an hour afterwards. We traced the accounts back to here— then they sent me in to find the source. (He turns back, scoffs, and shakes his head.) I honestly can’t believe THIS is the guy doing it. You’d think.. Looking at his face, he’d wet his pants at the notion of cheating on a quiz. My 3-year-old nephew could clobber him! (Pause. He’s remembering, with a kind of disgusted awe.) But then.. There he was.. Every Thursday, handing out those.. cylinders all wrapped up in foil... You shoulda seen how the kids tore each other up to get one. (Thinks for a minute, his brow lowering. He growls.) Errrrghh, I was THIS close to getting the evidence! Then.. that McKenna girl... Who screams that much anyway? You could barely even see the bone...! Kids these days.... As he’s muttering after ‘evidence,’ he walks backward slowly and sits down, arms folded, until the lights go up in a flash. ADULT: ...Candy. ELLIOT: Y-yeah! It was just.. candy. I was.. giving it out to people, and.. They all really liked it. Then there were too many people, and... McKenna fell off a table. Somehow. RAFAEL: Remind me again, pal, what kind of candy got everyone so.. riled up? Hm? Elliot looks like he’s fighting the urge to strangle him when the Adult clears their throat. ADULT: I’d like to know that too... (eyes the boys suspiciously) AND what our friend Rafael was doing with the wad of cash. RAFAEL: I—! I was just..! Holding it for him! ELLIOT (grumbling): Slipping it into your pocket for safe-keeping, were you? RAFAEL: Oh buzz OFF, you shriveled little cockroach! ADULT: HEY! (a moment of silence) You two are making this MUCH more difficult than it needs to be! Just— You know what? You are

wasting my time. I’m phoning your teachers, let them know you’ll be late to the next class. And then.... If you can’t tell me the truth... I’m calling your parents. ELLIOT: WHAT?! NO! RAFAEL (halfheartedly): What? Oh no! ADULT: One last chance: what EXACTLY was going on in that cafeteria? Now both of them are looking away, angry and helpless. No one says anything. The audience can hear a ticking clock in the background. ADULT: Fine. Have it your way. The adult leaves them alone, back through the door behind. Both boys sigh, with different inflections. Afterwards, there’s a brief pause. ELLIOT: My step-mom’s gonna kill me. RAFAEL: Well, it’s your own fault. ELLIOT: MY fault?! How is it MY fault?! We wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t asked for the sale to start early. RAFAEL: I was just curious. ELLIOT (bitterly): Well, now, look where that got us. The conversation has naturally ended, but Rafael scoots closer, and prepares himself to speak. RAFAEL: And... since I paid you the five dollars.. And held the profits while you handed them— ELLIOT (interrupting): Hey, you begged me to let you do that. AND you tried to make off with my money! RAFAEL: —but I didn’t even get to know what I was buying! You just said ‘it’ll be worth your while!’ ELLIOT: I had a feeling about you. And look what happened! (He gestures broadly to the space around them.) I was right. RAFAEL (getting frustrated): But what was I buying? ELLIOT: Like I’d tell you that NOW! RAFAEL: You’re going to have to spill sometime, and it’ll be better for BOTH OF US if you just tell me what I’ve gotten myself into! Again, the lights dim, and there’s a spotlight on Elliot. This time he doesn’t get up from the chair, just takes his time turning towards the audience. ELLIOT: I’m not a bad person. (he pauses, like he’s almost waiting for an answer) I’m not! I’ve.. made some mistakes.. Here and there...

sometimes. What I did was dangerous, sure, but... I... I never… (He stops, struggling to control his face. He might clean his glasses and wipe his nose; his breathing is still shaky) Did.. did you know that.. The National Robotics Competition is in Florida? Florida, yeah. In three weeks, we’ll be flying down to Florida. Florida. I’ve never been there, but... My cousin went there on vacation once. Showed me pictures. It looked.. nice. I’ve never been out of state before. Never come close. We just don’t have the budget for that kind of thing.. Our family... struggles, I guess you would say. But... this... this I could...There would be scholarships, I could get money for college, be NORMAL, be...! (The rabid excitement disappears from his eyes, he suddenly looks very scared. Almost like he’s pleading with the audience) But I had to get money for the flight. Somehow. I- I had to. It was... I couldn’t tell my parents— they.. They have enough on their plate. I had to make money... somehow... I had to.. The lights fade back in, and Elliot slowly turns to Rafael. ELLIOT: Fine. I.. I took some.. snacks... from my Aunt’s bag. She visits once a week, and when she does.. She brings me them. I’ve been... selling them at school for a while now. It’s gotten really... Lots of people want them. And.. I just... RAFAEL (emotionless): You just sold them at school, for five dollars each. Elliot buries his face in his hands. ELLIOT: I didn’t think it would go this far... RAFAEL: It’s okay. I get it. We all do things we regret. (He puts a hand on Elliot’s shoulder. With his other hand, he’s drawing out a tape recorder, and presses play without looking as he speaks) You wanna talk about it? Elliot looks up, tearfully, and nods. Then the lights dim again, quickly, and Rafael turns just his head. The rest of him stays perfectly still. RAFAEL: You know... I didn’t get into undercover work because I cared about people. I’d like to say that.. But I can’t. (He tilts his face, acknowledging the regret.) I got into this because.. Well, I used to be an actor— believe it or not. I was in a couple commercials back in my late 20s... I still looked like a kid. My face didn’t change as I got older, and.. And... Then my sister overdosed. (Blinking, he dips his head, but his arms still don’t move.) I knew she had.. smoked things... when she was a teenager.. But I didn’t know what ‘gateway drugs’ were. Funny how things change, huh? (He smiles bitterly. He knows it’s not funny.) Anyway, I wanted to.. I don’t know... remember her? My brother-in-law donated half his life savings to charities that help with this sort of thing. Suggested I do the same. But... Well, I wanted to do something.. tangible, y’know? Never figured I’d end up here. Making some.. prepubescent geek cry while I try and squeeze information out of him,

