GRIFFIN2 0 1 3

cover art by Ariel Harley Goldfish

Griffin 2013

The Art and Literature Publication by the Students of the Spartanburg Day School

Editors: Jade Alford

Aidan Baxter-Ferguson Jesseca KusherGray Phillips Anna Pruett

Hannah Siegel Ella Webster

Advisors: Mrs. Roberta Camp Mr. Michael CorbinMrs. Nancy Corbin

Caroline Turner Azaleas

Creative Writing Class

Writers

Jade AlfordThe River Below

The Importance of FamilyThe End

The Importance of Being a Trash CanRun

Aidan Baxter-FergusonThe Plank

When Everyone Else Had GoneThe Disappointing Quest

Jesseca KusherA Crow Calls Out

CatwalkLost Darkness, New Life

The KnowingUnder

Gray PhillipsWinds of DespairA Christmas Story

CourtyardThe FoxOcean

Anna PruettMay

InsomniacSelf-Portrait

Meow

Hannah Siegel Cuba

Christmas Spirit

Ella WebsterThis is Halloween

Strong ArmsCold

Shaken

Visual Artists

Rebeka Wellmon, Clemson GirlMitch Licht, Club Cougar

Jade Alford, BreakingHannah Siegel, Sunset

Hannah Siegel, SupermoonZeyang Li, Tower

Hannah Siegel, RiverKiersten Roush, Fly Back

Ariel Harley, PonderRose Cochran, My Boyz and MeHannah Siegel, Spring Flowers

Xuehan Feng, LampCecilia Shen, American Impression

Hannah Siegel, CubaHannah Siegel, Stiltwalkers

Hannah Siegel, WindowCecilia Shen, Escape

Hannah Siegel, Leaves

CONTENTS

Writer’s Retreat

Writers

Aidan Baxter-FergusonArthur, Surfer Revolutionary

That $%*@$* Log

Nathan CopperwheatThe Ritual of Love

Tentacles:The Tale of Jim

Gavin RoserDances With Wolves

RhymeWednesday’s Hike

John McConnellLetter

The Grey Ocean

Abigail TillmanBIID: Body Integrity Identity Disorder

Ella WebsterModern Family

Visual Artists

Rebecca Dunker, ConflictCecilia Shen, BicycleAriel Harley, Robot

Daniel Moore, Still Life with Birdhouse

Odds and Ends

Writers

Nathan CopperwheatThe Low Wail of the Ceiling Fan

I Sin to FeelA Thousand Timid Trepidations

Ansley GlennIf Your ‘Yes’ is ‘Yes’

Nathan LovelaceA Quote About Mondays

Sally McBrideIn Her Monster’s Head

Hunter PopkinObverse

Gavin RoserVocab. D Units 7 & 8

Caroline TurnerMisery

The New Dream

Julia WallThere is Nothing That Isn’t Art

Visual Artists

Rose Cochran, FiguresRose Cochran, Love

Matt Henderson, GuitarXuehan Feng, Self-PortraitRebeka Wellmon, Eva at 12

Elizabeth Speal, House and HomeReed Sanchez, Marker Magic

Hannah Siegel, BallerinaJack Sheehan, Baby Hippo

Rebeka Wellmon, Let’s BeachZeyang Li, Skyscraper

Cover art:Ariel Harley, Fish

photo, front:Caroline Turner, Azaleas

Caricatures of the membersof the Creative Writing Class:

Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

The River BelowJade Alford

I hear something that sounds like the loud roar of water. I have one more sharp bend to go before I find out what the mysterious noise is. I push past the dense green leaves and vines that obscure my view and see a waterfall. But it isn’t just any waterfall. It’s the most magnificent body of water I’ve ever seen. The fluffy white water crashes on the rocks below it before it settles down and joins the river. There is a stone path that floats upon the water that leads me to a small cove, an opening behind the falls. I sit there and look at the beauty distorted by the flowing water. Small water droplets jump, sticking to my clothes and face until they dry up and sink into my skin. This is nice, peaceful, but I long for more. I want to be in the water, to be a part of it. I make the jump. Down the waterfall. I become the waterfall until I too crash onto the rocks below and join the river.

Jade Alford Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

The Importance of FamilyJade Alford

In a crib, tossing and turning, and all alone.The darkness terrifies the child.The shapes in her room turn to monsters in her eyes, and there is no hopeUntil a bright light appears, a beacon of hope for the child.The light is a woman who lifts the child into her arms.A stranger becomes a hero.

The little girl now all grown up,is much too cool for childish games.Fourteen years old and ready to be on her own, but someone holds her down.She thinks she knows what’s best, as all teenagers do.Youthful angst has built a wall between herself and the world.A hero becomes a foe.

A young woman drives down a familiar streetThat she hasn’t visited in many years.She arrives at a house full of memories,And the same light radiates from the door where her mother stands.“I’ve missed you mom,” She whimpers.A foe becomes a friend.

Rebeka Wellmon Clemson Girl

THE ENDJade Alford

The light had been turned out. The suspended silence was almost too much to bear. My eyes shifted from the flickering candle on my left, to the floor. My heart beat faster than any heart should be able. Then it happened, Beth let out the most blood curdling scream she possibly could. “THE GHOST CAME OUT OF THE GRAVE AND GRABBED HER! And she was never seen again, the end!” Beth and Monica laughed so hard that they hardly noticed that I was still on the floor. Beth looked over at me, “It’s just a story Sophie! Don’t be such a scaredy-cat” She blew out the candles and turned the main light on. We all jumped and let our eyes adjust to the glaring light. “I’m not,” I snapped wiping the tears from my eyes, “I was laying down because your story was so boring.” Beth rolled her eyes, then a smug smile formed on her face. “Well, if you’re not afraid, then let’s go to the graveyard and re-enact the story I just told.” My eyes widened. “I would, but I’m so tired” I said letting out a fake yawn. Monica then started to make chicken noises at me. After several minutes of this, I finally cracked. “Fine! Let’s go!” I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Beth and Monica jumped from the bed shouting and giggling. We walked to the graveyard arm-in-arm in arm. I hesitated occasionally, second guessing my decision to go on this little adventure. Before I could turn around and sprint home, we had arrived. The moss covered cemetery sign seemed to grab me as we walked under it. I let out a breath, it spread through the air quickly in a fog, then disappeared. The full moon was the only thing lighting our path and the gravestones we were examining carefully. “We need to find a really old one, like in the story!” Monica shouted. Then she was quiet for a minute. “Guys get over here! I found it!” We ran down the steep hill that led into the woods. A large, white, mold covered tombstone sat in the middle of four towering trees. I’ll admit, I was terrified, but I wasn’t going to back down. I maneuvered my way through the bushes on my hands and knees, the thorns grabbing my clothes as I went. I stood up, and looked at the monstrous stone in front of me. “What’s the date?” Beth asked. “I’m not sure, it’s pretty worn down...It looks like 1716.” “Perfect!” She screeched, almost laughing. “Now stand on it and say the chant from the story!” I mumbled out some words, shaking with fear. Then I waited. After a while I turned around to Beth and Monica and shrugged. “I guess we should just go! It’s not going to work.” I shouted. I could see Monica growing impatient. She jumped over the bushes to the grave where I was standing. I ran, I was afraid of what she might do. She planted her feet firmly on the grave and chanted. “Ancient spirits from long ago, rise again from down below!” The ground shook, Monica’s eyes lit up. Beth grabbed my hand and began to run away. I turned around to see Monica one more time. The ghost came out of the ground and grabbed her, and she was never seen again.

Mitch Licht Club Cougar

The Importance of Being a Trash Can Jade Alford

Q: Do you think you’re important?A: I’m very important. You’ve never thought about that before, have you? Without me all of your garbage would just be thrown about, slowly turning your house, school, or workplace into a landfill. People never give me the respect I deserve. Have you seen some of the things that I have had to contain? Sometimes for days? For example: leftovers. If you didn’t want that fish head, what makes you think I want it? I thought the garbage disposal was supposed to take care of things like that. It’s disgusting.Q: What would you do if you weren’t a trash can?A: Please, what would you do if I weren’t a trashcan?Q: Okay, last question. Why do you think people overlook your importance?A: It’s because of those recycling bins! They think they’re so much better than me because they “Save the Environment.” They sicken me. What do they have to hold? Cans? Cardboard? It’s pathetic.So next time you throw something away, think about the importance of being a trash can.

Mitch Licht Club Cougar

RunJade Alford

Meg had heard about the scary old mansion down the street. Rumor had it that the creepy graveyard behind ol’ man Jenkins’ house is where he buries all of the people he’s killed. Now, Meg didn’t believe all of that, but when her best friend Shelby proposed that they check it out, she couldn’t refuse. They planned it perfectly. Meg slept at the Shelby’s house, knowing that her parents wouldn’t be home. Next they snuck out, armed with all of the necessary tools: a flashlight, walkie talkies, hedge trimmers, and a couple of Shelby’s favorite granola bars. They walked down to Jenkins’ house, guarded by the colossal fence. Luckily for the girls, the only thing that kept them from getting inside is the chain around the fence’s gate, that broke easily with the help of the hedge trimmers. They opened the gate and jumped when it crashed loudly on the ground. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think it was supposed to fall like that.” Shelby said jokingly. Meg laughed and they ventured on into the graveyard. They searched around for a while, not finding anything out of the ordinary. They decided to leave, but before they could take a step toward the gate they saw a bright light and heard the grumbling and groaning of ol’ man Jenkins. The girls panicked and took off running. Shelby stopped. “Meg! We can’t make it home without getting caught!” She exclaimed. “What other choice do we have? Come on!” Meg snapped. “If I get in trouble one more time my parents are going to send me to military school. The woods are right there, let’s go!” Shelby pleaded. Meg grabbed her friends hand and they sprinted toward the woods. They reached the edge of the dense trees and dove in behind a large patch of what they thought was leaves. Jenkins walked to the bounds of the woods, pointed his shaky light in their direction, then made his way back home. The girls laughed and celebrated momentarily. The forest fell silent, and in that moment, they realized that they weren’t alone. The large, dark mass that they had been using for protection was now rising up, its large yellow eyes met theirs. They didn’t take the time to look at the creature that was ready to attack. They just ran, past large trees and small bushes, occasionally getting scratched by thorn patches until they reached a dead end. There was nowhere left to run.

