Flame 2013

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Flame

2013

Published once each year, this magazine brings together the work of dozens of young writers, artists, and photographers. Anyone in grades 6-‐8 is welcome to submit.

Students in the Flame elective work on their creative writing in the fall, then gather submissions and lay out the magazine in the spring. During the 2012-‐2013 school year, so many students have been involved in Flame that we cannot name them all here.

We are thrilled to be part of such a vibrant artistic community. We hope you find something in these pages that catches your fancy, sparks your imagination, and inspires you to create something of your own.

Katie Sauvain and Jole Seroff, faculty advisors

is the middle school literary magazine of Castilleja School

front cover photo by Gwen Cusing

back cover photo by Grace Lee

“Flame” leaf art above by Reese Ketsdever

If We Are To Really Look

If we are to really look

Inside of ourselves

There is a forest

Deep, Dense, Desolate

But yet immaculate

A forest of ever growing thoughts and dreams

and desires and ideas and feelings

all lurking in this crepuscular woods.

Don’t cut down your forest

keep it there, put on your red hood,

get your bag of treats for grandma,

and explore.

-‐-‐Teddy Horangic

photo by Katie Mishra

photo by

Alexia Ro

man

i

Don’t Recognize Her

When I lookthere is a girl in the mirrorYou don’t recognize herfor who she really isbecause only she can tell you thatBut as the world comes into focusand the fuzziness fades awaythe world is sharperharsherharderand you still can’t recognize herfor who she really isI wrote this for youso you could really seeI’m not the one to be loved

-‐-‐Makee Anderson

photo by Maggie Gray

Rising from Underneath the Water

Through this tranquil, turquoise worldI seea sun ray,penetrating the waterin a misty beam.Then anotherand another.The far reaching tendrils of the upper world.As thin as paper,flipping through a book.As misty as a waterfall,a waterfall of light.

Now I see a silvery surface,like liquid silver churning,the partitionbetween this world and theirs.As I get closer,blurry shapes appear:a green patch here and a brown patch there.Like gazing into a crystal ball,they become clear:a large catalpa treeand the second story of a house.

I reach to touch this magical surface,and suddenly my hand is freeand heavy.I flex my fingers in the cool breeze.I can now see my hand beyond the silvery surface,a pale blobof me on the other side.My face slips through after my hand.I hear laughter,and feel the breeze.I shake the water from my hair,and tiptoe,soaking and dripping,into the house for a towel.

-‐-‐Robin Sandell photo by Jessa Mellea

Infinity

Infinity is the sign on your palmdrawn in thin trails of markerbefore bed

two loops following the simplest eternityof you endless path

Infinity is foreverit is the endless days unknown and unimaginable

Infinity is in the tired smiles of elderly couplesbound to each other first by parents’ dreamsthen by love

The darkness of infinitylaughs its evil laugh at 3 am when the weight in your stomach bolts you like leadto your fears of the night

Infinity is when the heavy shackles are brokenand you are young and agile again

Infinity is the field in the sunwhere you can lay with nobody watchingand truly be free

-‐-‐Sophia Nevle Levoyphoto by Brooke Weller

Aurora

I wonder what comes to mind when someone reads that word. Sleeping Beauty, perhaps the aurora borealis itself? The thoughts that come to mind when I hear that lovely vowel-‐stuffed word are almost too embarrassing to share. But that is what they want me to think.

Aurora, to me, is a sad-‐looking stuffed tiger with short orange (now brown) fur that sticks up at odd angles, but for the most part wilts down into an uneven clump of thread. Her tail is short and feeble at the base, and always sticks up, no matter how you bend it. Her legs are fairly short as well, but filled with little beans that make slight noises when you shift them. It always annoyed me how her face is cocked to the left, but I’ve grown to love having her perch on my shoulder and always look at me with her round, amber eyes. They are a tad cross-‐eyed due to a small tuft of fur that dangles precariously over the left eye’s part of the iris. They never quite focus on you, as though she is modest with her unblinking stare, and doesn’t want to creep you out or anything.

She was the best Christmas present I could have asked for on December 18th, 2010. It wasn’t Christmas, of course, but my family loves to move around Christmas every year depending on vacation plans, and I hate it.

I awoke the earliest I think I’ve ever gotten up-‐-‐four AM, maybe-‐-‐and snuck down the hall on my tiptoes in my new peace-‐sign PJs. My socked feet danced rather delicately down the stairs and emerged into the gorgeous living room. A tree nearly suffocating in ornaments, the naked statues of the ladies dancing (I’d always wanted to get rid of them, but they are great things to hold the stockings up), and most importantly the warm air of Christmas. And cookies.

Aurora shyly peeked up from my green-‐knit stocking, but in a playful way, as though she was laughing and saying, ‘Peek-‐a-‐boo!’ As cheesy as it sounds, a warm, Christmassy feel came from Aurora when I carefully placed my fingers on her soft back. She was mine, and I was hers.

It’s funny-‐-‐if you ask any of my friends, they’d say Aurora’s been with me for five to ten years. I chide them and tell them that I’m not that old, and nor is she. Her coat has become well-‐worn over the nearly three years, and she’s gotten plenty of “love marks” along the way.

Within the first month of getting Aurora, I went nowhere without her. Her paw was in my hand on the way to any room in the house, waiting on my bed when I got home from school, and patiently sitting beside me while I tackled the elite opposition of math homework.

That night, my sister teasingly stole her from me. I sat across the table, pouring enough Ranch onto my lettuce to drown it. I threatened her with something I forget now, but Aurora came flying through the air, and into my hands. Well, that’s what would have happened if my sister had a tiny milligram of hand-‐eye coordination.

She landed stomach-‐down into the dressing. The stain went from a pinkish color to a now dark brown patch that covers most of her formerly soft white fur.

I once tried to give her a bath in some cleaning stuff, and so I started with her paws. My mom conveniently forgot to mention that the cleaning stuff leaves stains. Her right front paw has a small patch of something or other that has never gone away either. It might be gross to some people, but that is the paw that I always hold her with.

And even now, at thirteen years old, I proudly boast about Aurora. Society has taught me that it is childish to have stuffed animals, to love them, to even name them. I have 107, and I am a proud stuffed-‐animal obsessed child who still comes home from school to my best friend waiting for me atop my pillow. I am still the ridiculously untalented mathematician that has a little tiger perching on my shoulder, whispering homework advice in my ear. I am still the weird kid who walks to the family room on Wednesday night to watch Modern Family in full-‐out kid PJs and a tiger’s paw in my hand. And most importantly, I am still the little eleven year old who reached into that green-‐knit stocking and fell in love with an entirely inanimate object.

-‐-‐Jessie Karan

photo by Alexia RomaniSunset

Every night I cover the land like a patchwork quilt. My colors are blended togetherlike fruits in a smoothie.I cover everything like a cage put over the earth each night.As my end draws nearthe sun melts into the water like marshmallows in hot chocolate.

-‐-‐Naira Mirza

Fear

It hurts to

look

at it.

It’s bright and

dark, all at th

e same time.

It burns

you

to th

e co

re.

It paralyzes you

with the ch

ill.

It swallows yo

u up

.

You can no

long

er see.

You can no

long

er th

ink.

You mus

t go throug

h it.

You mus

t face it.

-‐-‐Sa

rah Dub

bs

art b

y Isab

ella W

ang

Arthia

It was a great sensation being in a different world. Leaving Arthia felt like a ton of bricks was lifted from me. I was in a world with the Ordines, or humans. Suddenly, my closet made a noise that almost blasted my ears. Cautiously, I tiptoed towards the door. Nobody could’ve made more of a mistake than I. A blast of wind blew knocked me out. The last thing I remembered was seeing Maria.

I woke up to the sound of angelic music. It was beautiful, soft and peaceful. But the voice was too familiar. A teenage girl sat beside me in an…infirmary? She was stroking my long, but messy brown hair. I looked up. She had soft brown hair and startling grey eyes. “Gwen,” I growled, my eyes judging her. Gwen’s smile instantly vanished. It was replaced by despair and guilt. There was something else too, an emotion I couldn’t quite make out.