to put him behind bars? (He takes a second to shake his head. Raises eyebrows, defeated.) Gateway drugs... What a world. The lights come back on, and Rafael is looking back at Elliot, still recording him discreetly with one hand. Elliot sighs shakily. ELLIOT: I know.. I could hurt people doing this... RAFAEL: Mmmmm. ELLIOT: But I need to do this! And— and no one’s been affected so far.. RAFAEL: What about McKenna? Elliot moves away from him, sensing something is wrong. He rubs his face with his sleeve, frowning defensively. ELLIOT: That... that was an accident. You saw that. And... I couldn’t have known that would happen! She just.. Really loves chocolate, I guess. RAFAEL (blinking): Wait. Chocolate? ELLIOT (chuckles faintly): Yeah— Never seen anyone go crazy for it like that, though. But.. I haven’t ever been around this much before. Rafael sits back, the hand with the tape recorder dropping limply into his backpack. RAFAEL: You were selling... special brownies? ELLIOT: No. Worse. Horrified with himself, he quivers for a moment, on the precipice. Then a sob escapes him (play this as genuine as possible while still keeping it dramatic) and he covers his eyes with one arm. ELLIOT (wailing): I was selling REESE’S! There is a silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock and Elliot’s quiet sobs. RAFAEL: Ah, quick question. (his mouth mouths something silently, eyes squinting) What. In the HELL. Are you talking about. ELLIOT (sniffs sadly): I know, I know, I could have killed someone... But just because, like, thirty kids have severe peanut allergies, DOESN’T MEAN we should NEVER have ANY food that was made with nuts! It’s ridiculous— and— and people are upset!— and I found.. a solution. From his backpack, he pulls out a cylinder wrapped in tin foil. He rips it open, and hands what appears to be a long, square-ish cookie with M&Ms in it to his companion. Rafael is completely silent, staring at him. Behind his eyes there’s a loading sign.

RAFAEL: You... mean to tell me... that you were selling Reese’s Pieces at school... and acting like THAT?! ELLIOT: Yeah..? Well, homemade Reese’s Pieces Peanutbutter Bars, if you wanna get technical. What’d you think I was doing? RAFAEL: Selling drugs. Elliot stares at him for half a second, then hiccups into a laugh. He punches his shoulder playfully, completely oblivious to the fact Rafael wasn’t joking. ELLIOT: NO WAY! I would never do something like that! (his smile wanes slightly) But.. I did collect nearly $2,000 from selling bars that can cause people to go into anaphylactic shock. And/or die. RAFAEL (chuckles dryly, eyes wide): No kidding. Jesus Christ. ELLIOT: Yeah. Like I said. Didn’t think it’d go this far. RAFAEL: Well. (he sits forward, posture more relaxed now) I gotta know. Why’d ya do it? In the long run, it’s not a huge deal, but... You might get suspended for this, y’know? The smile falls away from Elliot’s face completely, and fear seems to grip him. He scrunches down in his seat, drawing his legs up close to him. ELLIOT: Ohhh, my gosh, I forgot about that..! My step-mom’s never gonna let me go now..! RAFAEL (half joking): Evil stepmother cliché came to life, huh?” ELLIOT: What? No. My step-mom’s really nice, but.. she takes school seriously. And now I’m gonna lose all the money I’ve collected, and I won’t get to... He stops, as if remembering Rafael doesn’t know the whole story. ELLIOT: I’ve been on the Robotics Team for years. This is my first time captaining, and.. We made it to Nationals. Robotics is like.. (He looks down, embarrassed.) It’s kind of the only thing I’m... special at. (His head snaps up.) A-and in two weeks, our whole team will be getting on a plane, and going to Florida! But. Ahm. We have to pay before the flight, and... I didn’t want to ask my parents for money. RAFAEL: Why not? And... hold up a minute, wouldn’t they know about the trip anyway, if you’re leaving home? (he tries to chuckle, but he’s genuinely concerned) What? Were you.. trying to run away? ELLIOT: Nothing like that! I.. I just told them... the school was paying for it. See, my step-mom’s an English teacher, and my dad works two jobs, and we never have enough to... I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. RAFAEL: Hate to break it to you, but you kinda failed at that part.