Jade Alford Breaking

Aidan Baxter-Ferguson Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

The Plank Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

More than a decade ago, when I positioned that old plank against the rickety side of the chicken shack, a ramp held aloft by a stack of rotten wormy crates, Pidge all the while clucking her disapproval in the background - “Meelie, you’re gonna get hurt, I’m gonna tell Pa” - oh, she sweated like a sinner in church but never budged, just stared like she was scared to move. I got the Radio Flyer up there somehow and sat myself in it, never once thinking that the robin’s egg sky over the skyline of the trees would be the last thing I would see, or that the red paint chipping off in my hands as I clutched the sides of the Flyer would be the last thing I felt. That’s how a child’s mind works, I guess - no time for fear, just now, now, now. When I pushed off, the littlest tremor of doubt shivering through me when the wheels started rattling down the makeshift ramp, I saw the ground below and suddenly I was up, for a hot flash of a second I was flying, the wind roaring in my ears and blowing my face straight back. I could live to be a hundred (and I won’t, considering the way I’m living now) and I’ll never forget it. It was that feeling that sparked something in me, deep down, something I didn’t even know was alive before. Of course I landed on my ass, with a busted lip and a ripped dress that Mama would whoop me for when I got back to the house. But I could hold onto that memory of seeing nothing but blue as I sailed away on my little wagon; it was what would lull me to sleep and what would get my heart racing, and I could pull it out whenever I needed it. I’ll think about that day now, as I climb into Electra and check the gears. When I rise up into the air and make my star flight across the world, I’ll remember that kid of ten or so, pulling a dumb stunt to impress her sister, and try to make that kid proud.

Hannah SiegelSunset

When Everyone Else Had GoneAidan Baxter-Ferguson

Scarlet scales and fearsome emerald eyesSmoke that curls, burning, acrid and hot

A tail barricading a golden prizeFrom wandering heroes whom she trusts not,

Her nostrils flared, her claws drawn taut.She is waiting, wanting, wasting in her den

And to try to love what she has caughtProves ruinous by dishonest men.

To seek adventure, with golden rings of tenHem in the mud with an apple in her fist

An anxious maid trapped amongst fortuneA snag in her stocking when her map was missed.

The beast wore a tear as she did departWhen the princess, her friend, put a sword in her heart.

The Disappointing Quest Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

After a lengthy journey - cold, exhausted, and having been a stranger to bathing for many a moon - I was finally at the mouth of the cave. I buried my rucksack in a nearby rabbit den, unsheathed my sword, and cautiously entered the total darkness. My fairy companion, Deborah, flitted in front of me, providing some light with her fairy magic. “It’s just this next couple of turns, Prince Johann,” she assured me, wings beating madly as she paused to peer around her. “Then we’ll be where the prophecy said.” I gasped excitedly. The quick intake of breath made the still-fresh wound I had won wrestling an ogre a few days ago ache anew. Still, I couldn’t stop smiling. “Y’know, Deb, it’s finally happening. After months and months of questing, we’re finally going to be done with it. I’ve battled so many beasts, slayed so many dragons...I’ve taken a bunch of lives. I haven’t bathed or eaten properly since I left home. My friends all probably think I’ve died. But it’s all worth it for the prophecy. If it means finding my destiny, I regret nothing.” Deborah glanced back at me nervously, eyes shifting. “Uh...okay, cool. It’s just up here...” Suddenly, she had vanished. I yelped into the complete black, whirling around, sword thrashing wildly, until I spotted a dim light at the other end of the tunnel. “Deb?!” I cried as I hastened toward it. “SURPRISE!” The room with the light was decorated with balloons and streamers. Confetti rained from the ceiling. A three-tiered cake sat center stage, and flanking it were my parents, the King and Queen, both wearing gold-encrusted party hats. The cake had sixteen candles. “But...but where is my destiny?” I whimpered, falling to my knees in agony, right into a pile of lavishly wrapped gifts. Deborah appeared in a puff of pixie dust and knelt next to me, patting my back sympathetically. She picked up one of the presents - this one had a periwinkle bow and curious hole in the top - and handed it to me. “I’m sorry, Johann, but there is no prophecy. Your parents set this whole quest up so you’d have the most surprising birthday party ever.” I buried my head in my hands. “My destiny...” She nodded. “I know you’re upset, but listen - you’re a prince! You’ll live in a wicked sweet castle for the rest of your life, marry some nice princess and sire a couple of heirs - that’s your destiny. Sure, you’ll probably have to deal with some pretty boring diplomatic stuff, being a prince and all, but you can always look back on this cool adventure you had, even if it didn’t end up being what you thought it was.” I continued to pout. “I still think this is incredibly cruel.” “It’s your sweet sixteen!” my mom cried, gesturing to the party ecstatically. “It couldn’t just be some rinky-

dink affair! We had to make sure you were surprised!” Everything I’d ever believed in crumbled around me. “My life is meaningless,” I moaned. Deborah rolled her eyes. “Look in the box, Johann, it might cheer you up.” I stared at the extravagant gift she had placed in my hands. Slowly, I lifted the lid, half expecting to find a note saying “Just Kidding!” But there wasn’t one. Just a tiny, soft, lovely little brown kitten. I had to squeal. I’d always wanted a pet. “I shall name you...Destiny,” I announced grandly, nuzzling my present. My Destiny was adorable.

Hannah Siegel Supermoon

Jesseca Kusher Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

A Crow Calls OutJesseca Kusher

A crow caws out to its brother. He is perched atop a slight slope looking down on an abandoned playground. He watches as a slight wind rocks the swings, and an eerie squeal escapes them. Back and forth, back and forth. The oak leaves shed from last autumn still litter the dark brown earth, devoid of footprints. His brother crow calls out a warning as the tip of a frigid shadow appears on the hill behind him. Irritated by the new stranger’s arrival, he spreads his iridescent black wings and launches himself into the air. The crow watches from the conspicuous oak tree as a tall man in a trench coat approaches the playground. Back and forth, back and forth. The man’s footprints renew those of the past, the footprints of small children long forgotten. He utters a deep sigh from the depths to his being as he makes his way to the swing set; the swings still squealing in the breeze. The man stops before it, as if in deep contemplation, but then heaves himself forward and sits down on one of the decrepit swings. Back and forth, back and forth.

Zeyang LiTower

The crow and his brother watch silently overhead, taking in the sight. The man’s coat flaps in the breeze be-hind him as he uses the swing to gain height and soar up towards the clouds. He pumps his legs until he is swing-ing so high that the very supports of the swing-set start to rattle beneath his weight and the sheer force of his body. Back and forth, back and forth. The man jumps. His feet hit the ground hard, and his knees quiver, but he stays standing. He walks around the large oak to where a shovel leans against the tree, waiting for him. Its rusted blade tarnished from years of apa-thetic elements, almost entirely forgotten, but still waiting. He picks it up, the splintery wood firmly enclosed by his well-worn hand in the chilled autumn air. Back and forth, back and forth. The crows watch as the man’s polished black shoes count out five miniscule steps towards the swings. Toe to heel, and toe to heel; his feet walk over the limp shed leaves and clumps of lonely grass. The man turns to his left and breaks into a run. Back and forth, back and forth. The man runs up the hill, the worn shovel still in his hand. Its blade slices through the air as he hurtles up the hill and the crow flies away. Back and forth, back and forth.

Catwalk Jesseca Kusher

Movement in the shadows,I see something in the light.A flash of quicksilver,Darting out from the darkness,Just out of my reach.

I am tantalized by what could be.

I walk away, and find a spot.The sun shines warm, and I rest.The salty air tickles my senses,And I wait for the bringers of fortune.

Here they come now,The morning sun is new,And their hats old.They bring with them the catching poles,The ones that bring the fortune.

I walk towards them,And they smile at me.Tired, but eager to start their catching,They set up the fortune poles and wait.

A flash of silver moves beneath them,I watch as one of them takes his pole and brings up the fortune.I will be eating well today.

Hannah SiegelRiver

Lost Darkness, New Life Jesseca Kusher

I am sitting on a box in a dark room. I have no idea how I got here, and have no memories as to what is going on. The darkness is cold, with violet around the edges. I can’t quite see anything, so I’m hoping someone will turn on a light. I wait patiently. Nobody does. There is no sound in the darkness, except for that of my even breathing. I am alone. I try to speak, to say hello to the black-violet haze around me, but no sound comes out. I am confused. Why do my lips disobey me? Why can’t they speak the way they do when there is light? I hold my breath, but the even breathing continues. In and out, in and out. If I am not breathing, what is making this noise in the dark? Could I really be alone? I command my legs to stand, but they are weak, and only shake a bit in response. I muster up all my strength and focus my thoughts on one clear question. “AM I ALONE?” I think no more, and let my mind go blank. I wait for a response, because I know there will be one. Any second now the light will turn on, and everything will be okay. I will be able to see, and I will know that I am not alone. I keep waiting, but there is no answer. No one comes to turn on the light, and the breathing continues. I know that the breathing isn’t my own though, I’m sure of that now. I’m trapped. I know that too. There is only darkness. Cold, black-violet darkness, and no light surrounds me. There is nothing, and I am beginning to think that I am nothing too. Blinding. White light clicks on, yet I still cannot see. It’s no more comforting than the darkness, except the light is warm. No, not warm I decide, it’s hot. It’s scorching my skin and setting my blood on fire. I can tell this is supposed to be cleansing, but it’s not. Instead, this white light is piercing, penetrating, and rough. I miss the darkness. Black. Stiller darkness than last time I realize, but still darkness. I let its quiet fringes wrap around me and lap against my sides. This darkness is smaller, and I am smaller. The box is gone. I wait. Whatever is happening is taking too long. I grow impatient. I long for a change of surroundings- a chance to escape. Light. I feel wind again. Being set free has never left me with so much joy. I let the wind scoop me up, and carry me along, away from the darkness and out into the light. It feels good. I’m at peace.