“Look, Izzy,” she started.

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. I felt a little bit mean talking to her that way, but she deserved it.

“Look Isabelle, I never tried to hurt you, and the citizens of Arthia didn’t mean to either.”

“Interesting. If you really think I’d believe that, you must really not have a brain. Like I said a year ago, after you attacked me, may I add, I will never, ever forgive you or the people of Arthia for what you did.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “So be it,” she whispered. “Izz-‐,” she caught herself at her own mistake. “Isabelle, you don’t understand how much Maria and I missed you. She even nursed you while you were out.” Her grey eyes pierced me like a thousand knives.

art b

y Ella H

enn

First, my best friends make everyone else betray me, brainwash my family so they think they hate me, and then they leave me all by myself to feel miserable, and this is what my former best friend tells me?

“We all vowed to be best friends forever, you, Maria and I. We promised to go up to the tree house every Wednesday. Unfortunately, fate had it that you and Maria tricked Arthia into fighting me, just because of something that I was framed for doing. The only thing that you and Maria can do for me is to get OUT of my presence.” I angrily stormed out of the hospital , leaving a puzzled Gwen alone.

I walked down the street, hoping not to draw attention. Apparently, everyone recognized me by my bushy brown hair and caramel eyes. Everyone I’d passed gave me sympathetic looks, most of whom I had been close to. To my displeasure, Maria was one of them. Maria’s electric blue eyes met mine, and her eyes widened. Maria was dressed in a dark brown cloak with a hood covering her long, gold, and wispy hair. Her face, which was naturally pale, if I remember correctly, was paler than I’ve ever seen it before.

“Isabelle!” she called. Suddenly aware that Maria was going to follow me, I scurried over to the old tree house where I used to spend all my Wednesdays. The inside was a wreck. Spider webs hung from every corner, but the outside was still gorgeous with the blueberry bushes that wrapped around the edges. It was obvious that the tree house was abandoned. The wooden sign (“Girls Only”) dangled from the branches. A welcoming brown door was already open, as if it were waiting for someone.

As I looked around, I saw that on a sturdy brown desk was an envelope. The envelope had the famous Arthenian cherry stamp-‐-‐the picture of all the people of Arthia chasing after… me.

Fumbling, I opened the envelope. The handwriting on the letter was surprisingly neat, even though the person writing it was clearly in a hurry.

Dear Isabelle Irathy, Maria Norwen, and Gwen Quary,

I completely understand you might not want to finish the mission I have started. But, only the three of you can stop them-‐-‐the twelve men (as in twelve ways to kill you). I hope you all are able to succeed in this mission. If you are willing to save the world, or try at the very least, please just go to the main square of Arthia by three on Saturday. Maria and Gwen, I trust you will tell Ms. Irathy about this mission. Isabelle, I know you will not be willing to work with Ms. Norwen and

Ms. Quary, for what happened, but without you or anyone of this trio, your troop will not succeed. All of you are important for this expedition to stop the twelve men from taking

over the world. I hope to see you soon.

Safe traveling

Sir Brandon Lethro

I read the letter a couple more times. Who is Sir Brandon Lethro, and how come Maria and Gwen knew about him, and I didn’t? I had a billion more questions, but I knew one thing for sure. We had to save the world.

-‐-‐Alyssa Sales

do not reply

foggy windows and foggy minds,all too soon you close the blinds.

photo by

Alexia Ro

man

iTxting

LOLi h8 txtng lingoexponential growth of its populariTsilly mindsw/o thotthey speekcot in a vortexspeedw/o a sec to think2M2handleOMGNot @ the CAPaCTof my real thots

-‐-‐Greer Hoffmann

photo by

Natalie Barch

Terror

Terror wears a bloodstained white shirt and dark jeans. His black sneakers are sloppy, but none of his clothing is necessarily scary. His skin is pale as a ghost, and carries a sickly green tint. His eyes have sagging dark circles below them, and are hideous and bloodshot. They are wide open, as though he never sleeps. His tiny pupils bore into you across the yard, across the globe and attack your heart rate. His long nails click together when he moves his hands, chills racing up your spine. Terror follows you. He follows you, only you, and no one else can see him.


photo by Alexia Romani

Before You Eat, Think

Before you eat, think.

Try to connect with that piece of something

that you are consuming.

Imagine its life.

The hands that have caressed it,

the flowers and seeds it bore,

the colorful life it led.

Think about its story

and appreciate its being.

It is not a wonder

there is a peel to protect the orange fruit.

Things as sweet and fragrant as it

Cannot come so easily

As just its picking.


photo by Natalie Tuck

Every Movement

Every movement has a storyBe it a tale of daring or dramaOr tragedy and perseverance An overview of a dozen years and a million peopleOr a day with oneEvery story is worth tellingEvery narrative deserves a thousand eyesEvery movement has a victim

A casualtyOf mindOf heart Of soulOf body

Whose dead eyes watch as the world passes byBright and shiningIn the distance

Every movement has a reasonYears, decades, centuries of oppressionSystemic and all encompassingSmothering not only them, But their sonsTheir daughtersEvery movement has a heroGreat and small

RememberedAnd forgottenNelson MandelaMalcolm XMartin Luther King Jr.The masses of peopleDescending upon Washington D.C.SowetoNew York Cities across the countryTo stand up, speak outTo fight for themselvesEvery movement has a resultThe 19th Amendment The Voting Rights ActThe downfall of an apartheid governmentLegislative, economic, and social changesRaising them upLighting the way to that bright and shining worldThat no longer seems so far awayEvery movement leaves a legacyOf toleranceOf freedomOf choice and chanceAnd that is what mattersMore than anything elseA man presses a kiss to his partner’s cheek,Then enters the federal office building where he worksA man in a white house hands a report to his secretaryHis skin closer to the black of his suit than the white of the house in which he residesA woman stands before the nationAnd before every nation, speaking for the American people and governmentAnd somewhereA childWith skin like night or duskWith a strange feeling in their chest as they behold one of their same gender friendsOr perhaps with a pair of navy blue pants, a collared shirt, and a spot at an all girls schoolLooks up and thinksI can

-‐-‐Kylie Holland

photo by

Natalie Barch

The Name Jordan

Jordan. My name.

In Spain, my name refers to a high-‐quality almond that is grown in southeastern Spain. It means a hard irritable crunch on your rigid teeth. It means foolishness. Almonds are so high in calories and fat that you end up pounding down on many before you realize what you’re doing. It means trickery, deceiving.

A bright red color. The color of a cherry shining with its plastic skin in glimpse of sunlight, an overwhelming feeling of too much sweetness, a maraschino cherry. A bright red snickering smile. Grinning at you wherever you stand. Now an awareness of the gloomy truth...a realization of a deepening sadness. Sadness that was once sunlight bliss.

It’s that group of people in Paris dressed all in dull black like the evening shadows, when they all bumped into my mom leaving her with nothing. No money. No wallet. No purse. Empty. Empty like the soul of a once loving woman who has faced a darkening loss. Empty after a bomb strike a beloved family’s treasured home. Empty as the beehive after toxins overwhelm their homes of life and honey.

In English my name is influenced by Nike’s line of Air Jordan athletic shoes.The ones who do all the dirty work. Rubbed against gruesome floors with grey dust, bubble

gum covered with dry dirt, and who know what slimy things live down there. They are the ones soaked in your sweat. Piercing sharp stubborn rocks on your demand. Skinned when you make a decisive stop. Cut on the court in seconds of a screech. Transport your heavy and paining weight through each loud step. These shoes just do as they are told and have no say in the matter.

The taste of bitter, salty sweat quickly dripping down your tired face. Those toxins that were just flushed out of your body, coming back in again.