ELLIOT (snapping): Don’t you think I know that?! I just thought— hey, if my Aunt is a baker, and everybody here’s always talking about how much they miss having chocolate bars— why not take care of it myself? (He props his chin up on his hands, glaring down at nothing in particular. He’s bitter, and trying not to cry.) But I even found a way to mess this up too. Rafael runs a hand over his face. He looks tired, and suddenly much older than he appeared before. He slowly digs into his backpack, and fishes something out. RAFAEL: Jesus, kid... If you need the money that bad, just.. take the whole damn wallet. He throws a wallet at Elliot, who fumbles before catching it. He stares at Rafael, uncomprehending. Rafael, on the other hand, is getting up from his chair, and stretching out his back. RAFAEL: Listen, I’ll talk to the assistant principal for us both, ‘kay? Make sure to get you out of trouble. ELLIOT: I- thank— (He stops himself, peering at Rafael.) But— why? You were so.. eager to be mixed up in all this. Why? You... you followed me around for.. Like, a week, asking to help me with sales. Rafael smiles, and for the first time in the show, it seems to come from a place of genuine, good-natured amusement. He shrugs. RAFAEL: Yeah, well. I thought you were selling drugs. Elliot gives him a very odd look, but doesn’t seem to question it. He instead gets his backpack together, flips briefly through the wallet, then stands up awkwardly, sticking his hands deep into his pockets. He smiles shyly. ELLIOT: I.. Um. Thanks, Rafael. Thanks for... Just thanks. RAFAEL (nods at him): Take care of yourself, Elliot. After Elliot exits the stage, Rafael is left alone. Even though there’s no spotlight, he addresses the audience. RAFAEL: Don’t let this fool you. I’m not.. I’m not a real good person. (he chuckles) Definitely not a good cop, that’s for sure. Jesus. Can’t believe those idiots back at the station let me out in the field, no trainin’ or anythin’.. Jesus…(He picks up the Reese’s bar behind him, appraises it, then sets it back down on the chair) But.. (stares pensively off the way Elliot left) I hope that kid does well. He.. Mmm. If the worst thing he ever does is sell knock-off Snickers, he’s.. He’s in good shape. Rafael starts towards the door behind him, opens it, then stops and turns back to the audience. He smiles, half-chuckling at himself. RAFAEL: Captain of the Robotics Team.

The door closes behind him, and although the lights don’t go out, this is presented like the end of the show. Then, creaking, the door opens, and the Adult sneaks out. They look around, stealthily, then lunge to the floor, messily gobbling up the Reese’s like they haven’t eaten in weeks Blackout, and curtain.

Surreal Phones Ruby Ross

Holy Maiden Henry Hamilton Oh simmering darl, cannot you breathe? How the dirt would open for you I plead. That English fire forced down your seethe. Woe upon their devilish engles’ greed. Today you fly and float ‘round my head, dear. Your rest you take, peaceful in my sole soul. I jump and flail to try to catch here. Still, you drift beyond a lover’s role. Maiden mine! Don’t go so far. Please stay. A while yet we could have together. My reach only fades with love away. Holy, I want you more than were ever. Alone now. I could not touch a goddess, The ephemeral beautiful priestess.

Paradojas Rachel Thompson, US Faculty –¡Ay, las malditas gitanas! No puedes ir a ningún lado sin que te molesten. ¿Por qué tienen que estar aquí en el paseo marítimo? Cada vez que quiero pasar por aquí no puedo porque siempre tengo que esquivarlas. –En serio, no seas así. ¿Por qué te importa lo que hacen ellas? –Bueno, no es que me preocupe tanto su oficio. Es más bien que me molesta que tengas que evitarlas para que no hagas contacto visual con ellas, porque si sus ojos alcanzan a ver los tuyos entonces te van a robar. –Ya te escucho, pero… ¿cómo sabes que eso no es lo que te has convencido a creer y, en realidad, es solamente tu manera de justificar el miedo que tienes de ellas? Porque, por mi parte, me fascinan las gitanas de acá. Es más, muchas veces he deseado ser gitana hasta creer que lo soy. ¿No te parece genial como construyen sus propias comunidades donde quieran y lo hacen con los desechos de los demás? Me encanta cómo crean sus propios espacios íntimos dentro de la ciudad. Cuando veo sus hogares escondidos entre los árboles a lo largo de las carreteras o en la playa, protegidos por unas rocas grandes que hacen de muralla, siento un deseo extraño de quedarme allí. Además, prácticamente todos los días cuando cruzo el puente de Lusitania para llegar a casa me paro a un lado y miro hacia abajo a las pequeñas viviendas en el fondo del río seco y quiero tanto escapar de este mundo para vivir en el suyo. –Ya, pero, ¿por qué querrías vivir en un mundo cuyos habitantes son ladrones? Tú tienes una conciencia que no te permite robar ni un caramelito del supermercado. Unas semanas después, Catalina, muerta de cansancio y sed, llega al parque grande en el centro de la ciudad buscando refugio. Había decidido ir a la capital para el fin de semana. De modo que ayer por la tarde llegó y por la noche salió para conocer su vida nocturna. Luego, hoy, antes de llegar al parque, estuvo caminando durante varias horas por los dos cerros históricos de la capital. Así pues, ya en el parque, Catalina se acerca a un kiosco con la intención de comprar algo para eliminar su sed inmensa. Tiene muchas ganas de tomar agua. Sin embargo, una vez que está allí decide pedir coca-cola por razones estéticas y nostálgicas. La coca-cola en aquel kiosco viene en botellas de vidrio de un tamaño más pequeño que lo normal. La mujer del kiosco le abre el refresco con el destapador y le dice: “Tení que tomarlo aquí en el parque, cachai, para luego me lo devolví, poh”. Catalina asiente con la cabeza, entonces busca un banco en un sitio