The KnowingJesseca Kusher

I wish to go to see the deep blue sea,With amber fish. The shoals eight shimmering waves,Ruby red in rising sun, my zinger tea.Forgetting not the footprints left behind, aves!

My heart belongs out in the fog. Mountains high!But not yet too high to climb to the tops.The gentle brook, the river’s nook, yet high,So close seeking adventure as the river drops.

Tumbling to the sea, right beneath the stars,Wanting to achieve. To go change the Earth.Because the world too, sees the balance from afar.We ask for more than we deserve now in exchange.

I seek the knowing tree to teach me how to dance.To teach me of the thundering skies, and the great balance.

Kiersten Roush Fly Back

Ariel Harley Ponder

Under Jesseca Kusher

Waiting for the dawn to break, the snow to melt, the hearts to thaw.Perpetually stuck in a state of longing,A state of hunger,A state of now.Waiting for the clouds to come, the rain to fall, the underbelly to show.Yearning to be free of the cages that imprison them.Cages of wood, planted in the earth like seeds.Waiting to grow.

Memories of afternoons lit golden, of tired tire swings, of swaying green grass.Looking back to what was had.A bleak present,A dark existence.Memories of joyful wagging tails; of still lily pads; of close coruscating eyes.If only the past was the present, and the present the future.The time of the world would be worth more than gold.Golden afternoons precious.

Gray Phillips Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

Winds of Despair Gray Phillips

Buried bricks and sullen treesSwallow the red of my coat and the white of meFallow land and plastic flowersPeople at rest beyond their powersCatch my gravestone at the headWhere life is taken by the deadBranches reach out far and wideI may be confined but I will not hideChimneys have met their doom for my bedMy once warmed heart is caked in leadYou tumble down dirt roads, feet falling fastAll around no escape from the pastNo cold nose, no pink cheeks, no flowing hairColdly gripped by winds of despairNone of that I have, but belongs to youNow sweet dear, what shall we do?

Rose CochranMy Boyz and Me

Winds of Despair Gray Phillips

Buried bricks and sullen treesSwallow the red of my coat and the white of meFallow land and plastic flowersPeople at rest beyond their powersCatch my gravestone at the headWhere life is taken by the deadBranches reach out far and wideI may be confined but I will not hideChimneys have met their doom for my bedMy once warmed heart is caked in leadYou tumble down dirt roads, feet falling fastAll around no escape from the pastNo cold nose, no pink cheeks, no flowing hairColdly gripped by winds of despairNone of that I have, but belongs to youNow sweet dear, what shall we do?

A Christmas StoryGray Phillips

The Christmas lights are up all around the neighborhood, shining white, blue, and red, decorating the large houses with shining globes of wonder. I press my nose against the icy car window and stare at the shimmering homes until we reach the church. I calmly unbuckle my seatbelt and smooth down my plaid Christmas dress until the grey, black, and red fabric is free of wrinkles. My dad opens the door and holds my hand as I step out. The church bells are ringing out loud and clear while I watch the many people talking and smiling at each other, eyes filled with the glimmer of delight. The air is cold but I am warm next to my dad. He smiles down at me and we walk inside, shoes clacking on the stone walkway. The interior of the church feels like heaven. Golden light leaps over the walls and there are bright green wreaths tied with large red bows. The stained glass windows reach high up to the ceilings and are decorated with depictions of Jesus rising to heaven. I try my hardest to stay awake but drift off during the story of Jesus’s birth. I feel a slight nudge on my shoulder. The church has grown dim and slow, sweet music is floating through the air like a paper plane, dipping and rising on currents of breeze. The soft glow of little hand-held candles lights the room faintly. Little globes of light bring clarity to the faces of my friends and family and all of the people, whose names I don’t yet know. Right now I have no idea how their lives will intertwine with mine. These are the people who will show me how to live. As Silent Night echoes from the rafters, the heavenly lone star is shining bright and beautiful, like a wonderful beacon of hope, joy, and love. And I could have sworn, on that high stained glass window, I saw the bearded young face of Jesus, smiling.

Courtyard Gray Phillips

Morning sun heating the back of my neck, sending sparklers across my skin. My ankles are crossed and patient. The large courtyard is nearly empty. It is almost a circle, save for paved alleyways of open space breaking what might have been uniformity. Two people stand in the center of the brick and grass laid ground. Their whis-pers give the soft sound of carefully spoken words. They are accompanied by the soft chirping of birds and the far off yells and laughs of jubilant children, playing in the nearby playground. I am looking down at my feet and the sunbathed bricks beneath them. They are too new for the creeping in of small, sturdy stalks of life to peek around their corners. I can see it years from now. The children who are not even born yet are now entering their first years here. Heavy book bags in colors of blue and green and pink slung over shoulders that haven’t yet grown into their weight. Wide eyes filled with hope and excitement and small doses of apprehension. Smiles hidden behind the facade of capability. They will take the same steps I have taken up twisting stairs, down passageways decorated with proud banners of far off lands and framed scratches of talent crafted by former students.Then they will take the steps that I have yet to take. Steps that send my timid heart to flutter, my calm feet to twitch, my careful insides to twist. My mind twirls around the thoughts and fears like a trained dancer tempting the seams of the unknown. Then these ones who have learned, these ones who have lived, they will take their own steps. The steps I cannot yet see or imagine. Then I see it after them. Years have draggingly passed. Many fresh minds have sat brightly in these class-rooms. Countless numbers of young hearts have danced through hallways emptied by the preoccupations of swift moments of time. Smiles have lined walls and tears have stained the faded, cold ceramics. Loves have been found and lost. Dreams have flown through the atmosphere picking up speed and growing strength like a mighty tempest. And now, it’s quiet. Silence hangs heavy. The planted grass has overgrown, taking the pathways captive in its war on civilization. Dainty flowers with soft white petals are peeking up from the cracks of once strong walls. There is a small sign nearby, in front of the great building. It is bright red and shows a picture of an even larger building, appearing like a medieval castle against a clear blue sky. “New High School Turn Right” and still that beautiful light is bathing the bricks like the presence of a long forgotten angel who never ceased bestowing blessings.

Hannah SiegelSpring Flowers

The Ocean Gray Phillips

Wildest of raging oceans,Beautiful, blue waves reaching highLapping and raising at the sky.My mind working through the motions,But the waves always have their own notions.Connected, my board and I will try,To grab the clouds, to touch the skyUntil I’ve lost all precautions.

Knashing of teeth ripping out my mindAttacking my body from the insideKilling my trust for my one true love.It leads its second attack, one on my mind.Poisoning me by the scar on my side,Fear rains down, still I look above,Everytime I stare over the water,I feel the hot burn and turn away.

Amazing it seems, that one thing between,Can change my whole life in one little blink.

*Xuehan Feng Lamp

The FoxGray Phillips The best sleep in the world belongs to the fox. Curled up cozy in bundles of warm fur. Hiding in a small alcove beneath the rushing world. In the peaceful quiet of the cool, rich earth pressing against your back, the damp sinking through to your skin. Especially on rainy nights. When the rain hits on the ground above you and the small opening of your comfortable home lets in the sounds of raindrops hitting leaves. Filling them to their rims with their cold, swirling drips. The delicious air drifting in, making your small, black nose twitch. The rain pounds patterns all around you, the shakes of thunder and the beats of rain hitting your soul until all of your thoughts dance a long. I drowsily open sleep-filled eyes and stretch out my paws beneath me until all of the tension has seeped out of my rested muscles. A shiver runs over my shoulders as my eyes and mind regain their crystal sharpness. I look out of the hole to my den and see the dark forest, drenched in a dark sheet from the steady cover of storm clouds. I inhale the medley of smells and lick my lips. A squirrel scurries past, brown tail swishing in the air. He leaps into the atmosphere and catches with great dexterity the lowest branch on the oak tree next to me. It is spring now, he must have just recently woken from his winter sleep. It is today. The squirrels, with their simple one-track minds, feel it. The rabbits, with their large ears that sense all, feel it. Even the ants, deployed and marching without a thought in their minds, feel it. I glance towards the side of the forest behind me. The humans don’t feel it. I know they don’t. I stand, shaking the crumbs of last night’s sleep from my coat. Muscles set and ready, my heart beats twice then I’m off. I step experimentally onto the dark leaves which send chills up through the bed of my paw all the way to my twitching ears. I make my way surreptitiously and silently through the trees. It would seem as though I am all alone, but I know better. I can smell a young doe four trees over. I can hear the flapping of a hawk’s wings above me. I see the leaves stir in a bush eight trees ahead where a mouse is hiding, tiny body patient. We are all going the same place. I can hear a swishing sound not far off. It fills my ears and wraps itself around my mind. The strong, angry river. It should be quite large now. My steps quicken as a swish turns into a roar and soon I am seeing the dark rush of water aggressively tearing at the land on it’s banks. Ripping chunks of root-filled earth away and sweeping them with it all the way past the borders of our small world. I scan the bank for the fallen tree that usually provides a way across but it has already been taken by the water. My eyes dart quickly, looking for another way of crossing. My eyes land on the large rock down the river. It would be risky and foolish, but not as foolish as staying here. I run to the rock and scale it easily. Taking a few steps backward to the edge, I run and leap. My body hurdles through the air like a stone that has been tossed at an adversary and attach my claws to the branch hanging over the river from the opposite bank. The wood is bending and my paws are frantically moving, trying to grip the last bit of safety I have. My eyes go wide with fear as the tip of my tail is dipped into the icy current. Thinking quickly I attempt to swing the lower half of my body: back and forth, back and forth. Once I have enough momentum I let go and tumble headfirst into a pile of branches and water-logged leaves. As my dizziness fades I see around me a spinning world of rain and trees and ground. The last part lets a warm thought escape my mind. I made it. I heave my sore body off the beautiful forest floor and stumble again towards the east. It is morning when I get there. The rain has taken a short respite and the sun is heating my back. From my tail to the top of my head the buttery sunshine coats my fur in sparkling glee. I look out over the edge of my space on the mountain side. I can see the forest, green and dark, teeming with life. Past that I can see the farm fields swamped with too much water for the spring crops to grow. Far off to where my sight barely reaches I can see the first human den. The large one with the white picket fence. The one where on sunny summer days children run out and play as though they were free and wild like us. It is not long before the rain returns and I crawl into the little cave that I have claimed. From my position of safety I watch the human den all day as water calmly climbs up its walls and, like a giant fish, swallows it up.