A cloudy yellow and dark unsatisfying green color. The color of the mucus crawling down your scratchy throat, oozing out your delicate nose, or out your mouth after a shakening cough. A person getting worse, more sick by the hour. Greener and more pale by the minute. And closer to death by the second. Tortured slaves.

In Hebrew my name means flowing downwards because it refers to the Jordan river. In Christian religion, Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River by John the Baptist.

Having this name means you’re Christian. I am not Christian. I am not even religious. All of the unknown colors. Ranging from salmon, turquoise, magenta, maroon, and all the way

to spindrift. The unknown colors. The colors that no one really knows which primary colors they originate from. Many people identify these colors differently. The unknown colors...the ones that cannot be identified.

It’s the taste and feeling when you receive a “Mystery Dum Dum” lollipop. When just looking at the wrapper, you don’t know what’s inside. It’s like looking at the big or small Christmas presents under the grand green Christmas tree that eagers you for Christmas day...when you can open them. When you take off the wrapper, you see the color of it and you take a guess. But...when you put the delicious lollipop in your mouth, that’s when you find out the real truth. What flavor it really is. I am that Mystery Dum Dum. Reveal the flavor to find the real me.

A Mystery Dum Dum. Nike Shoes. Thieves. Sweat. Jordan. My name.

inspired by House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

-‐-‐Jordan Jackson

Red

The color of firerage and fear.

The glint in your eyes,the reflection of flames.

Redrepresents the mad

anger and hopelessnessin the world.

Redblocks us from positivity

creates boundaries and limits.It seals us within and doesn’t let us out.

Redrestricts movement, flow,

substance.Red.

-‐-‐Aditi Satyavrath

Buried in the Past

if you were buried in the pastwould you wear an old faded t shirt

and tattered sweatpants that were made ten years ago

would you have old leather-‐bound booksthat belonged to father

listen to mother’s favorite old recordswould you be sentimental

sometimes nostalgiceat home-‐made comfort foodmother’s applesauce, hot fudge

or that pot roast that takes hours to makebut you only take minutes to eat it

would you cuddleyour long lost teddy

whisper childhood memories into its chewed up ear

while stroking its matted furif you were buried in the past

would you be lost in the flood of timeunable to make heads or tails

of the futureor would you have your head in the present

no time for lamenting only to dream and think

of what’s to come

-‐-‐Kaitlin Rhee


photo by Nicole Orsak

A Piece Of Glass

A piece of glass. Not just any piece of glass, a very large piece of glass. A substantial, huge, immense, enormous piece of glass that was twelve feet thick, five miles wide, and ten miles long. It separated the two worlds, and kept the infection out. Attachaphobialusterosa was the correct term. Love. They thought there must be no love to infect the world, nothing to slowly eat at the hearts of lovers and drive them to madness. The women and men were separated, one in the sky, and one on land.

Above in the City of Glass were the males. Below, in the grass huts and houses of sticks were the females. The men sat fifty feet high in the air, and they worked. They were in offices, but made no money. They looked at their electronics all day, their faces blank from the lack of doing anything important or exciting. They wore expensive suits, and walked around drinking coffee. They sat in their glass chairs eating their chemical food, and talked about their newest invention.

The women lived below on the ground. They had babies and raised their children. At the age of ten, the boys were taken away to the City of Glass, their memories wiped of their life on the ground. The girls followed in their mothers’ footsteps. They wore rags, and their skin burned in the blistering heat, the city above them acting as a sauna. Nothing grew. There was no water. Everything was from the city. Every step burnt their feet; every lungfull tortured their body until they died around the age of twenty-‐five. No one ever lived past thirty in the City of Dust. Grime and dirt coated their faces, and they never bathed. They were thin to the bone, and vultures picked off multiple women each day, and ate them as they squirmed on the dirt roads in agony. But no one complained, because the City of Glass was in charge, and they would kill mercilessly, so life continued, just as life should.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Below, looking up the City of Glass, was a girl. She was fifteen, and her birthday was in three days. On her birthday, she would be held in charge of having her first baby. She couldn’t decide if she wanted a boy or a girl. Of course she had no option to choose, but she wished she could anyways. If she had a boy, she couldn't bear to leave him. Of course she wouldn’t actually love him, that is forbidden. She would never catch Attachaphobialusterosa, and if she did, she would be killed, hanged actually. But if she had a girl, the girl would have to grow up in the heat and hunger, and she couldn’t bear to think of that.

The girl decided that in fact, she did not want a baby, because she wouldn’t want them to grow up in a world like this. Lately, the city had been upping its birth rate. Instead of six babies per lifetime, they were demanding seven, even eight because for some reason in the last ten years, more baby girls had been born than boys. Statistics from the City of Glass showed that 90% of all babies born were girls, and they blamed the women.

A scream ripped down the dirt road, snapping the girl out of her thoughts. Three girls came sprinting down the dirt road, a ten-‐foot tall vulture tracking them from overhead. The girl stood there in shock. “Adelina!” One of the girls running screamed. “Take cover!” Adelina took off, and scrambled into a hut on the side of the road. She beckoned franticly to the three girls running.

“In here!” Adelina yelled. Two girls scrambled in, but it was too late for the third. The girl screamed, and the bird dropped. The screams were instantly cut off. Adelina slammed the broken door closed, or as hard as she could close it without the door falling off its rusty hinges, and collapsed on the floor, not daring to lean against any of the walls, in fright the whole structure might topple over.

A few minutes later, the bird gave an awful scream, and they heard it spread its great wings and fly away. Their friend had died. No one cried, screamed, or dropped on the floor giving up on the world. They did not show any signs of Attachaphobialusterosa, because love was forbidden. Many of their friends had died one way or another. In fact, when Adelina had tried to count her friends that had died, she had

lost track and given up. The possibilities were endless. Contaminated food, heat stroke, dehydration, starvation, childbirth, sickness, sand storms, being hung for different punishments, and of course, being killed by vultures or other wild animals.

Adelina looked at the two girls. She happened to recognize both the girls. Probably from one of her long trudges to get water. One was from Sector 5, her name was Carmela. She came from a better part of the City of Dust than most, and was spoiled with water without dirt mixed into it first. The other was Zeneta. She was from Sector 27. She had brothers, and all were taken away from her and her mother. Adelina always thought she was tough, because all of her siblings had been taken away from her or died when she was very young. All three girls looked at each other, shrinking away and drawing into themselves, afraid of some unknown force. Adelina took this as a chance to inspect both the girls, as Adelina was a very curious girl.

Carmela must have been named after her skin color, the exact color of caramel, something Adelina had never actually tasted. Her face was cleaner than most, because Adelina could actually make out her lips and nose. Her eyes were a dull brown the color of mud, and they had this squinty look to them that made Adelina nervous. Her hair was long and black; it swooped down her back, and softly tangled at the tips.

Zeneta was pale, actually the palest person that Adelina had ever seen in a city where the sun shone eighteen hours a day. Her eyes were pale blue, almost translucent, but they darted around like a deer being caught in the headlights of a car from the City of Glass. She was short, and a gash ran from the tip of her eye to her lip. Her hair must be blond, but it was hard to tell with the dirt and mud coating it.

A bang of a gunshot erupted somewhere near the three girls, and Adelina jumped to her feet. Zeneta looked around frantically, then collapsed to the floor in a heap of rags. Her frail body shook, and silent tears dripped down her face leaving trails in the dirt. She gasped as her lungs heaved in the hot air. Her whole face scrunched up in a big knot, causing the scab on her face to break, blood pouring down her face. She touched her hand to the cut, then looked at her bloodied fingers. She shook like a leaf in the wind, and curled into a ball and sobbed.