tranquilo y sombreado. Se sienta apartada de las muchedumbre y admira la coca-cola en su mano. –Son preciosas estas botellitas, ¿no? Es que me encantan. Me dan la sensación de estar levemente separada del mundo. Me siento que estoy en un siglo ya pasado o en el ambiente de un libro que leí recién, aunque no me acuerdo de cuál. –Después de haber tomado bastante vino anoche y caminar durante horas hoy, deberías haberte comprado agua en vez de ésta –dice Catalina. Catalina estira su cuello dejando caer hacia atrás la cabeza, y, en ese momento, ve los ojos de la mujer que viene caminando hacia ella: –Creo que viene una gitana. ¡Qué bien!, sólo quería estar sin molestias para descansar un rato. Pues, no le hagas caso, ya sabes, no la mires. –No estoy totalmente segura, ya que la he visto por un instante nada más, pero, creo que es bellísima. –Ay, Cata, por favor. Y si lo es, da igual, una ladrona guapa sigue siendo ladrona. –Otra vez con este discurso. ¿Tienes razón?, o simplemente miedo de enfrentarte a algún sentimiento. De repente, Catalina coge un escalofrío y siente por todo su cuerpo una sensación placentera provocada por las manos de la gitana enredadas en su cabello largo. Cuando la gitana vio a Catalina con su melena dorada no podía resistirse, la tenía que acariciar, pero, ahora al tocarla, nota de inmediato el calor y confianza de la chica y así sigue hasta pararse delante de ella mientras que sus manos permanecen en su cabello. Catalina se da cuenta de la sensualidad que emite su cuerpo, ve la belleza hipnotizadora de la mujer que la toca y ahora le habla. La gitana tiene la piel trigueña y perforantes ojos cristalinos. Lleva un vestido liviano verde oliva cuyo tirante izquierdo cae sobre su hombro ligeramente musculoso. La tela fina del vestido apenas cubre su pecho y permite que se vea la forma de sus pezones. Con los ojos fijos en ella, Catalina va descubriendo cómo cada detalle de esta mujer es un estimulante que despierta todos sus sentidos. Siente que tiene confianza con la gitana y quiere acercarse lo más posible a ella. La desea. También la gitana tiene un deseo ardiente de conocer todo elemento de la chica. –¡Qué bella eres; qué guapa estás; qué hermosura! –le dice. Pero Catalina no le responde, ni siquiera la oye; ha entrado en trance. Entonces la gitana se sienta a su lado, muy junto de ella y le toma sus manos. Le cuenta de su vida y de su destino, según las palmas de sus manos, aunque nunca deja de mirarle a los ojos. Catalina empieza a sentirse liviana. De repente sabe que ya no puede acallar más el deseo de intimarse más con esa bella cara delante de la

suya, la de la gitana que le está tocando las manos y los brazos cariñosamente. Entonces agarra las muñecas de la gitana y se tapa la cara con las manos de ella, cierra los ojos mientras respira su olor y saborea su piel. Cuando abre los ojos se encuentra sola, muy relajada y a gusto. –Me parece que este viaje fue lo que me hacía falta porque no me acuerdo de la última vez en que he estado tan bien como ahora, por fin no siento esa opresión y angustia. Catalina traga las últimas gotas de la coca-cola, todavía tiene mucha sed, por lo tanto decide entrar en el WC y rellenar la botellita con agua del grifo. Bebe el agua hasta saciar la sed y entonces vuelve al kiosco para entregar la botellita a la vendedora. Cuando llega al kiosco la mujer está haciendo un gesto de negación con el dedo índice a una mujer gitana que quiere comprar algo, pero sus dinero no le alcanza. Mientras Catalina entrega la botella vacía a la señora, mira los ojos de la gitana. –No sé porque siempre tenía que esconderse de las gitanas antes –le dice la gitana. Luego, de una manera muy humilde, a Catalina le pide unos centavos para poder comprar su refresco. –Sí, claro … a ver qué es lo que tengo de monedas –dice Catalina mientras empieza a abrir el bolsillo de su bolso donde guarda el dinero. Pero en su bolso no hay ni un sólo centavo.