MayAnna Pruett

Hair tied in knots on a chilled, frosted dayLonging for the warm month of May.Leaves fall in a orange storm,Farewell to the weather so warm .

The sun rise painted a majestic dawn ,Darkened skies almost gone.A single grey patch will remain in a hovering cloudOne small speck can speak so loud.

So much beauty can be so bleakShattered wood dispersed along the bed of the creek.He will speak of laters but never goodbyesAll the autumn will bring is sugar coated lies.

The thread from my sweater unraveled in my handsShould I depart from such woven lands?Green wool stitched with brownMy naked feet reach for the lush ground.

Off the swing I gain balance and standThe ropes still grasped in my hands.Should I sit and wait on the October nights luneOr carry myself to a place reminding me of June?

I choose the first and taste bitter realityOr the later and feel an artificial carnalityMy heart full of not peace but dismayGive me not love, but the month of May.

Anna Pruett Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

InsomniacAnna Pruett

Shadows are cast with the setting sunPeople rush with dwindling timeThey scurry in cars and runThe shine slowly passing its prime.

Fearing it’s too late to utter truthsTo make right the decisions and prayFor the sake of lost loves and their youthThey could be spared a few minutes of day

Time refuses to stop for anyoneRegret and sorrow will fill the headsOf people weeping all aloneWrapped in the satin sheets in their bedsDarkness creeps up, we come undoneRise again the setting sun.

Self-Portrait Anna Pruett

Condescending eyes shaming me, a child Knowing when to hold my venomous tongueMy hair and nature, untamed and wildAbsurd ideas from a girl so young.

The stubbornness has been constrained with ageSo have stories of magic,wonder, and repetitive nightmares Fortunately my free spirit escaped from the cageChallenged by people and their painstaking glares.

Why do progeny lose themselves to time?A lost identity, they no longer know their nameAnd their personalities turn from flowers to limesInstead of purpose they seek fameChoose to laugh in the rain and find joy with sorrowMake no apologies, and look forward to tomorrow.

Cecilia Shen American Impression

MeowAnna Pruett

It was always at 7:00 when I was belittled to a typical feline status by my guards. My gorgeous green eyes scrutinized the “feast” that was placed at my stand. Disgusting, I thought, absolutely vile. Is this what your opinion is of me? Chopped fish guts and murky water. I looked up at the towering guard. “What the hell is this?!” I spat, curling my tail of death around her leg in attempt to cut off the circulation. “Feel my wrath! How is that leg holding up?!” Meow, meow, meow! “What? I already fed you! I don’t know what you want...more?” More? My female slave’s incompetence never ceased to agitate me. I released my whip from her leg that was clearly not having any effect on her well-being. “Fine...” I glanced once again at the pig slop at my bowl, “I suppose I will have to be satisfied with this ...9 lives.” Ha! 9 lives? You’re not going to have any lives left after consuming this! But I proceeded to eat. It actually wasn’t HORRIBLE but the aesthetics of the dish made it far less appetizing. In the middle of my “meal” I heard the front door slam. Oh no, but it can’t be! The demons! I jumped up onto my perch where I oversee the daily activities. There the clock read 7:15...the game over already? I scattered trying to find a place to shelter myself from what was bound to come. I heard the first sign they were here, the door slamming. Its only a matter of time before- “Mom! Jess and I are home!” They were advancing! It was too late to scramble, I had to stand my ground. The boy shuffled into my domain, the kitchen. He grabbed a colored drink from the fridge and did not pay me any attention. It was never him I had to worry about, no. It was the yellow-haired small nuisance that skipped into the room. She looked at me and I at her. It was a biweekly showdown that made me cringe. “Not today. Today is the day that you will bow down to me and not toss me in your arms like a rag doll!” There was a pause. Had my words conquered? “Awww! Mimi I missed you!” She said, clasping her hands together and scooping me up so fast I hardly knew what happened. “Damn you.” I scowled and she proceeded to mess with my nicely groomed coat. When she was done patronizing me she set me down on the floor, and I ran like lightning upstairs and uncontaminated myself. How many times had I told her to not call me Mimi or I would dig my claws so far in her they would reach her very bone? Finally my mane was restored to perfection. Then a snap! A creak in the boy’s door. No, no, no, if anymore annoying things were added to my day I would surely go insane. If that putrid monster knew what was good for it, it would remain behind the moving barrier. Shuffling, 5...4...3...2...1... here he came, Brutus. How he was so happy

W

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all the time I didn’t know, but out of all my minions he was by far the least capable, and stupid. His wet tongue hung from his mouth, and his jaw was so wide it appeared to be dislocated. He panted out a musk that had an unearthly scent. “Brutus, you nasty, unkempt creature, leave my presence at once.” I said, trying to hold my breath. “Where’s Wesley?” He breathed, for some reason excited and even further invading my personal bubble. “You idiot.” I shook my head, “He’s in the room you just left.” “He was seriously in there!? Man, I missed him! I think I was sleeping.” “You honestly can’t remember if you were sleeping?” “You can?” Brutus tilted his head. “I figured since cats sleep sooo much, they would never remember! Why haven’t we had this talk before?” I gave him one of my more intense glares. “Cats stay awake more than any other animal. We roam and are alert during the day and night, making us superior.” “Narcolepsy is not a superior trait.” Brutus challenged. “I am not narcoleptic. I just explained to- you really do have a horrible memory.” Brutus grunted and walked into the boys room. I heard a bark and Brutus ran out, practically trampling over me with that Wesley behind them, together they scurried downstairs. Brutus barked eagerly. The rhythms in is bark sounded like WALK WALK. I followed their trail and saw Brutus being choked by a rope around his collar, his tail wagging incessantly. I laughed, and a rumbling went off in my stomach. “This scene never ceases to amuse me.” I laughed harder. “You with a rope around your neck....”Brutus took his loving eyes off Wesley to address me. “Its a leash. And I don’t care what I look like, I’m going to get to travel.” “Walking around a neighborhood attached to a rope - or I’m sorry, ‘leash’ - is not traveling.” “Traveling is going far away from our family’s house,” “Your family’s house.” I corrected “I’ve still been farther away from you.” I laughed. “You keep thinking that, simple one.” The pair walked out the door together. I jumped up on my perch and watched out the window. Brutus and Wesley trotted along together down the pavement. I pressed my paw against the glass, almost wishing that I could go along with them.

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Hannah Siegel Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

Christmas SpiritHannah Siegel

Don’t get me wrong, Christmas is one of my favorite times of the year. I just don’t believe in the whole Santa, North Pole, Elf, Flying around the entire world in one night thing. Now, my brother does still believe in the these Christmas legends, so I still have to act like I believe in them too. We only had a few more days until it was Christmas break, but I had three more exams to get over. I was very jealous of my younger brother, Sam, who was in second grade and only had a Christmas Party until his first semester of school was over. When I got home that afternoon, Sam was sitting at the kitchen table crying, while my mom was attempting to comfort him. I dropped my back pack and opened the fridge. “What’s he crying about this time?” I asked over my shoulder. “Someone told Sam that Santa isn’t real. Sam, don’t be upset. Santa is real!” My mom was doing a horrible job of trying to make him feel better. I walked over and sat down next to him. “Sam, Santa is real.” I was tired of hearing him cry, but I also didn’t like to see him so upset. “Reaaaally?” Sam asked with doubt.

“Yes. I promise. In fact, I’ve seen Santa myself.” Now of course, this was a lie. “I don’t know...Jack said he wasn’t real, and Jack is always right.” He started to tear up again. “Well, I bet that if you go downstairs at midnight on Christmas, you will see for yourself that he is real.” I had really gotten myself into a mess. Sam would be crushed if he went downstairs and didn’t see Santa. But then an idea popped into my head. I would dress up as Santa. It was finally Christmas Eve, and I started planning how I would wake Sam up and get him to come downstairs to see me dressed up as Santa. I snuck our Santa suit that my dad uses when he pretends to be Santa in the Christmas parade out of the closet and up into my room. My mom was helping Sam bake cookies. “I don’t know why we are baking cookies if Santa isn’t real mom.” “Well what if he is real Sam, and he doesn’t have cookies and milk and carrots when he comes to our house. Then he will be really upset and he won’t come next year.” I said to him. “Finneee...” He still didn’t seem to happy. Once we had the cookies and milk set out, and everything prepared for “Santa,” Sam went to bed. At 11:45 PM I went to Sam’s room. “SAM!! WAKE UP! SANTA IS DOWN STAIRS!” “What...HE IS! LET ME SEE HIM!” “NO, no. wait a few minutes so you don’t scare him away before he puts out the presents.” “Ok... yeah... I don’t want to scare him away.” I couldn’t believe he actually believed me. I tip-toed quickly back to my room and slipped into the Santa costume. I creeped down the stairs and picked up a few presents that my parents had put down. I heard Sam coming down the stairs. “Is he...SANTA! I can’t believe it’s really you!!” he whispered. Just as he finished his sentence I heard a noise. At first I thought my parents had heard us and were coming downstairs to yell at us. But then I realized this noise wasn’t coming from the stairs. It was coming from the chimney! I had no idea what was going on until I saw a pair of large black boots poke through the mouth of the chimney. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Sam looked at me with disbelief, and said “You aren’t the real Santa, are you? I think he is.” Out of the chimney came a very large man wearing a red suit, edged with white fur. A long scraggly beard covered his face. He looked at Sam and I, and said in a deep, soft voice “Hello children. Hopefully now you both believe again that indeed I am real. Now return to your rooms please so I can do my work. And thank you for the milk and cookies.” Stunned, I returned to my room. A kind of Christmas magic had been restored in my heart that I had not felt in many years.