Adelina and Carmela looked at each other at the same time, then turned away. Zeneta was showing obvious signs of Attachaphobialusterosa, but she was so small and weak. Adelina took a step towards Zeneta, then another, until she was kneeling before the crying girl. She carefully took Zeneta in her arms, and hugged her fiercely. “It’s going to be okay.” Adelina whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”

“How do you know?” Zeneta whispered back, wiping her eyes trying to stop crying.“Because.” Carmela piped in, “Because someday, someone will change the world, and then it

will be okay.”Zeneta looked up at Adelina with doe eyes, then at Carmela. She stood up, and they hugged,

sharing that one forbidden moment of compassion.

The next day Zeneta was hanged.

Adelina’s mother always used to tell her that her name meant noble, that she was her noble little girl, but Adelina couldn’t take it. She ran out into the desert, until the City of Dust was just a distant memory, and sat down and cried, she cried until she could no longer cry, and was dehydrated. She knew she should get back to the city, but she didn’t have the heart or the energy to stand. Something small glistened in the dirt to the side, so she crawled over to it. A piece of glass. A piece of glass from the City of Glass. Why should she live if there is nothing to live for? She knew she would die anyways, there could be no joy in life. Mad with not only anger, and delusional with dehydration, she trusted the piece of glass into her side. “So here I will die,” she murmured to herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke to the sound of an engine, something Adelina rarely heard, so assuming it was a dream, she promptly rolled over and fell back asleep. Suddenly hands were grabbing at Adelina, and she screamed and struggled. Punching and kicking at whatever was trying to pick her up. She hit the person hard in the stomach with her foot, and with a grunt, they dropped her to the ground. Adelina hit her head hard against the hard packed dirt, and she moaned. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a man bending over in the dirt, coughing.

He looked at her, and his eyes went wide, scanning her whole body and turning away in disgust. Adelina knew she must look like a monster now. She could even feel the fever coursing through her body. She had high prominent cheekbones, and tanned flawless skin. Her lips were plump, her nose a button, and her eyes green as an emerald. She was tall and thin, and her brown hair gently fell down her back. It had wonderful blond streaks that sparkled in the sun. Well, that’s how Adelina imagined what she would look like if the sun didn’t shine 14 hours a day, and if she had one meal a day and had enough water to wash her face with, let alone drink. It seemed as if Adelina wore her skin as someone would wear a too-‐small shirt. Her skinny legs and arms showed not the slightest bit of fat, it was as if anyone who lived in the City of Dust’s skin clung to their bones.

The man was tall, and muscular. His blond hair swept across his forehead, and his blue eyes pierced hers with an unmistakable pride that anyone who lived in the City of Glass had. He looked down at her as if she was a piece of dirt, and grimaced when he saw her burnt hands.

She scuttled away from the man, knowing the price of hurting a man from the City of Glass was whipping, which just leads to a long, painful death. Adelina considered running, but she didn’t know which was her home, so she cowered on the ground, shivering in the hot heat. She looked away from the man in shame, and squeaked, “Please don’t hurt me.” Her voice was dry and caked with dirt, and she flinched at the sound of it.

The man bent down and raised Adelina’s chin until she was forced to look him in the eye. “What a poor little thing.” The man whispered to himself. Then speaking to Adelina, he asked, “Is this how everyone is treated down here in the City of Dust?” Adelina nodded pitifully, and ripped her gaze from his bright blue eyes. “I, I...” Adelina stuttered off, looking at the sunbaked ground. “I must be going home.” She scurried to her feet, but pain ripped down her side, and then noticed the red blood seeping through her shirt. She remembered the piece of glass from the City of Glass. Adelina grasped her side, and stumbled, crumbling into a heap on the cracked floor. She sucked in a breath, her hands sticky with blood. The pain of breathing came upon her, and she folded in on herself like a wounded dove. Adelina swore quite viciously to herself as the blackness of night enfolded around her vision and cuddled her into a painless sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adelina woke to white. Light, bright, white. She giggled to herself. Those three words rhyme. Light. Bright. White. White? There is no such thing as white in the City of Dust. Adelina wanted to sit up, but her head was a jumble of words and images flashing before her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was as rough as sandpaper. Her muscles didn’t seem to be responding to her brain’s commands. “Oh, you’re up.” A man’s voice drifted across the room like how Adelina imagined honey dripping down her throat would feel. She had heard stories of some women who had found a bee’s nest after a dust storm.

The boy she had seen before in the wasteland came over to Adelina, his eyes brighter than ever.Adelina tried to swivel her head around, but a sharp pain in the back of her eyes kept her from moving. “Where am I?” Adelina asked, sharp red fear flashing across her body, energy collecting in her fingertips.

The boy avoided her question, and rummaged with something out of Adelina’s sight.“Where. Am. I?” She asked again, anger and frustration building in her gut. She clenched her

hands at her sides, and glared at the ceiling.The mans voice suddenly got very, very small. “Well, you were going to die, you know, if not

from your wound becoming infected, but then from dehydration. In fact, I was surprised a bird hadn’t come and taken you off.”

That may have been better, Adelina thought to herself. Instead, she just nodded.“So, my only option was to take you to the City of Glass to get you proper medical treatment.”“What?” Adelina screamed, her world, her life flashing before her eyes. She knew exactly how

this would end. In death. “I can’t be here! I don’t belong here! This is punishable by death!” Adelina started to frantically break at the grasps holding her hands the her sides. “Would you just please be quiet?” the boy pleaded with her.

-‐-‐Brooke Weller

art by Naira Mirza

do not reply

My Daily Ritual

First, the darkness set inA low mist hung in the trees, swirling aboveomnipresentI touched but the dark mud,and felt myself sinkingA cold breeze touched my faceAnd every move I made drew me further to cold, damp, mudAnd yet I was still sinking! No longer did the starry night sky hang above me, no longer did the birds call.And I sank further, and the wetness caught hold of my faceAsphyxiatedAnd then I was able to turn overand I was in a grave, the walls of the coffin dried mud which I sank throughAnd the starry night sky staring at me through the omnipresent clouds

And I had a revelationSomething, I decidedLying on top of me was an exquisite silverand as I put it to my skinI saw a creekIt trickledgentlyandmelodiously.The sound of the placid gush was music,a sweet aria in D major, opus 1that sang in my body and soulMy soul.A beautiful red rose melting down my skin.And when the music was over, there was a sharp pain where it stopped.And thus opus 1 ended.Darkness overtook, while a maniacal joy coursed within.

I woke upI had sunk further, and as the day progressed, I drifted down the layers of mudAs night came, the rain from above chilled meThe snails and worms of my habitation shared my body with meAnd as the day wore on in such miserable desolation,I longed for the surging musicThe powerful opus that could revitalize my broken bodyPresently, I found the silver that I had used the other dayAnd this time around, I pressed it to my wristAnd a bright opus in E major played in the river that flowedThe trumpets sounded, and to a three beat menuette I found myself dancingWith a most daunting and daring young manWhose dark stare bore into the inaccessible crevices of my soulAnd then he fadedAnd I was stuck with myselfIn a mess of pain, confusion, art by Riona Yoshida

and in desolation, through my tears, I cried, “more!”And I pressed the silver to my wrist again, harderAnd a torrent of horrible sounding notescaught my surprise.They spelled out enoughAnd blackness once again stole my consciousness

As the days wore on as such, they passed as if they were hazy summer dreams.I had many visitors inquiring of me, but I hardly remember them.I remember they all came and left, phases of the moon.Some perhaps lingered longer than others, but my present disposition surely bored them.My greatest comfort in such days was the silver.I learned I myself could compose a piece.When I wished for the music to be louder, I pressed harderWhen I wished for tranquility, I pressed less.When I touched it to my face, the violins would be heard bestWhen I took the pains to touch it lower, the base lines, the darker colors would show themselves.It was always with the most excruciating pain that I would force myself away from my private world of music.And if I were to ever forget what I had composed, the score remained with me.Dried music notes caked to my body.Dried puddles of rushing rivers.Though they washed off, the scars stayed.