Taking Out the Trash Ruthie Mayfield I step outside, holding the heavy plastic bag an arm’s length away as I shut the mud room door behind me. I breathe in and hear a sweet little bird twittering around the live oak and crepe myrtle trees that line our backyard, and the bird remains unseen. I look past the tall trees, into the gap that reveals our “backhouse”, our best family friends/neighbor's yard enclosed in a separate neighborhood. But the separation of neighborhoods provides no separation at all between the two families. A door was cut to connect our two homes in the adjoining fence the first week we moved into the house, and since the constant exchange of people and borrowed eggs and escaped dogs was a regular, the “backhouse” was an apt name. My family incidentally moving behind great friends was such a fortunate thing to happen, and one of the many things I will happily count among the blessings in my life. I continue to walk towards the black iron fence and mechanically open the gate’s latch. I’m just wearing socks without shoes, tiptoeing down the concrete steps. I turn to assure myself that the gate behind me has been swung back hard enough to securely lock it and keep my spotted, pretty and sweet dog safe inside. Once I’m down the steps I hear a whining sound, and look down as the cat (the name he is commonly and humbly referred to as), slips with little difficulty through the bars of the fence and looks back up at me. He doesn’t need to be kept inside like our dog, and he gladly presents himself as the cause of the whining noise. I had just fed him not two minutes before. I speak to him affectionately before stepping over his all-black body and towards the bin, with an overcast sky and warm wind covering and watching it all, bringing pleasure to the whole of us. Now to open the heavy lid I have to pull it toward myself out of its resting place so I can prop it up against the gate. I then sling the bag slightly backward and then forward, holding my breath with a greater show of difficulty than necessary, into the already full trash bin. It lands cushioned inside and jostles its new neighbors cordially and with a plastic-y sound. I close the lid and sigh. I look around at the gray clouds, taking it all in, feeling the familiar breeze of winter gliding into spring, already conjuring up exciting promises of summer to come. What a world we live in. What a sky, what sounds, what joy. What feelings a step outside the door never fails to bring. What a blessing to those who know to see it. I love taking out the trash.

The Hands Chelsea Morrow

Rowyn Don Carlson, US Faculty I watch your little face take shape In photos that your mother sends by text. Your pale blue eyes, wide open, gape And look ahead, can’t wait to see what’s next.

summer

Joshua Tree Collin Snyder

Killdeer Austin Johnson, US Faculty Our sisters both played five-pitch; we did not, Chasing instead the little, long-legged birds That ran–not flew–across the playground’s hot Mid-July pavement. You did not know the words For what we hunted, called them road-runners. Rigging makeshifts weapons from the twigs That littered the field nearby, we spent our summer Hunting them together, just two kids Chasing the running birds. Not violent, Not really: we never even got close To catching oen, but all our time was spent Pursuing what we didn’t know we’d lose. By mid-September, Grandma’d set me straight: She’d said to call them killdeer, for their sound. I’d hoped to teach you that. I was too late. When five-pitch season finally came around, Your sister had switched teams, and you were gone. I had to chase the killdeer all alone.

Hooded Merganser Jamie Lim

The Historic Bog House (excerpt) Henry Hamilton We were offered the option of several locations for our final vacation. It so happens that she and I were the only ones to pick the Historic Bog House. We arrived separately to the car place. An invalid waited there to ferry us through the Historic Bog. Our suitcases were taken from us and placed in the trunk. She sat up front--I sat behind. We did not chat very readily. It was an awkward bumpy ride. The road must have been impossible to maintain, as we were jostled endlessly on our way in. Around us, the bog was muggy and viciously humid. The various noises known to dwell within bogs were oddly silent and the noon sun ushered in more heat, whether the window was open or not. The ugliness of the bright sky only made the trip more unpleasant. The inside of the car smelled like my mother, and I was glad to leave it. When we got out of the vehicle, I discovered that we had not been driving on a road at all. Instead, a muddy track led back behind the wheels of the car through the bog. She went inside immediately and I was left to tip our driver. He rolled away into the bog again, sloshing all the liquid beneath him. I picked up my own suitcases and turned around to survey the Historic Bog House. It’s an old house, obviously. The Historic Bog House is built on an almost miraculous dot of dry ground to the southwest of the center of the Historic Bog. It appears to have been fashioned from the waterlogged wood of the nearby trees, although the outward planks are unrecognizable from constant sun-bleaching and soaking in the wet air. There is a wraparound porch with a cover, though I don’t think most of it would support weight anymore. A good degree of the structure is conceivably rotten. Fungus likely grows within many of the wooden pieces of that house. It was three stories in total, and it had an attic too.

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Purpose Marga Lee Is the reason I am here To love But I want to be sure I can be happy But if I reach out it is uncertain And it is true that It is better To be cared for Than To care for It is better I know that Someone Will support My choices To be loved Will make me happier than To love Note: This poem is meant to be read from the top to the bottom, then in reverse, starting with the last line.