CubaHannah Siegel

The loud tune of “Ho Hey” and an obnoxious buzzing woke me from my sleep. I was bundled up in a jacket, a sheet, and a large green blanket, but the chilly air still penetrated through to my skin. I threw off my layers and hesitantly held my feet above the tile floor that I knew would be cold and uncomfortable. My alarm was not getting any quieter and I did not want to wake up my room mates, so I stood up and tip-toed over to my phone. The air in our room seemed rather crisp and clean, contrary to what my classmates had said about it. I listened to the bellows of the street vendors and the rushing zooms of the cars and buses, and then decided to start getting ready for my day that I hoped would be full of excitement.

Hannah Siegel Stiltwalkers

Hannah Siegel Cuba

This Is HalloweenElla Webster

“It is true!” Ivy demands, green eyes wide with frustration. “Ivy,” I say calmly, “The old man that lives in that house is just an old man. Not some sort of.. of..” “Demon,” Ivy cuts in vehemently. “He’s a demon. Haven’t you heard about the kid he possessed when our parents were kids? The kid was in, like, third grade and he was carried off in a straightjacket. There is no way that I’m letting you go to his house on Halloween.” Out of respect for Ivy, I try not to roll my eyes too obviously. “Okay, Ivy,” I say soothingly. But I don’t believe her. Relieved, Ivy stands up. “Come on,” she says as if nothing has happened. “Let’s go carve some jack-o-lanterns.” And within minutes, I’ve forgotten completely about the old man. But I remember that night. Darkness has crept like velvet drapes over the sky, and soon the crickets strike up a symphony of midnight song. Sticky pumpkin insides twist all the way up to my elbows, and Ivy’s porch is covered with jack-o-lanterns of all shapes, sizes, and exaggerated faces. I hold my most recent masterpiece up for Ivy to admire, and she laughs at the pumpkin’s gaudily grinning face. She takes the pumpkin from my arms and places

it along with the rest of my jack-o-lanterns into a rusted and wobbly wheelbarrow. “Let’s take these to your house,” she calls, and we push the creaking contraption down the street. My house is only a few blocks away from Ivy’s, but the short walk used to terrify us when we were kids. The street that spans between our houses is twisting and dark, and especially at nighttime, it still gives me goosebumps. The street itself seems deserted; all of the houses are tucked into the woods alongside the street, only brought to a passerby’s attention by the dirt driveways that connect them to the main road. Tonight, the wind is moaning, and there is hardly any light save for the few flickering candles in my jack-o-lanterns that have survived the

bumpy ride. It’s when we walk by the old man’s house that I remember. I stop, and the wheelbarrow screams to a stop with me. “Hey, Ivy,” I say quietly. “We should leave the old man one of our pumpkins. You know, cheer him up.” Ivy yanks the wheelbarrow out of my hands. “No. No, no, no...no.” She walks away quickly, shoving the wheelbarrow with her. But now I’m getting annoyed. “Ivy, don’t be a baby,” I say through gritted teeth. She keeps walking. I dart to the wheelbarrow, grab the grinning pumpkin, and run down the old man’s dirt driveway. Ivy is yelling from the road, but I know she’s too scared to follow me. Now that I’m actually here, I have to admit I’m horrified. I stop for a second, then lurch back into motion. I have to show Ivy that he’s just an old man.

Ella Webster by Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

My footsteps are the only sound I can hear, and they are quickly swallowed by the grey trees that surround me, weathered sentinels that seem to watch me with glaring eyes. The driveway has been winding on for some time now, and I’m already beginning to be short of breath. I don’t see the old man’s house until I’m three feet away from it. Suddenly, it seems to burst from the darkness. I stop so fast I fall backwards, hitting the ground with a jolt. I scramble to my feet and crouch there, looking up at the black cottage. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was deserted. Maybe it is, I think reassuringly. Just go up there and put the pumpkin on the porch. You can do this. I stand up hesitantly and take a step towards the house. The door flies open with a bang. I yelp as a wizened form appears in the doorway. I try to run, but fear freezes my legs to the icy ground. “Please, sir, I was just bringing you a jack-o-lantern.” I force the words out of my mouth, teeth chattering. But my words are drowned out by a muttering. The old man is speaking in a low, fast voice, but I can tell that he’s speaking in a different language. The twisted words hiss from his mouth and seem to whip into the night air, stirring the leaves around me into a fury.They spiral into the air, and an almost-silent scream fills the night. Dark shapes seem to roll and toss amongst the trees, watching me but never quite letting me see them. The old man raises his hands, and in a second that seems like an eternity, I realize what is happening with foggy incredulity. I duck. Power bolts from the old man’s hands, coursing past me. I miss it by an inch. It hits the pumpkin instead. I don’t think anything of it, too panicked to really pro-cess what has happened until the pumpkin twists in my hands. I scream. The pumpkin is alive, its comic smile wrenching into a fanged snarl as the candle in the pump-kin’s eyes is snuffed out and replaced with a burning

green glow. A forked tongue flicks from the pumpkin’s mouth as it opens it jaws, snapping furiously at my arms with a howl. I throw it on the ground, and it laughs madly and begins to rock towards my feet, its slits of pupils watching me with the amusement of a predator that knows it has won. I turn and run faster than I have ever run before, fear jarring through my legs and filling my brain with metallic horror. But it’s too late. I feel the bolt hit my back and fall, twitching, to the ground. I feel the pumpkin’s teeth around my ankle. And I feel my mind flood with dark-ness as I quickly lose consciousness. Ivy is scared now. She swings the handle of the wagon back and forth, nervously tapping her feet. She steps forward, then back, a torn emotion on her face as she struggles with what to do. She finally makes up her mind and is about to run down the street when she hears a twig snap. She gasps and spins around. “Heather?” She calls, peering anxiously into the woods. There is silence, and then her friend steps out of the woods, a sheet of tangled hair hiding her face. Ivy steps forward. “Thank goodness. I thought he had gotten you. What happened? Did you give him the pumpkin?” Her friend says nothing. She simply continues to walk towards Ivy, slowly and clumsily, shoulders hunched. Now Ivy is finally beginning to sense that something isn’t right. She steps back very slowly. “Heather?” she asks shakily. “Is something wrong?” Still nothing. The girl is a few feet away from Ivy now, and suddenly Ivy finds that she is very scared. “Heather,” she implores, “say something.” Ivy knows when there is silence that she isn’t talking to Heather at all anymore. She turns and runs, looking back over her shoulder just in time to see Heather’s head snap up, glowing green eyes locking onto her retreating form. Ivy doesn’t have time to scream.

Hannah SiegelWindow

Strong ArmsElla Webster

“One,”Seagulls call and wheel ahead, flashes of grey and white in hard, sharp lines

“Two,”Her father’s hat blocks out the washed-out sun, and his sunglasses reflect her beaming face,

“Three!”She shrieks and closes her eyes, her sea-salt hair curling against her suntanned face,

And her father tosses her into the ocean.

Her five-year-old form flails as she flies, her arms windmilling in the thick air,And then she plunges into the waves.

Her eyes are screwed up tightly, her hands with pearl fingernails squeezing her nose shut,And she rolls through the rough waves, lost in the pull of the tide.

Then her father scoops her up again, and they both laugh,The salt burning in her throat and smarting in her eyes.

His arms are tired, and so are hers, but as she clamors, “Again, again!”With her gap-toothed smile, he heaves her back into the ocean,

Then sloshes through the grey-green water to pick her up once more.

She remembers now,The solitude of being the only child,

Her sister a foggy form of a baby somewhere on the sidelines of the shore.She remembers the exhaustion

Of having nothing to do but playFor hours and hours

And the salt that stuck in her throat.And now, when she is lost or confused and the salt stings her eyes again,

She remembers those daysAnd the love of strong arms to hold her

And always retrieve her from the darkness of the waves.And she knows,

As long as her father is beside her,No matter how far life throws her,

No matter how swift the tideOr rough the waves,

Strong arms will always hold her.

ShakenElla Webster

I’ve counted 574 gaudy orange squares on the back of the airplane seat when the intercom crackles to life. “Good afternoon, folks. We’ve met up with a bit of an unexpected storm, so we’re going to touch down in Cincinnati before we head anywhere else.” A child in the seat behind me immediately bursts into a torrent of whines, and I blink with annoyance as her pink-flowered sandals jarringly kick the back of my seat. “So just hold tight, and we’ll be back on schedule in no time. Thanks again for flying with-” The world turns upside down. There is a scream of metal, and my head is suddenly slammed against the ceiling. People around me are floating like eerie marionettes, limbs bent awkwardly as if their strings have been snapped. My stomach leaps into my throat, and I know only that we’re falling, falling... I don’t know how long it takes me to wake up. I move gingerly, motion creeping tentatively into my arms and legs. Shattered glass haloes my face, and I sit up cautiously, brushing the debris from my hair. Dull pain moves sluggishly down my spine. I breathe in once, then stand up clumsily. A mottled hand, grey with the dust shaken free by impact, lies limply in the aisle. I turn my head before I see more, choking back a retch as I stumble towards the sunlight. An emergency door is ajar, the flashing red light above it sending waves of bloody shadows across the floor. I see ground outside and quickly stumble out the door. Immediately, I stop. Quickly, I throw out my hand against the metal underbelly of the plane, barely catching myself as my knees give out in shock. The sky is the deepest shade of green, and it exudes its own light, a shimmering backdrop of jade that arches over the land. Violet-leaved trees slope gracefully overhead, making a forest of curving lines and stark color. The ground is soft beneath my bare feet, and as I step forward, the imprint of my foot glows in the pink soil. I don’t know what world this is. But it’s not mine. A cry pulls me from my reverie. A bedraggled group of people stand in the shade of a tree with a trunk the size of a schoolbus. I limp towards them, eyes cast in wonder to our strange new home. *** When night falls, it falls fast. Darkness drops from the cloudless sky like a thick curtain of the blackest black. We gather around our fire, some people already dozing under the cover of low tree branches.