At last, these tasks became thankless and mundane.What used to have an effect on me no longer moved me.What I wanted was a symphony, the greatest symphony to date.Something raging and powerful that even the late Beethoven could have never conceived.Fearful of the power I was to embrace, I trembled.I took the silver to my neckand as it felt it pass each layerthe music crescendoedthe audience petrifieddeafeningthe drum beatsthe violinsthe crashing Niagara fallsall over the placea messthe noisethe lightthe darkthe end

When I woke up, I was in a bedTubes were coming out of meAn ECG and funny little wavesMy parents stood by my sidesWeepingI lacked the understanding of human emotionsand as they weptI was puzzled by their remorsefor such a being as myselfAs time progressed, they moved closer and closer to meTouching my handskissing meSoon, their words became soundsFeatures became but colors

Feelings became sensationsAnd I felt a sharp jab from somewhere withinAnd for a single moment my senses were regathered“She is not...”

-‐-‐Greer Hoffmann

photo by Maggie Gray

Shut Off Your 5:32 Alarm

Shut off your 5:32 am alarm and watch the morning sky as it turns into pink and splatters itself with blue. Sit there silently and wrap yourself up in the absence of noise. In approximately 28 minutes you will be back to real life. Pippa will shriek with laughter at her cartoons and Alfie will break something else while juggling his football. Hiding in your room will not get you away from the noise, unless you manage to dig up earplugs and nick Alfie’s noise-‐cancelling headphones. The trapdoor will creak open and the fluorescent light from the second floor will flood into the attic. Squeeze your eyes shut, and then open them slowly as you get used to the bright lights. Your mother’s voice will outscream the noise cancelling ability of the headphones and earplugs altogether.

IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP, IMOGEN!

Fold down a corner of your comforter and slide out of bed, then refold the corner and follow your mother down the ladder—the only entrance and exit in the attic.

Follow your mother down the rickety stairs and to the kitchen. See the counter. See the porcelain plates and the bacon and eggs thrown onto them. Grab Alfie’s ear and drag him to his seat, and make sure Pippa follows.

Get off, Immy, you hear Alfie growl, yanking his head back and tucking into his breakfast. Being a boy, he will devour his meal in two minutes and then begin to take food from your and Pippa’s plates. You will twist his ear again, and he will back down.

Get your own food. He will obey and give you a vulgar hand gesture. You shield it away from Pippa’s innocent five year old eyes and shake your head at Alfie. According to everyone else, he will outgrow this behavior soon enough. Glance at your watch every few minutes. You can’t wait to get away from your mother’s tiny house and visit Grandma and Grandad’s seaside mansion in Scotland. You decide it will be nice to get away from the noise of the city, the cramped house, and broken windows (and of course, from Alfie’s football work).

-‐-‐Sof Khu

to read the rest of the story, email [email protected]

art by Katie Fearon

If You Stopped To Notice

If you stopped to notice

the cherry blossom tree

in your backyard

during a bright spring day

with white clouds dotting the sky

and the lark calling to it’s mate

then you have seen

and you have felt

and you have let for just a moment

mother nature

brush your heart.

-‐-‐Teddy Horangic If You Stopped To Notice

Are You Happy With the Way You and the World Are?

Is it my fault?Or did you gobecause you wanted me to sufferWanted to seeif I cared enoughto cryAnd as you see me noware you happywith the wayyou and the world are?A thousand miles awaybut a centimeterin distance from meyet you still manage to make me feellike this is all my faultbut who takes the blamewhen there is only onewho committed the crime?And now,ask yourselfAre you happywith the wayyou and the world are?

-‐-‐Makee Anderson

photo by

Jessa Mellea

If You Stopped To Notice

If you stopped to notice

the cherry blossom tree

in your backyard

during a bright spring day

with white clouds dotting the sky

and the lark calling to its mate

then you have seen

and you have felt

and you have let for just a moment

mother nature

brush your heart.


photo by Lauren Traum

My Name

My name means star, or Princess of the Stars, or woman with star face, or Morning Star, or Morning Light in the Nahuatl language. I like the meaning estrella. It’s crackly, and sweet. It reminds me of a quinceanera ball gown that glitters in the moonlight, or the moment you put the whole bag of pop rocks in your mouth. My name reminds me of the number 1. It has very few curves expect the first letter. The big C in my name especially reminds me of a pink concha. My name means a big concha with chocolate de abuelita on a Sunday morning. My name is a tropical red color, kinda like the color of your tongue after drinking too much Hawaiian Punch.

My name was Mama’s idea. She told me she always wanted to name her child an Aztec name to preserve our culture. My name used to belong to an Aztec Princess. I was ecstatic that someone else had my name until I read her story. She was enslaved by a Spaniard who killed the rest of her family. Like my mama, I was born in the year of the rabbit. The year of the rabbit is supposed be the lucky year. Luck does not run in my family. I guess Princess Citlalli didn’t have luck either.

I loved my name. The way my mama would say it. Citlalli. She said it as if I were the only Citlalli in the whole world. It sounded like a waterfall of words. I wore my name proudly like a new pair of white shoes. When I went to school everyone didn’t say my name like my mama would. The way they said my name hurt my ears. It sounded like someone trying to talk with those things the doctor puts in your mouth to take x-‐rays. I tried to correct them, but no one ever got it right.

Whenever a new teacher would do the attendance they would stop at one particular name. I knew it was mine because they would squint their eyes into small fists as if it would help them say my name. Everyone would look at me, they knew too. My face looked like a bright red tomato. This was the worst part. I would have to shamefully raise up my hand and say that I am the owner of that name, and say it correctly. The teacher, to make up for the embarrassment, would usually say “Oh! What a beautiful name.” My little sister Montserrat has a name worse than mine. Saying it is like try to talk with a mouth filled with sticky caramel.

If I would rename myself I would name myself Abril. It sounds pretty in both Spanish, and English. It smells like the air after it rains, and looks like the calm before the storm. Abril is like the flower No Me Olvides. Soft blue, like the color of the sky, or like the Downy detergent my mama used to put in my clothes. The flower has a little golden ring in the middle that reminds me of the ring my mama used to wear. It sounds like the Cuban records my papa plays when he is mowing the lawn on Saturday mornings. It feels like jumping in the Arroyo Seco on a hot July afternoon. It sounds more like me. Citlalli is a name for a loud, crazy person. It is not a name for me. The hurt in my ears eventually faded away, and I gave up trying to correct people. My shiny white shoes I used to wear so proudly by then were grey, and dirty. Some would say “Am I saying it right?” I would say yes, it’s perfect, when really it was nowhere close. There are some people who actually want to say my name right. They would try unsuccessfully, but it would make me feel better that they cared enough to try. Is that my name now? The ugly sticky name people call me everyday? When my name was said the right way it would even sound strange to me. It was as if it wasn’t my name anymore. But there I am. In a sea of Katherine’s, Natalie’s, and Lauren’s. I am the huge, bright orange fish, and sometimes I like that.

-‐-‐Citlalli Contreras

photo by Elizabeth Foster

photo by

Alexia Ro

man

iphoto by Jordan Jackson

A Future Untold

a large gaping hole.the starry fabric of time stretching out between you and your future.it surrounds you, rising around your feet.meeting your ankles, yawning over your hips.engulfing your shoulders.a sigh escapes your lips.at last, it sinks into the earth, swallowing you.taking you with it to the depths beneath.the bright dawn of the future seems so far away to you, beyond your reach.beyond your lilac-‐scented time fabric.lilacs.they bring dreams.you feel dreamy, light as a cloud.it is midnight, and the sun never comes out of the shadows.darkness dominates.time halts, ceasing to exist.it hangs, suspended like bubbles trapped in a sea of blown glasstoo late, it is gone, slipping away with a rustle of silkthe early dawn seems so far away, too far.just out of your reach, waiting.waiting, just over the horizon, beyond your lilac-‐scented time fabric.


art by Robin Sandell

Friends of the Flawed

friends of the flawed,

says september’s child,

where have you gone?

did you escape to the east

where the fourth son won’t

be able to drown out your mind?

or did you flee to the west

where the seventh daughter

can’t sing you to shreds?

must you hide from us?

we are all one,

despite the blustery air

of the third,

or the shivering nights

of the eleventh

friends of the flawed,

she called,

come home.