Abstract Nature Caroline Lacina

Chernozem Martin Krylov The murky water around me began to bubble. I was terrified. The thoughts of a submerged whomping willow or river monster rushed into my head. The long branches or sharp teeth pulling me underwater. Heaps of bubbles now rushed from the depths, and I began to sink. I took one last look at the sights of my childhood -- the pine forests and the lush plains, the adventures and experiences that shaped me. Then, as I was lost in my thoughts, the water completely engulfed me and my stylish pink baby floaty. Although not the best boat ever, that flimsy piece of plastic was a memorable part of my adventures in my ancestors’ homeland. Every summer, I traveled to Russia to visit my family's roots in a village in the Central Black Earth Region, known for its chernozem, a fertile rich black soil. We lived in the oldest house on the block, which lacked many of the amenities that I enjoyed in the US. With no running water, AC, or internet, I entertained myself in different ways than I normally would, hence the pink baby floaty. My friends in Russia introduced me to their daily activities and culture. They live a simple lifestyle and do not have access to the same technology as a modern American teenager. But it was because of the lack of technology that I was able to learn so much about their way of life, and to learn much more about myself as well. Not only did they have a different language and traditions, but the ways we interacted with each other and with the environment around us was also different. From digging in the dark chernozem to climbing incredibly tall birch trees, the freedom was exciting. Some days I woke up extremely early, literally before the rooster crowed, and set out to go fishing. I carefully hiked through the dew-covered plain with excitement for what lay ahead. Reaching the river, wet from head to toe, I would take off my shirt and pants and slowly and quietly waddle into the quiet, glassy morning water. Carefully, I set a maggot on the hook and cast out my line, patiently waiting for the bobber to jerk. Other days, I would set off into the field of birch trees to hunt for mushrooms. Walking with a knife in one hand and a basket in the other, I searched for hidden fungi. Sometimes a lonely and spongy boletus edulis sat hiding below a tree or a group of lactarius resimus in the lush tall grass. Carefully examining the mushroom a second time to make sure it wasn’t poisonous, I cut it at its base to protect its mycelium for the future. This thrill of the hunt and exploration lured me in every day. Similarly to how the chernozem allowed almost anything to grow, the remote environment fostered my creativity. If I wanted to entertain a housecat, I would need a toy which I did not have. So instead I

invented another form of “cat-fishing” where I would take a fishing rod and tie to it a crumpled piece of newspaper. The cats would attack the dangling paper as I let them run with it or pulled them in as I would a fish. If I wanted to set a fishing trap, I would need a boat which I did not have. So instead I used an inflatable pink inner tube. (It worked until it didn’t, when a slight puncture sunk my oh-so-fabulous Titanic.) Although I enjoy my life in the US, Russia will always be a second home. Its different and sometimes uncomfortable lifestyle has given me a new perspective, bringing me closer to my family and the culture of previous generations. A part of me will always be like the chernozem, in its dark richness, holding the histories and experiences that have grown into me.

Recursive Tree Philip Taylor, US Faculty

Self-Portrait Philip Taylor, US Faculty

Color Block Art Ruby Ross

Skipping Boy Coco Davis

Play Date Vinny Worsley The church attic was cramped, almost claustrophobic, smelling like sycamore trees and stale air. Dust hung suspended in wavering sunbeams, acting as barely visible reminders of the room’s disuse. The floorboards bowed and scraped under Tyler’s light-up sneakers. He shushed them noisily. “Hey!” he whispered to the floor, assuming a stern face. “Quiet! Ellie said be quiet.” “And I meant that for you, silly, not the creaky floor,” Ellie’s voice admonished from ahead of him.

Tyler wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then stood up tall to see what she was doing, hunched over like that.. and why there was ketchup on the floor. “Ellieee.., What’re you doing?” “Be patient,” she grunted, turning back to the floor. “Promise— This’ll be way better than Sunday School.” Tyler didn’t ask any more questions. Partially because he didn’t really like Sunday School (incense made him sneeze), and partially because a reddish glow had started emanating from the floorboards. “Whoa..,” Tyler breathed, stepping towards it. A hand caught him by the cuff of his itchy dress shirt. “Ah, buddy, don’t do that. See that? Don’t step on that. Okay?” He looked down at the ring of ketchup (watery ketchup) then back up at his older sister’s face. Her cheekbones were lit up with eerie scarlet light; her glasses vibrated on her nose, the frames quaking as something jostled the flimsy walls. “Ohhhkay, brace yourself..,” Ellie said, protectively winding a hand around Tyler’s shoulders. Normally he would have shaken her off (he was a big boy now), but something big was tearing apart the floorboards in front of them. “WHO DARES SUMMON ME,” a cavernous voice cried from somewhere below. Ellie stepped forward, pressing a finger to the papercut on her palm. “I did,” she said calmly, “and you shall do my bidding.” “YOU?” The formless thing said, and growled like a thousand voices crying out in fury. “AGAIN?!” “Yeah, again,” Ellie snorted, crossing her arms. “Now hush. I’m not paying you to talk.” The thing in the circle snarled and heaved itself up from the floor. It was bigger than the horses at the petting zoo, and twice as toothy. Now that the red glow was fading, Tyler could clearly see tusks jutting out from a deep slit (that could’ve been a mouth) that stretched on until the body split off into clawed feet bigger than his head. “Are you the boogeyman?” Tyler asked. “What?” The beast said, and its obsidian black eyes (the size of basketballs) locked onto Tyler, and it’s upper ‘lip’ curled. It whipped its spiny head around to glare down at his sister. “WHAT IS THIS?” It yelled at Ellie, ignoring his question completely. “An even SMALLER child?! This is insulting!” “So be insulted,” she shrugged. “I don’t care. Just don’t whine about it— I gave you the blood.” “Blood, blood, always blood…,” the thing hissed, and began pacing back and forth in an angry, agitated way. “YOU PROMISED ME SOULS!”