“I guess this is home now,” says one woman. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her eyes lined with disbelief. Everyone nods. I stare at the fire as silence trickles into the air once again. “Tomorrow, we should start-” the woman begins, but she’s interrupted as a man leaps to his feet. “Shh,” he hisses violently, turning like a lost child. His blank eyes stare at something we can’t see as he spins in unstable circles. “Do you hear that?” Silence. I strain my ears, fear crawling into my heart. The members of the group look up with expectant eyes. Nothing. And then I hear it. It’s not so much a sound as a feeling, like yawning when you’re going up in an airplane. The vast gap stretches, gaping over everything until I can hear nothing but this yawn, this trembling silence of intense pressure. It blocks out everything until I, too, stand up and whirl around desperately, clutching my ears and searching for whatever could be creating this maddening deafness. That’s when I see it. It blinks out of existence as soon as I spot it, but I saw it. I saw its faceless body. I saw it watching us. And I saw it coming closer. “A person!” I yell, pointing to the dark void as the sound returns to my ears and my stomach drops with a dead sort of fear. “No, not a person, a- a thing. It’s coming closer,” I gasp to the blank-faced group. “Don’t you understand? It’s going to-” I stop. I see it again. It fades in and out in a second, its edges jagged with static as its sly head tilts towards me. This time, it can’t be more than twenty feet away. The yawning sound comes again - not slowly this time, but in an explosive bang that sends me reeling. “Run!” I scream. I scramble away from the invisible creature, twisting my head frantically in a search for someplace to hide. Finally, I clamber under the roots of a tree, burrowing under the indigo leaf litter. The sound comes again and again now, a pounding heartbeat of searing staccato gunshots that whip the branches into a flurry of motion. The world whirs on its axis, and I can no longer tell if I’m screaming or if it’s simply the sound of the sky tearing in two. Everything spins and spins and - Everything is still.

Cecilia Shen Escape

ColdElla Webster

I wake up to cold, A biting chill That makes my lungs brittleAnd holds me stock still.

I flex my fingers And hear them creak.I stand up slowly And can feel my spine squeak.

The cold holds me down. Its icy clawsMake my skin acheAnd stiffen my jaw.

The ground is blackAnd frozen quick.When I push off the grass,My skin tries to stick.

The moon watches serenelyFrom overhead,Casting silver shadowsOn my crumbling bed.

I crawl out from the hole,And something insideLeads me to whereI know my fate hides.

I stumble down The slate-grey streetAnd the cold nips cruelly At my bare feet.

I don’t understand Why the people scream.Something about meDisturbs them, it seems.

I search all nightFor the thing I most miss,The thing that holds me backFrom Death’s wintery kiss.

But as the sun starts to rise,My hands are empty once again.I slink back to the placeWhere I’ll tomorrow begin.

I lay back in the groundAnd the dirt clouds my view.The last thing I seeIs the light of the moon.

I close my eyes in pain,For I am a slave,Trapped here foreverIn my very own grave.

Mrs. Camp Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

Hannah SiegelLeaves

A Tribute to the BestMrs. Roberta Camp

WatchingListeningFrom near or far,WishingWonderingFinding their star.

WhisperingGigglingWorking as one,Sharing CaringTill all work is done.

Seven young womenSo different in kind,ThinkingWaitingFor just the right line.

EncouragementPleasureEvery morning at Eight,WonderingWanting To open the gate.

Their best they have given meNothing else need be said....Forever, once mineNow All the world,Lies ahead.

Writer’s Retreat

Rebecca Duncker Conflict

Arthur, Surfer Revolutionary Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

Once there was a cool surfer dude named Arthur. He wore glasses and by the way, he was an orphan. There, now we got that outta the way. He loved his aunt and uncle with whom he lived, but he loved surfing more. How-ever, he lived in a town where surfing was banned. It was like a Footloose situation up in there. Anyway, one day he received a letter from Poseidon. Poseidon was like, “Hey, you should totally bring surfing back to this wasteland of a town. I’ll graciously provide you with some gnarly waves.” So Arthur was like, “Radical,” and he brought his board to the beach the next day, ready to rock. But when he got there, society (and also the police) tried to stop him. They said stuff like “stop” and “no”. But Arthur, he just pointed out to sea, where Poseidon was towering on a huge wave. He looked super-threatening; he had six-pack abs and an army of dolphins to back him up. The dolphins attacked the cops and kept society at bay while Arthur surfed. He hung ten, and changed the world. The sheer skill and power of Arthur on his surfboard released a wave of pink, sparkly magic which flooded the beach, and suddenly the town was free. Everybody was surfing, just as God had intended. Poseidon put his big sexy hand on Arthur’s shoulder and said, “Son, I’d like to adopt you if you don’t mind,” to which Arthur was like, “Okay” and they both walked into the ocean to surf that ever-elusive under-water wave. Oh, and also along the way Arthur met a guy and a gal who ended up falling for each other; crap, I forgot to put that part in.

That $%*@$* Log Aidan Baxter-Ferguson

I made a very grave mitakeWhen kayaking in Keowee lakeI told Jesseca this $%*@$* log we should takeAnd bring back as a token.

With the mention of this possible prizeI saw something crazy light up in her eyesAn obsession I would soon despiseI’d regret what I had spoken.

“We simply must!” she would exclaimBut for fear the boat our log would maimI quickly denied my previous claimBut J. Dawg would not budge.

We struggled in vain for minutes tenI tried to tell her again and againBut her eyes bore a look that could wither men,And she promised to hold a grudge.

As the log floated away from our vessel small,I must admit I felt not very tall,For my friend and I had lost it all,Because of that $%*@$* log.

rRitual of Love Nathan Copperwheat

Jimmy McGee wasn’t sure where to go from here. He’d brought her to the most romantic spot he could think of, he’d talked her up the whole night, and now here they were, sitting in his car, watching the moon rise over the city from Moo-Pilly Point. Alone, together. An owl cooed from the trees above them. Silence had settled between them after several attempts on Jimmy’s part at conversation. He sat restlessly in the driver’s seat, hands growing clammy in his pockets. She didn’t seem to notice his nervousness, or any aspect of his existence. He ventured one more try at talk. “So,” Jimmy began. His voice cracked sharply. She clearly suppressed a giggle. Not a good start. “You, uh, ever been up here before?” She shook her head absently, her attention now rapt upon the stars that were out tonight. “Cool, cool,” Jimmy said lamely. “It’s pretty cool, though, right?” His date barely nodded. Jimmy noticed the soft glow of her skin beneath the moon, her deep, glistening eyes. His throat felt swollen, and doubt tightened its grip ever tighter upon him. What if he had been misreading her all along? She seemed to like him, at least a little, but what if? Should he go for the gold, lean over and...kiss her?...Yes, he resolved internally. If he didn’t do it today, he might never get another chance, and that was a “what if” that Jimmy McGee wasn’t ready to bear. Watching sensitively for any sign of dissent, Jimmy slowly reached over and wrapped his fingers around her tentacle. Finally, she turned to look at him. Frothy bubbles began to form at the corners of her beak. “Did you know that...” Jimmy faltered. He took a deep breath, met her unblinking eyes, and tried again. “Did you know that you’re the most beautiful octopus that I ever met?” She blushed visibly, turning shyly away. But, this shyness only lasted a moment. Just as Jimmy began to regret speaking those words, she whipped her bulbous head back around back around to face him. Eyes ever unblinking, foam now dribbling from her beak, she clambered with all eight tentacles out of the grasp of her loosely-fitting seat belt, out of her seat, up Jimmy’s trembling arm, and wrapped herself bodily around his head. Her beak parted his lips. Jimmy shivered with anticipation. The floodgates were open now; passion, raw and slimy, laid bare. Jimmy’s mind raced. This was it! Finally, in a burst of feeling, Jimmy’s beautiful octopus blasted ink all over his face. It splashed the steering wheel, the dashboard, the windshield- even the back seats were flecked with the black liquid. An owl flew fervently out of the trees above them. The ritual of love was complete.

rTentacles: A Tale of Jim Nathan Copperwheat

“I’m in love!” shouted Bill, throwing his hands and feet around without rhythm. He reminded me of a fish, flopping around and slapping the boards of some old, wooden pier. Bill was like a fish in a lot of ways: his hair was jet black, all slicked to one side over his substantial bald spot, reminding me of a slippery, shiny fin. He never seemed to blink, and his mouth, lips always slightly parted for air, teeth always a very dull, flaxen hue, never ceased to pout. Even at this moment, as he jumped and tried to click his heels, almost knocking over my desk lamp with his pudgy hand, a smile just couldn’t squeeze itself in between his cheeks. “Awesome, Bill, get out of my cubicle.” “What?” Bill pulled his lips into something of a smirk. “Never been in love, Jim?” Smug bastard. I wished he was a fish, if only so I could throw him out to sea. “That’s hardly any of your business, is it, Bill?” I said, smiling over gritted teeth. “Her name’s Laurie. Laurie de Minco,” Bill barreled on. A fleck of saliva hit me in the face. He pretended not to notice, just kept blowing words out of his mouth. As I wiped my cheek with my sleeve, I began to wonder why Bill even considered me to be his friend. “The Christmas party,” I remembered, and shuddered. To be fair, Bill was a damn good karaoke partner. He sang like an angel. “But that’s not even what I like most about her,” Bill continued, leaning with his elbow on my computer monitor. His fat arm drooped ever so slightly over the screen. Suddenly, it got harder to play Solitaire, and it got a hell of a lot harder to withstand Bill’s story of romance. “Christ-Bill-I’m-freaking-busy-here-do-you-mind?” I ventured in a breath. “Whaja say there, Jim?” Bill craned his head to look at me, snapped out of his Laurie de Minco fantasies. His neck rolls gleamed with tiny beads of sweat under the fluorescent lights. God, I hated Bill. “Do you mind?” I gestured lazily from my swivel chair, parting my hands entreatingly. “Bill? Get out? Please?” Bill looked hurt- hurt as a fish can be. “That’s fine,” he murmured, and turned to lumber away. “I’ve got some stuff to do, anyway. Talk to you later, Jim...” “I just really gotta get this done, you know?” I said after him. I hope he didn’t hear me. Those would be lousy last words to hear. As soon as they left my mouth, his chest exploded into crimson. He flew back and landed at my feet, his fishy face smeared with blood, his abdomen peppered with gaping red holes. Bill was dead before he hit the ground. I looked down the corridor, survival instincts not quite kicking in, and saw an octopus with a smoking shotgun in his tentacles.