-‐-‐Gwen Cusing

art by Alexa Miller

photo by Nicole Orsak

Alone

poetry, are you alone?are you filled with our sadness and weariness?no poem wants to be bound in chainsleft for years to gather dust on an old bookshelfread in a boring, monotone voice.most poems I know want to be read with expression, feeling, passionthey do not want to be mistreated, misunderstood, inspected, poked, proddedlike a scientific experiment gone wrongthey want to give ideas, to make people thinkthey do not want to be written for school assignments, homeworkthey need to have inspiration, and cannot stand to be flat sentencesjust written for the sake of a good grade, or businesspoetry, do you feel desolate,used, tossed asidelike a shiny new book, read in great excitementonly to be put away next monthto gather dust on that bookshelf?or do you, perhaps, feel loved, treasuredlike an old worn bookwith yellowing pages, a faded blue coverbut no dust gathering still read with great care, deep thoughts?and when the reader turns the pages,does she turn them carefully,so she does not rip your spineso she does not crease the corners of your pages?surely you want to evoke emotionhave the reader experience your wordsexplore the meaning further.poetry, are you alone?


Silently, Silently

December 3rd, 1847 The wind speaks to me on days like these. These days, when the grass is a dead brown and the sky is as grey as old Rufus’ fur. On these days, mother tells us not to go outside for fear of the winter’s chill and the bog swamp demons. But Ophelia and me, we are much too old for tales of monsters and creatures. It doesn’t work on us anymore. Yet, mother continues.

Sometimes, I think she misses the way we were when we were children. Oh, but if you had heard the way the wind danced and spun in the air: truly it was magical. Mother says many things these days and one of them is to not fraternize with the things I cannot possibly fathom. But I can fathom what the wind says . . . if Ophelia does. Ophelia knows many things, and I love her for it. I would gladly follow her anywhere. But then again, what more would you expect from a sister? -‐From the Journal of Elodie Fairchild

The graveyard is silent when I arrive there on Christmas Day. Perhaps the people don’t want to spend too much time mourning for their loved ones on such a holiday as this: with carolers, festive lights and Father Christmas. What more could we want? Yet I feel a slight chill run down my spin from being here alone. It’s the single cross on the family of graves that alerts me to their presence. I finger the tiny trinkets in my hand and make my way across the frosty ground, being careful not to step too loudly. Even the graveyard would like its peace every once in a while. I kneel down at the nearest tombstone: the smallest one with the smallest inscription. “Here, sister,” I whisper, placing down the smallest item I hold in my hand. It is a small raven pendant: not unlike the one I was given for my 17th. “Elodie Fairchild,” I run my hands down the tiny words that are inscribed along the stone. “Beloved daughter and sister.” I leave the raven at the foot of her grave, only stopping to take one look at it before moving onto mother and father. For them I leave a small bracelet and an old stopwatch. My parents were not lovers of material happiness. But it is the final grave I avoid with all costs. It stands alone in the center of the three, as if it is a king waiting to be coronated. No words are inscribed on its cold exterior, yet it makes me feel sick every time I so much as lay my eyes on its body. “Who are you?” I ask, “why are you here?” It is near sundown when I return home.

December 6th 1849 Ophelia told me this morning of mother’s plan for her and me. There is a man coming today; a man of great stature. Whether he is a gentleman or not is a mystery to everyone in the house, but father insists that we give him a chance.

photo by Natalie Tuck

“Your future lies with him,” he told us. “And whether he accepts you or not.” If the former is the case, then what will happen? Father has allowed him to court both Ophelia and me but surely he will take Ophelia’s hand? I am young – too young to grow up under the hand of someone I couldn’t possibly know. And Ophelia doesn’t want him either. -‐From the Journal of Elodie Fairchild

Nurse waits for me when I get home. “Mistress Ophelia,” she greets me, her voice tired and hoarse. “Won’t you sit down and comfort your old nursie, dear? She’s had a long day.” I look at her closely. Her skin is sallow and pale and her cheeks have sunken in from hunger. Her hands are as thin as spider’s legs and her gaze is unfocused and glassy. I shiver at her cold and childlike demeanor. There has been something off with Nurse ever since she came. I sigh, looking out into the dying garden of my home. “Not now, nurse. What’s happened to my garden?” She looks up, curiosity crowding her otherwise dead face. “Why, what garden, mistress Ophelia?” I tap my foot impatiently. “My garden, nurse. Right outside. You were instructed to tend to it daily.” When her eyes resume their glazed and far-‐off expression, I shake my head and head into the lounge. The windows are large and rectangular: meant to let in the bright sunshine, but today they only show the grey darkness of the sky. The empty, empty sky. I frown as I run my fingers over the dusty couches and the broken portraits. It has been so long since I’ve been into town, but Nurse doesn’t like it when I leave the house unless it is to go to the graveyard. She speaks of dangers and the cruelty of society; as if she knows so much about life. How long has it been since I have seen another face? Long enough to feel as if I will go mad. December 15th, 1850 Ophelia tells me that I shouldn’t be nervous. But how can I stop the jitters that seize me so? The man who came last year, and the year before were all terrible. They had horrible manners, and arrogant natures that I just could not stand! How can father expect me to spend and devote my life to someone like this? It is impossible to ask me such a thing. Nevertheless, another man is coming. This one, I presume will be much worse than the years before. I am dreading that moment. Yet, there is one thing that is keeping me going: Ophelia, dear sister. She promised that she will stay by my side until the end – no matter how terrible that man is. Oh, how did I ever deserve such a sister? She is truly a blessing. Truly. I just hope she never leaves me. -‐From the Journal of Elodie Fairchild

I return to the graveyard the following morning due to Nurse’s increasingly strange behavior. I like to avoid her when she’s like that. Bending down amidst the roses that grow along the circle of tombstones, I pick one up daintily and lay it across the unknown headstone. Unlike the others, it is as cold as arctic ice and I pull my hand away in shock. “Who are you?” I ask again, my voice echoing strangely in the open atmosphere. It is strange to be buried amidst my family without permission and a rush of foreboding seizes my heart. I gasp and sink to the ground, staring at its cold empty surface. The mystery of the body that lies under this rock is as unfathomable as ever. As I did not oversee the death of my family, I never saw them being buried or lowered into their tomb. We did not have many family friends either . . . just close relatives. Yet all had died ages ago and I never saw their faces even as a child.

I reach out slowly, brushing my hand against the tombstone again as the sensation of ice rushes through my fingers again. A light shuffling of feet close by alert me to a new presence and I freeze. “Oh, lady, lady,” Nurse whimpers, limping forward to the family graves. I take a step back as I see her eyes: blank. “Nurse?” I whisper. I tug on her sleeve lightly, but she does not react. She merely shuffles forward and falls flat on her face in front of the unnamed grave. “Oh, lady, lady,” she repeats, mumbling into the ground. “So sad, so sad.” She takes out a long keychain – my keychain – and lays it on the stone. “Mistress Ophelia,” she whispers, scratching my name onto the cold surface. Her nails make horrible screeching sounds as she digs them deep into the tombstone. My blood runs cold as my name appears on the gray memorial.

Ophelia Fairchild.Beloved daughter and sister.

1837 – 1855

“No!” my mind screams at me to move, to yell to shout – anything – but I cannot make my feet budge. “No,” I repeat. “This cannot be. This cannot be!” I turn around and seize Nurse’s shoulders, shaking her hard. They are bony and frail – as thin as a bird’s – but I do not relent. “Nurse!” I yell, “Nurse, wake up and tell me what’s going on!” but her eyes remain as lifeless as always. I slap her hard in the face and she tumbles to the ground. Her very form disintegrates in front of my eyes. “What –” I sit hard upon the ground in silence. The blood is rushing through my ears, screaming and shouting. My hand reaches up to tug the hair from my face and encounters tears. I wipe my face angrily, picking myself up from the ground. As the wind howls around my ears, I scream into the graveyard, covering my face angrily. And there is no one there. No one in the graveyard, or the town. No one in the houses by the stream . . . no one in the small tea shop that I used to visit with my mother. No, there is no one there. Not one single person.