“Yeah yeah, later,” Ellie scoffed, then she crouched down to Tyler’s level. “Hey, buddy, look at me.” He looked at her. She fidgeted a smile. “Sooo… Remember my girlfriend? Amelia? Well I.. um, need to bring her something, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.. So… I’d like you to meeeet... uh…. What was your name again?” “SEITHONYAMOR THE WRATHFUL,” came the anguished howl from inside the circle. “DESTROYER OF WORLDS, LORD TO—” “Call ‘em Seth,” Ellie interrupted with a smile. “And he’s your new playmate.” “Oh.” Tyler looked dubiously over to where the terrible beast was quivering in rage. He wrinkled his nose. “But it doesn’t look real friendly.” “That’s because he doesn’t know you yet!” She cried encouragingly. “He’ll be nice!” “NO, HE WON’T!” “YES, he WILL,” Ellie said through gritted teeth. She turned back to Tyler and kissed the top of his head. “Okay. I gotta go— Amelia’s shift just ended. Have fun, yeah?” “Okaaay..,” Tyler hummed, his eyebrows scrunching together. Ellie looked at him for a minute, then kissed him again. “You’ll be fine, buddy. I’ve done this before.” He watched her leave the room with a concerned frown pushing his cheeks. When the attic door shut, Tyler turned to the beast with the black eyes and infinite teeth. “Do you know how to play Go Fish?” A frustrated growl was his only answer. The creature— Seth, Ellie had said, shook out its spiky mane and shuffled its claws on the wooden floor. “This is just embarrassing..,” It muttered, head turned away, “Last time I ever answer a summons from FLORIDA, that’s for sure..” Tyler shrugged. He sat down on the creaky floor, right outside the circle of what he was now thinking might NOT be ketchup, and took out his bag of toys. Army men and plastic dinosaurs clattered across the floor. Seth’s head snapped up. “What are you doing?” It demanded through a mouthful of fangs. Tyler popped his lips and grabbed a purple stegosaurus. “Playing.” “...Why?” “Because it’s fun.” He considered for a moment, then nudged a brontosaurus towards the circle. “Here. You can be the yellow one.”

The thing snatched up the toy in one gigantic claw, and held it close to its face. “This…,” Seth rumbled, turning the plastic creature over in its palm, “Is… useless.” “Your mom’s useless!” Tyler fired back, offended. There was a long spurt of humid air that was probably a sigh. “You haven’t the foggiest clue as to what is going on, have you?” Seth kept using fancy words that Tyler didn’t understand, so he didn’t bother answering. He just hummed to himself, and picked up his toys. “The strong dinosaur raised its head and roared…” Tyler roared quietly, how a dinosaur in church should. “And then he saw the other dinosaurs, an’ they were his friends, an’...” “One of them ate him. End of story.” Tyler set down the triceratops and frowned up at Seth’s endlessly black eyes. “NO, no. These ones are his friends!” “Fine,” it snarled, and picked up the yellow brontosaur in one clawed hand. “THIS thing eats him. The end, go away.” “What!” Tyler giggled at the absurdity. “THAT one can’t eat him! It’s a veggie-dino!” Seth closed its eyes like his Dad did after a long day at work. “Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.” “Nooo, I’m not! The brontosaurus only eats veggies, so it can’t eat my dinosaur,” Tyler explained smugly. He liked when he got to tell dino facts. It made him feel smart. “But…,” the monster paused, tilting its head a little too far. “They would eat each other, if they were sentient, yes? So.. what is the purpose of this?” “I.. dunno what that means,” he admitted. “But I can show you how to play pretend, if you want.” There was a short pause. “Fine,” Seth said after a while, “Not like I’m able to GO anywhere.” An hour later, when Ellie knocked on the attic door, Tyler and the beast were engaged in a violent war of army guys VS. plastic dinosaurs, and it looked like the dinos (aided by acorn bombs) were about to win. “An’ then, the triceratops goes all POW POW BLAMO and- and the army guys are all AAAH NOO…” “And subsequently, their entire left flank is taken out! The Tyrannosaurus Rex approaches to devour their remains…” “You two having fun?” Ellie asked amusedly from her spot leaning against the doorframe. Seth dropped the toy like it had burned its hand. Tyler just laughed, and ran over to hug his sister.