Wednesday’s Hike Gavin Roser

The path below you squishes beneath your feet like a synthetic goo that has tainted this ancient city. Rusty, steel beams, fallen from the splendiferous towers, lie strewn around the small bite in the land. Glass shards and metal scraps the size of your palm litter the untraversed streets, a daunting reminder of the inevitable passage of time. You hear a strange sound, almost inaudible, far away, irrelevant, a savage native of this megalopolis, en-slaved by survival. You may run but it is futile. In your mind’s eye you are engulfed by a torment of soapy water, demanding repentance. The stench of clean fills your head as the false liquid flows between your brain’s noodles. You cannot run from this. You will be consumed, cleansed, and reborn from this vivid nightmare, your mother.

Dances With Wolves Gavin Roser

You grow weary with each step as you trek through untouched snow. The frozen purity rises to your knees begging your surrender, but you cannot stop. You draw your eyes up slowly, hoping to see your destination. In-stead, through the barely visible trees, you discern a council of wolves, circling. They surround a lone, black wolf who courageously meets each of the council’s eyes, challenging them. Black’s snarls thaw the frigid winter air as he establishes his unquestionable dominance, his renowned regime. Foam forms around his unwavering lips, his teeth are bared in an averos grin, and his heavenly black eyes bore empty holes into your soul like a power drill into drywall. Your cowardly organs rise to your throat as your chest caves and you desperately gulp oxygen in a fearful consumption. Black’s challenge remains unanswered. But, wolves are primal creatures. They are fearless. A magnificent white pelt emerges from the circle. The she-wolf turns to face her adversary, whose hair stands like needles in his frenzy of power. White flares her dark nostrils in provocation, advancing on Black. Your giddy eyes dart from Black to White as the conflicting duo turn around each other, one step forward, two steps back, moving in unison like Yin and Yang. The tightening council quickens their rhythmic pace as the inconceivable scene becomes a blur of winter coats, ending with a gray flash among the clarifying ice. The beasts are frozen like their forest. In the middle, White faces Black, one moist nose barely meeting the other.

Cecilia Shen Bicycle

Rhyme Gavin Roser

IphonesSeparating us

Shouting wildly at us,

Slicing smoothly through the din

Heed their wild screams

Seemingly lifeless

We hold them so dearly and pause

But only what for

Not together

All the small black devils

To Whom do they belong?

LetterJohn McConnell

(Scene is dark, impenetrable.)

(Green light blinks. Once. There is a motion heard. Twice. A smack resounds. The lamplight slowly effloresces.)

(The character rises, moves offscreen.)

(Scene changes, character is on lower floor, camera pans to follow them out, stopping at the letter in the inbox. Character steps outside apartment and turns down sidewalk, character’s house is grey, rest are white.)

(Character traverses crosswalk, camera stops midway to allow tram to pass.)

(Camera zooms out from window and pans to show character, scene now on tram. Character is standing, cloistered by other occupants, sways.)

(Door ring on tram is heard, passengers stand, cuts to elevator door opening. Camera is above the threshold of the elevator, looking down. Character passes below. Camera waits a few seconds.)

(Character moves to sit in cubicle, does so with camera over shoulder. Turns on computer, lifts headset. Office noise dims to nothing. Camera switches to view character over computer, character’s face is partially obstructed with phone to his left. Noise is heard. Character focuses on screen.)

COWORKER: Letter.

(Office noise comes back, character looks right, receives letter, returns to keyboard. Red light on phone blinks. Once. Twice. Elevator doors shut, tram’s reopens.)

(Camera is inside lower level of apartment, door reveals character.)

(Switches to outside view, character closes door, lock is heard.)

(Character opens door to room, dressed for bed. Camera waits over pillow, phone with green light far right of frame. Character sits on bed, leans over table with phone, obstructing camera’s view of it, turns off light. It fades.)

(Scene is dark. Green light blinks. Once. There is a motion heard. Twice. Thrice.)

The Grey Ocean John McConnell

It was the grey ocean and us. The water and its waves mountainous, luminaries of the ship swaying, distort-ing our figures into grotesque silhouettes of benthic beings. Of course such beings were far below us, and much more stationary. Among the waves was the apprehensive red tarpaulin of some squid, risen from the depths to fol-low its prey, it now lay torn by currents that brought it to our world. Turning to check and affix the cables and winches we could hear the slow and sand-like rustle of another great and grey beast of the depths ascending, breaching, and devouring the weak, now lurid, interloper. The sky was still indiscernible from the waves around us but it was smooth. The ridges and valleys left by our bathysphere were still minute channels of an unseen deluge but now no longer boiling with frigid water. For those of us with lesser senses, the storm had ended and for those of us with greater senses, it was time to descend. Our crew ate, drank, and placed the dishes, though not always in the correct position. The descent, as the view, was without event or spectacle. The only change in either was when we had touched the bottom which caused a grey and nebulous cloud to form through which we could not penetrate. The only noticeable aspect of the window was the fall of a styrofoam cup sinking and shrinking into a small shell about the size of our palm. While we waited for the grey curtain to be drawn, we played cards. The suits were indistin-guishable from one another in the red light of our bathysphere. Venturing the likelihood of frightening the specimens we might observe, we activated the white lights and were able to pierce the cloud. We found ourselves to be situated between the colonnade of ribs belonging to an up-turned and putrefying whale ossature, its odd and shovel-shaped head to our right and its trailing tail to our left. And at this time we were drawn up and the scene was lost to the curtain again.

Modern Family Ella Webster

“Supper,” Mother blares from the kitchen. I sigh, peeling my eyes from the hologram screen. I swipe my hand through the air, and the movie I was watching folds swiftly. I tuck the projector into my pocket and click the switch on my wristband. My shoes levitate with a hiss of air, and I kick lazily into the kitchen. The rest of my family unit has already gathered. Mother, father, and brother stand in a uniform line to greet me. “Good afternoon, sister,” brother chants. “Good afternoon, brother,” I reply. “Good afternoon, daughter,” Mother and Father chorus. “Good afternoon, Mother and Father,” I say politely, and we all gravitate to our seats. I notice with some agitation that brother’s levitational shoes are not on. His feet pad in staccato slaps across the tile floors.As we sit down with the metallic scrape of chairs, brother places a text projector on the table. I restrain a huff of impatience. Brother is always reading too much for his own good. There’s no place for such antics in a modern family. “Mother,” he begins, distractedly injecting his feeding tube into his armband, “I read today about people who do not live in modern families.” Mother looks up with pure disgust. “I’m sorry that you must learn of that part of our world, son.” Brother picks at his armband, a reluctant sort of confusion clouding his face. “Mother,” he says quietly, “they seem happy.” Mother catches a hiss in her perfect golden teeth. “It may seem that way, my son, but it cannot be. There is no happiness outside of the modern family.” “But they eat things the earth makes, like plants and animals. And they have this art called writing. They seem so happy, mother.” Father hits the table with his fist, and the bag of feed attached to his arm sloshes precariously. “That’s enough of that talk at this table, son. Be grateful that you live in a modern family.” Brother looks down, and there is silence until the wall chirps, “Feed fully injected. Family bonding time complete.” I slip the needle from my arm and stand up. Suddenly, my legs collapse, and I hit the ground jarringly. Mother whooshes to my side and offers a hand. “Are you alright, daughter?” “Yes, mother,” I wince. “I only forgot to turn back on my levitational shoes.”Mother flips the switch on my wristband and pats my head as my knees slide back into place. “Be careful, daughter. That can be very dangerous.” I nod. I’m floating back to my room when I hear a scream.

“No, father, don’t destroy the text, please!” brother weeps. Father holds the text projector out of brother’s reach and punches the buttons angrily. “I will not have my son reading about savages,” he says angrily. “They’re not savages!” brother screams. “They’re happier and smarter and more alive than you ever will be! I hate living in a modern family!” Silence drops over the kitchen like a sheet of ice. For a few seconds, we are still. Then our robot aid whisks to brother’s side and promptly pokes a needle into his armband. Brother looks up. “What did he just do?” he asks. Mother and Father survey him with the same disgust they wear at the mention of savages. Brother reels backwards. “Mother?” he asks sleepily. Then he falls. I know he is dead. Something one might call sadness creeps into my throat, but I dismiss it. There’s no time for that in a modern family.

Ariel Harley Robot

BIID (Body Integity Identity Disorder)Abigail Tillman

ParasiteFeeding on my stability,It touches everything.Forearm crutches leaveBruises, scars, raw spots.My safety net.

Daniel Moore Still Life With Birdhouse

Odd

s and

End

s

Rose Cochran Figures

The Low Wail of the Ceiling FanNathan Copperwheat

The low wail of the ceiling fanDisturbs the empty augur, heIs laying in his sleeping sandAnd whispering for waterHis pen has bled out in his handHis lover’s gone by his commandShe’d rather have a simpler manThat’s what his love has taught her

“Oh, would she love me now,” he thinksWith one staccato snicker, thenHe leaves his pile for a drinkTo feel a little thickerThere’s vomit in the kitchen sinkLike so much speckled, wasted inkThe thought, it strikes him so. He blinksAnd reaches for the liquor

Outside his mind, an owl coosThe wise man doesn’t hear it, he’s Alone again inside his boozeSo distant when he’s near itI wish I could be naked, newAnd wonder what I am, or whoHere I am for my rendezvousI’m too tired to fear it

Rose Cochran Love

Matt Henderson Guitar

A Thousand Timid TrepidationsNathan Copperwheat

A thousand timid trepidations cloakMy every stunted thought and stammer’d speech-If so afflicted were the roots of oakAs I, they’d falter from the water’s reach.And so, a seed that might’ve been a treeWould crumble into dessicated mud.For what? the fear that nothing flows in theeFrom which a seed could grow into a bud?I know the nonsense as it leaves my lips,For I can see it brimming in your eyeOn down your rosy cheeks and rolling hips-Enough to feed a meadow to the sky!Alas, I cast my dreams back up aboveAnd silently entreat you for your love.