December 25th, 1855 Believe me when I say it was an accident. She was going to leave me. She was going to run off into the distance and never come back. Never see my face again. Oh, how selfish! To think of just herself and run off, leaving me with that horrible man. I would have never forgiven her. And when she told me the news, believe me I screamed. I screamed and I begged, I threw myself onto the ground. At her feet. But she would not relent. And when it was time for her to go, I grabbed her and twisted so ferociously it happened all so sudden. Believe me when I say it was an accident. Oh, how can I live with myself now? The shame is overbearing and it tears at my heart constantly. Mother and father, oh how they grieve. They found her in the kitchen, her body lying limp on the floor. I’m so sorry, Ophelia. I can only hope that you are happy where you are. -‐From the Journal of Elodie Fairchild

~Fin~

-‐-‐Noel Peng

Moon

Pouring silver inkOver luscious landOver rolling wavesOr over barren sand

In a little circleI slowly turn aroundAnd face another landAnd hear another sound

But you don’t see me turningInstead you see me growAnd once I reach the maximumI turn around to go

And that’s when my twinTurns to shine your wayHer warm heat and shineAre there throughout the day

-‐-‐Simran Sandhuphoto by Jolie Kemp

photo by Gwen Cusing

Sonn

et Abo

ut M

y Dog

Sweet E

ly is th

e nicest dog

I kn

ow.

He lic

ks m

y face and

curls up in a ball

And

lifts me up

whe

n I a

m fe

eling low.

He co

mes a ru

nning at th

e slightest c

all.

His eyes they are a lo

vely, d

ark, deep blue

,And

soft w

hite ru

ffles sit upo

n his ne

ck.

A lo

ng pink tong

ue is han

ging

out w

ith go

o.Fu

r tan

gled

up with bu

rrs is suc

h a wreck

.

At n

ight w

ith the co

yotes he

doe

s ho

wl.

At d

ay he ch

ases squ

irrels and

rabb

its far

And

com

es back with a sm

ell tha

t’s ra

ther fo

ul.

We still le

t him

sit w

ith us

in th

e car

And

pat him

with the very kinde

st to

uch,

For E

ly w

e do

love so very m

uch.

-‐-‐Ro

bin Sa

ndell

photo by

Emi S

ears

Fur

Romeo’s fur is straight and short, more like hair than the others. It is smooth and oily, almost slippery on the surface. It is wild, too. Romeo with the fur that flies. When he runs, you can see it flying off, almost as excited as he is. While he looks black, the individual hairs are all gray. They just have black tips-‐-‐he looks big and dark and black, but underneath all that is the fluffy gray, that nobody ever sees unless they live with him and get it all over their clothes. It clings to them like plastic wrap. I never walk out of the house without not-‐black hairs sticking to my pants.

Roxie is the beauty queen. Her fur is long and sleek, a nice chestnut-‐coppery color that almost shines when the sun hits it. It hangs down in ways that would make other dogs look shaggy, but

it just makes her look like royalty. She has black highlights that glide through her fur like a river, and you don’t even notice them until you get to her tail, where the black takes over. But it is not Romeo’s surface obsidian black, hers is more like a subtle ash black. Even her ears are beautiful, with the fur coming down like a waterfall, a small cascade of black on the side. When you pet her, the copper is smooth, but not smooth like Romeo, who is a fast smooth that slides off your hands-‐-‐it is a soft feeling, a warm kind of smooth.

Neither of them have fur like Riley’s, though. Riley was the best. He had a great big crown of golden fur, like a lion, that rose up around his neck. His fur was like a sheep’s, thick and wooly and never ending. When you hugged him, you would sink into it. You could bury your entire face in his fur, and never come up. It smelled warm, and safe, like the fireplace that he would lay near or the Christmas tree that he rubbed against. His fur was a sleepy kind of golden-‐-‐my sisters would say yellow sometimes, but I always corrected them,

golden. He had a river in his fur, too, but not like Roxie’s. His river was swirling and curly, with different hues of gold woven in with the creamy white of his snout and paws. Riley had that soft, safe golden that you could disappear into and know that it would always, always be there, even though one day it wouldn’t.

-‐-‐Kate Dreyfus

photo by Elizabeth Foster

The Children

The people.They walked through the thickening fogOf fear-‐birthed answers To the questions of The world

And in doing soTheir voices, raised to the sky,PleadingCame a great many answersAll lies. All truths.

“Help,” they begged the sky, “Help. . .For my child who’s lost within the drowning wordsThat your ancestors so willingly badgered their hearts withIs In the free spirit of this countryMy home, my home America.”

And the childrenWho so willingly fell prey . . . Listened.Listened with their tiny hearts.To the propagandaOf a thousand hateful soulsGathered near the center of life itselfWhich poisoned nearly a thousand minds.

Yet the people continued.

“We are on the move now”They said, their eyes filledWith the bright hope Of an end“We are on the move now.Like an idea whose time has come.” (King)

And the peopleWho cherish their libertyWho dream of justiceWho cry out for liberationDo not sit and wait.Oh no.

In the silent hours of the nightA child dreams.Dreams of laughter and brightnessDreams of happy days and carefree hoursDreams of dreams that cannot possibly come trueOh no.

For a child’s dreams are a child’s dreamsAnd child’s dreams are lost to the worldFrom the very hearts of the peopleWho stand togetherIn perfect, military lines.And campaign For something so much bigger

. . . a child’s dream is all they have.

-‐-‐Noel Peng

photo by Isabella Wang

Magic Chalk Art

The chalk flew into my handthe dusty tails of colored sticks paved a trail down my arm. The sunset gold dripped out, flowering a smiling sunseeds panned out in a single strokegrowing taller into trees.A forest surrounded me, frothy branches layering across the sky. I swept the chalk across my legsThin bands of leaves circleted the airweaving into a sheet.They twirled around my stomachsurrounding me with an earthbound blanket. -‐-‐Sophia Nevle Levoy

photo by Jordan Jackson

Firework

First, the sky lights upA poisonous greenThen an electric redFlaring, then dying

The crowd is lost in its beautyThe waterfall of sparks pour from the bridgeThey ooh and ahh

The loud pops from youCan’t be heardFor the cheersAnd shoutsAnd criesFrom the crowd.

It might not even cross their mindsBut they are thinkingAll the same thing.So this is true beauty.

-‐-‐Freya Forstall

photo by Christine Cho

photo by Elyse Garreau

The Story of a Girl, a River, a Jump, and a Name

The first thing you should know about my name is that my father is very afraid of heights. Whenever standing on the edge of a cliff, a balcony, and mountain... he does this oddly choreographed dance. First flinching, a little feminine squeak, and then walking backwards from it with tiny steps.

I wonder if he did this when he first met the girl by the river.My mother and he were engaged, and were visiting some old friends out in the country.

The girl’s name was Jessamine, and she wore no shoes and a wild grin. She was my parent’s friends daughter, only a tiny little thing in my parents’ previous visits.

Jessamine did daredevil jumps from the cliffs by the river. She grabbed my mother’s hand and they leaped in, screams chasing after them. They climbed back up with difficulty and adrenaline, shaking and shivering under the coat of water around them. My mom had so much fun that day. She told me about it twenty years later or so. Anyway, they decided it was time to make my father stop freaking out and flinching each time a drop of water hit his foot. Jessamine scurried to one side of him, mom to the other. And that universal woman thoughts-‐connection allowed them to grab his hands at the same time and jump down into the river, his screaming drowning out theirs.