“AW YEAH WE DID! We talked, and played dinosaurs, and I got to be the purple one, and—” “That sounds like a great play date,” she cut him off with a grin. “Buuuut… Dad said he was gonna get us ice cream! Wanna go and tell him what flavor you want?” “YESYESYES!! OK! Bye bye, Seth!” Tyler cried, and raced from the room, forgetting about the bag of toys in his overflowing excitement for ice cream. Ellie shook her head then turned back to the now-dried circle of her own blood. “Alright, Seithonyamor. You are hereby released from your contract.” A hazy red began filtering up through the floorboards, and the beast’s form began slowly melting away into shadows. “Wait,” it said, twisting to keep the shadows from engulfing its head. “Can I… Will I be able… Will you ever.. summon me again?” Ellie had enough sense not to laugh. “I might,” she acknowledged, then allowed her face to break into a smile. “See you next Sunday, Seth.” The monster’s hideous fangs contorted into an almost-grin, and then it was gone. The blood had filtered down into the baseboards, and the candles she had lit had been snuffed out. Then Ellie heard her little brother’s voice from downstairs, and soon she was gone too. All that was left in the dusty attic of their church were dust mites, creaky floorboards, and a bag of toys that was now missing one yellow brontosaurus.

Chance Encounters Catherine Zarr

An Ode to Consonance Emerson Smith O’ jovial companion, you melodious songbird, your golden honey resonance, is the sweetest I’ve ever heard You zenith of my heart, you bring about a boon, your expensive repertoire, your cadence quick and soon O’ righteous love of mine, with such cheery disposition, your sweetest note could wake the dead, raise the sickly out of bed, cure the world of all it’s woes, turn bud into a blooming rose The scent of spruce maple and earth, the rosin’s coarse aroma, a value of inestimable worth, perhaps just to a certain persona Smooth and slender hatchback, your shoulder burnished, your skin unblemished, your details sharp and ornately furnished Your saddest tune it strikes my heart, the mournful nature of your strings, a soulful rhythm that tears apart, a serenade to every living thing Why, might you ask, do I admire you so, violin? simply put, i suppose it’s the way it is and always has been for consonance knows no bounds, it only crescendos

Resonating Tones of Epic Proportions Emerson Smith A child cadenced of heart, picked up their violin, caressing the shoulder and the scroll. Just as one gently picks up the most delicate of butterflies, cautiously with deliberation. The wings shining with potential, a tune in its spirit. They tend to it in hopes they’re granted a gift not of monetary value, but rather a sense of delight in knowing it’s capabilities. You cultivate its essence for longer than one can measure with time. And finally in letting go, you find a sense of peace in knowing you can’t look back. So the child picked up the vessel of concord and looked ahead, for one can’t look back.

Squiggly Building Sofia Klein

Glass Details Ruby Ross

Laguna Arden Grant Oh Laguna, the instant my feet met your balmy sands A love commenced that remains indelible, For you are an eternal summer, A falsified reality I could never leave behind. People say that you should never look back, But my mind lingers on you long after summer has gone. The sublime beauty of Table Rock will always be my freedom, And the smell of salt air my escape from life’s mundane routine. I love that we both love hot July nights on Thousand Steps Beach, The glare of neon lights like rain on the Pacific Coast Highway, The crashing of midnight waves onto Wood’s Cove, And the abandon of no responsibilities. So I ask you to keep me not only for vacation, But for now and for forever. I’m yours if you want me, But you will always be mine.

Black and White Shell Kate Roemer

Acknowledgements We hope you enjoyed your trip and will travel with us again soon! We had a fantastic time putting this journey together and are honored you chose us as your guides. This tour would not have been possible without the contributions of all who submitted to the magazine this year. Thank you for your creativity, passion, and bravery, we are constantly impressed by the beauty and humanity of what you create. You add the warm tones to fall, the chilling blues to winter, the rich pastels to spring, and the vibrancy to summer. Additionally, endless thank yous to the Thalia editorial staff for your time, dedication, and expertise. We appreciate all the hours you’ve spent reviewing dozens upon dozens of submissions and giving your invaluable feedback. Especially, we’d like to thank the genre editors Henry Hamilton, Chloe Hoyt, Mark Hart, AC Anderson, Lia Hoang, Coco Davis, Ruby Ross, and Tevy Sek; your commitment and enthusiasm has gone a long way in making this edition of Thalia come to life! Finally, to quote Lia, “she is beauty, she is grace, she is Ms. Sellers.” Ms. Sellers, we are perpetually grateful for your guidance and wisdom, you are the beating heart of Thalia, and none of this would be possible without you! Your patience, willingness to help, and constant support has helped us every step of the way, so thank you! thank you!! thank you!!! And to you, the travelers, we thank you for taking the time to explore with us. We hope that along this journey you found a piece of yourself calling out alongside some of these incredible works, and that you will come back again soon! With love and gratitude, Your Head Editors, Catherine and Lia