I Sin to Feel Nathan Copperwheat

I sin to feel To dissect my old heartTo remind me of her beatTo take her apart And to find more than her meatTo find, congealed,A stormy abscess thereA throb for every lapseAnd a twinge per careVia no simple synapseUn-pressed to heal,It renders flesh to pus To acts of unreturned spiteIt harries all of us,We captives of the long night.

If Your “Yes” Is “Yes”Ansley Glenn

If you can let your “yes” be “ yes” and your “no” be “no” And tell the truth even when it hurts you

if you can talk to God without bitterness or shameWhen you are broken down and feel you are to blameIf you can show mercy to those who don’t deserve it

And a full heart and full life- not a full houseIf you can give all that you own to the poor

And then without regret or jealousy give more

If you can face every day as it is thrown at youAnd see it as a day to praise and honor the Lord

If you can see the between preparing for a situation And being a worrywart about each new tribulation

If you can ask yourself each day in everything you do,“Is this something Jesus would want me to do?”

If it’s peace with your neighbors you seek And think and listen more than you speak

If you do not expect anything given to you Yet graciously accept gifts with hands of thanks

If you welcome each new day with gladness And welcome failure with determination, not sadness

If you never seek revenge but instead forgiveAnd pray for those who persecute you.

If you can always turn a critical eye on yourself,But never on others- let them do it themselves

If you do not seek attention like NarcissusBut give God glory for all triumphs.

If you can stare Death in the eye without fear Because you know that God is near.

And if you read this and know you can’t accomplish it,that you can’t accomplish it all,

And yet, throughout life, you keep trying;Then yours is the kingdom of heaven,

And you will be a Christian.

In Her Monster’s HeadSally McBride

Sally stuck in her head,Slowly dying as time went on “Sally I promise you canWin this battle going on.”

So scared to let her monster go,She continued to hold on and suffer.Suffering is something she didn’t knowAnd was used to this.

I wanted to convince her,But first she thought of others.One who only helped othersWould help her reach her downfall.

Never would she thinkAbout the happiness of herself.This young, frail, unhappyDeserved to see the beauty blocked by her monster.

How could this girl be suffering?How could this girl have these thoughts?She was fat and deserved nothing.This is what she thought.

How could this little girlHave the chance of being happyWith negative thoughts Pouring over herself?

How could this little girl be happy,With thoughts of killing herselfOr crumbling into nothingHanging like clouds above her head?

Was it fair?Did she deserve to feel like this?It must be her tears,She had brought this upon herself.

She doesn’t deserve to be alive,She is ugly; she is undeservingAt this life-She is dead to me.

No longer will I allow her to fight,I am and have defeated her.No longer will I allow others to help her fight,I am her ruler and she obeys me.

All I want for her is toListen to my power and obey me.All I want for her is toRealize she is nothing without me.

Xuehan Feng Self-Portrait

A Quote About Mondays“Monday is an excuse to complain to the world how miserable your life is

and to wallow in self-pity over your unproductive weekend.”- Nathan Lovelace

Obverse Hunter Popkin

It could be much worseThe more conspicuous of two alternativesOr cases or sides

It could be much worseYou know, life in whole But keep trying for the obverse.

Even though life beats you like a dead horseWith a rusty old poleIt could be much worse.

Just be glad you’re not the dead guy in the horseDepression takes its toll But keep trying for the obverse

I don’t have to show remorse But I chose to try to help your heart of coal It could be much worse.

When trying to be productive on this course,Talk to others about your tollBut keep on the obverse.

Now go off into the world, you dorse,Allow your thoughts to mullIt could be much worse,But keep trying for the obverse

Rebeka Wellmon Eva at 12

Elizabeth Speal House and Home

Vobab. D Units 7&8Gavin Roser

Personally, I abhor vocabulary tests. As I sit and stare at my test with animosity, I am stultified by these long, uncommon, and multifarious words. I begin to reflect on events preceding this precarious situation and what I could have done to obviate my implication in this particular quandary. Perhaps, rather than recalcitrantly waive my desperate need to study, I should have listened to my teacher’s vociferous recommendation to study the vocabulary. Maybe I should have learned from previous experiences of vocabulary tests and not been so ingenious as I, with aptly disregard the necessity of studying for this test. Struck back into reality by the buffet of the teacher’s harsh voice, I discern a hint of derision in the martinets words. The commodious lines of my test are more daunting than inviting. I lean towards my paper, hoping that I might find condolence in the form of a definition if I scrutinize the words. The words are parsimonious in aid. Receiving no sudden insight, I blink once, then again. Words and long empty lines burst from the page, menacing their squalid, black wires. My final breath evades me. Strangled by the thin, villainous creatures my head strikes the desk. Wham! These words take a new meaning as my red ink begins to fill the page.

Fly Away With MeCaroline Turner

The sweet swaying of the sawgrassthe silvery sliver of soft white light

the night is a welcome wanderer through weary dreamsa sorrowful soul searching for shelter.

I can open my obstreperous heart to opportunitybut words wield no true wisdom

instead I am left with languid lullabiessecrets whispered by sacrilegious soldiers

tongue-tied traitors betrayed by their own tribulation

Fly away like a phantom into the fading light leave no trace of your trivial tableaus behind

bear your burdens defiantly on your backgrant us farewell from your faltering path.

Dear friend who deserted us in the debris of our dilapidated dreamsstand tall and face the fallout of your fame

let loose the lethal wrath of helland burn to ash amongst your adversaries.

When we find your wretched corpse wasting awaywe shall bury you in the blood of our brothers

so bid us adieu, you angel of affliction I shall not cry for a criminal damned by conviction.

Reed Sanchez Marker Magic

The New DreamCaroline Turner

I was ready for a new dreamI watched the others drift away,

Piece by pieceFloating in the wind like a dandelion.

From a distance I saw them sink into the oceanBut when I reached out to catch them

They slipped through my fingersAnd disappeared beneath the surf.

I flew to AlaskaHoping the winter winds would clear my mind.

I flew to FranceIn search of foreign inspiration.

I was lost and needed to be found I sat alone in the sorrowful shadow of a lonesome bridge

Grieving my broken dreams. I fell asleepThe dream was a welcome melody. It soothed my mind.

My heart thumped a slow rhythm I thought this was where it ends,

A peaceful slumberA sweet transition into forever.

The sun came out. It was warm on my cold cheekMy heart, no longer grieving, had found a new dream.

Hannah SigelBallerina

There Is Nothing That Isn’t ArtJulia Wall

There is nothing that isn’t artIt is, like beauty, in the eyeLet it become you to transform your heart. Pencil on paper is not where you start Look around, view the skyThere is nothing that isn’t art.

Skills and stereotypes, they will depart“You don’t have what it takes”: a lieLet it become you to transform your heart.

It’s in the way that you see that sets you apartDiscover that art is air and you will flyThere is nothing that isn’t art.

It will flow from you yet fill you like a missing partControl it and it will wither and dieLet it become you to transform your heart.

In everyone there is a counterpartInside, needing to be let highThere is nothing that isn’t artLet it become you to transform your heart.

Jack Sheehan Baby Hippo

The Time Is NowLauren Thomas

You promise “in time” and the time is now.You will not deter our actions. We will not back down.Persevering, and full of hope, we stand strong, through faith we cope.“Sullen, sinister, senseless boy.”But you leave no time to hear our story.Your curses of violence ring throughout,but we do not succumb to your degrading shout.We stand in line, we wait our turn,but we wait no longer you soon will learn.Those of truth and those of morals,join our cause without a quarrel.Given these rights, which God does allow,Why wait, when the time is now?

We are one with Him, and could be one with you,to halt all confrontations, before they ensue.Our innocent minds, you easily beguile,and we ourselves must stand on trial.And we ourselves must live in fear,your snide remarks we clearly hear.We march, we pray, we voice our minds,desiring peace, and now is time.

You disrespect others, and continue to sin,while we work for the rights we deserve and will win.The day is not done, the sun has not set,our energy will not tire, on that you can bet.Our vision will be real, you can be sure,ridding ourselves of this torture we continue to endure.We wait and wait, we push and pursue,but the time is now no longer up to you.

Rebeka Wellmon Lexi’s Beach

Take Care: A SonnetRebeka Wellmon

A girl is easily enchanted byRomantic gestures guaranteed to work.The slightest hint that he appears to try

makes her believe she could never get hurt.So he pulls her deeper with his false facts,

Feeding her addiction to courtesy.She leaves the gate open, forgets her past,

As he shows her signs of matrimony.Kind knight, she gave her purity to you,And expected nothing less than a vow.

But with your gentle heart and trust so true,You laughed, rode off, and took a painful bow,

And left that fair-haired beauty to take careof you once more, without you even there.

Let the Dark Take Me: A VillanelleRebeka Wellmon

You must have told the light to admit defeat,As I lie helplessly in the dead of the nightAnd recall when you first let the dark take me.

The leaves above my face are a temporary green,But since the trees are in on your secret tonight,You must have told the light to admit defeat.

Even if I am able to pack up and leave,before I go I always tie the string so tightAnd recall when you first let the dark take me.

It will never be easy to sit back in my seatand watch you make your plans out just right.You must have told the light to admit defeat.

Because the light laughs at my insecurities,I mock the dark and its overwhelming biteAnd recall when you first let the dark take me.

The moon is only a bystander behind the trees.Never will I ever go back into the night.You must have told the light to admit defeatAnd recall when you first let the dark take me.

Zeyang Li Skyscraper