The name, you might ask? An ugly baby swimming in a pool of goo was deposited on a white table. My mother didn’t know what to think, and maybe the hormones were clouding her vision a bit. I’m too afraid to ask her if that was the cause. When she looked at my father, she saw a reflection of a river, a girl, and jump in his eyes. From those images, her mind formed a name. “Jessie,” she said.

Jessie is a name crafted to be a boulder dowsed in river water. Surrounded by algae and little tadpoles, tall and tawny green trees. Jessie is an odd word to say, stuffed with a mouthful of vowels, but yet flows out like a river. Everyone in the English world can pronounce it with ease. Jessie, if it could be a number, would be infinity. You cannot count the drops of water in a river. Jessie, if it were an animal would be a sly one...exotic, daredevilish, full of pools of wisdom and jumps of stupidity. A roaring river like a roaring tiger? Or an aardvark, exotic, stupid-‐looking...Jessie is undefined. To this day I look back on this ridiculous river of a name, and wonder what Jessamine was like. How cold the water was that day. If one day, I’ll find that river, grab my parent’s hands, and jump.


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Domino

You don’t think about it until you know of it,You don’t know of it until you learn of it,

You don’t learn of it until you can handle it,You don’t handle it until you understand it,

You don’t understand it until you experience it,And you hope to never experience it.

A feeling of cold,A feeling of darkness,

A feeling of hate,A feeling of anger,

Cold, dark, hate and anger.And one question.

Why?

Death is cold,Death is dark,Death is hate

Death is anger.

It makes you feel lonely,It makes you feel vulnerable,

It makes you feel lost, And it makes you feel trapped.

You are a domino.Death is what pushes you over.

It brings down all those in its path.It’s destructive,And it’s selfish.

It needs all for itself, No matter what age.

Whether they’ve barely seen the world,Or finally left it behind.

I lost a friend,

She barely got a grasp on life,She was young,She was brave.

Vulnerability.It takes hold.One domino,

Falling.

And so do the rest.

-‐-‐Jenna Karan

photo by Natalie Barch

Who Am I?

Darkness, looking into a mirrorI don’t see anything, only fearWhen they come in it starts to stinkIf only they knew that I could thinkIt is lonely in this cageWhen someone comes in, they take center stageI don’t know why I’m afraidSome old woman, she likes to stay with me all dayI enjoy hearing her talk and singSometimes her laptop she likes to bringI'm treated like a second choiceThat's why I like to hear her voiceDeath, pain, crying and sorrow Her daughter's goldfish, she won't see tomorrowThey drop something different off each dayEventually it ends up in the bayAfter they’re with me, less they will weighWhen they think of me they laugh and make funThey make jokes about me with a different punBut they don't know I have a heartI guess that's a pretty good start.Who am I?

-‐-‐Chloe Middler

photo by Zoe Sarrazin

Flame

Once there was a man.This man had a family.His child was dying and his wife, as smart as she was, could not cure it.The mother held the child and found it growing cold.The earth at this time was particularly cold so, to feel someone who was colder than the earth was not only unusual but also scary.One night as the family slept the parents dreamt.The father dreamt of a high-‐speed race but, this race took place at night and besides the moon and stars there was a bright light.An unconceivable light.One that looked as though it was from the unimaginable punishment of what was believed to be hell.The mother dreamt of a rainy landscape, which was interrupted by a spark of glowing light.However she was dreaming of the night and a light such as this, which was so small and so faint, could not have existed.This light, as small and faint as it was, glowed softly, which compelled the mother to continue dreaming.The mother looked around within her dream world and recognized the place where she stood.She looked around longer and saw two shadowed figures creep toward the light.A chill ran down her spine as she looked at one figure.It was not uncommon for people to have a cold air around them for, the earth was quite cold at this time.However one of the figures had a particularly cold air about him.Too cold.The mother redirected her focus toward the light.She wondered what it could do whether good or bad, after all it was so small and so faint.As the shadowed figures made their way to the light the cold man made a grab for it.A thunderstorm echoed in the ears of the little family and it woke them all up.First the father woke up.He saw that outside their little makeshift home it was raining.The mother woke up second.She too looked outside but found no lightning falling from the sky.The baby woke up last and began to cry.A thing it had not done in a long time.The parents rushed to the baby.The father calmed it down and then the mother cradled it back to sleep.Just before the baby’s eyes closed the mother saw a faint glowing twinkle in them.When the baby fell to sleep once more the mother looked outside.She saw the lightning.This lightning was the most powerful lightning she had ever seen.For a moment after the lightning had struck the air around it was covered in a cascading, golden light.It slowly decreased but the mother could still feel its presence.The mother told her husband to go to the place she had seen in her dreams and to find the soft glowing light and bring it back home.The husband seemed wary but she continued to push him outside.She told him to go get the light to save their child and before the cold man could reach it.The father went off in the rain past the places he had seen in his dream, to the place his wife told him to be.When he arrived he saw a soft glowing light. It was golden, like a precious metal.

Not bloody red as he had seen in his dream.It was soft and gentle.Unlike the roaring pyre he had dreamt of.As he crept toward the light he saw another man in the distance.As the father looked at this man, he felt cold.Everyone on the earth at this time was cold but this was too cold. There was something about this man’s cold aura that lead the father to believe this man was selfish and wanted the light to be harbored away and to never see the surface.The two men crept closer and as the selfish man was about to grab the light, the father swooped in, snatched the light up and began to run home.The sky continued to rain and thunder but no lightning, which confused the husband, but he shook it off for, he was focused on running back home.The light felt warm in his hands.It was something that he had never experienced before but became quickly adjusted to.Then the father had a craving for more heat.He breathed onto the light to see if it could become warmer.It did.However it became less soft and hardened a little.The color changed from a light and precious speck of gold to a hearty yellow like the sun.This alarmed the father and he lost his addiction to the light immediately.He breathed upon it once more to try and cool it down.This did not work.The soft rounded aura became sharper and smaller.The color became orange with a hint of yellow still existing and a hint of red color appearing.This frightened the father so much he dropped the light.The light spread across the ground like liquid.The red was added more and more to the color.Steam began to rise.The father found a log to let the light cling onto but it began to burn the log as well.The light was slowly charring the log, coming closer to the father’s hand when he began to run again.With limited time to get back home the father faced yet another problem.The selfish man began to attack the father.The man had begun to beat the father, prodding at him harshly, and grabbing at the withering log.When the selfish man could not hold on to the log he would let go, allowing the father a chance to reclaim it.The man would yell into the father’s ear to give it to him because it was his.He would yell to give it to him because it belonged to him and no one else.The father continued to run.The father looked at the light once more to see it had turned to the light in his dreams.It was in fact not a light at all but, pure fury.A fire.Then the father let go of the log. The selfish man caught it just in time to grasp it once and then have the wood burn away.The fire engulfed the selfish man and was then no more.The father stood there watching the rain douse the smoke and ashes.He saw that all remained of the log was a splinter that lay in the grass.He stared blankly into the night sky, which thundered once more.Then he remembered that the light was supposed to save his child.The man fell to his knees.

Looked up into the sky and whispered softly one word.Please.Then the second lightning bolt struck the splinter and caused it to emit soft white sparks.The father bent down and held the sparks in his hand.This time he exhaled ever so gently and turned the sparks into the small golden light he had once had a hunger for.He then proceeded home, careful not to breathe upon it any more.When he reached home the father gave the light to the mother who placed in upon a pile of sticks and stones.The father recoiled as the fire materialized but soon relaxed as he found it was not the hellfire he had seen before.Nor the heaven descended light he had held only a moment ago.This light was soft and of an ember color.It was warm and inviting.It gave him and his wife hope.The family, including their child, sat by the fire that night.The mother felt her child grow warm.When the child opened its eyes she saw the golden light she had seen once before in it.She saw the fire dance in its eyes.She saw the fire dance in her husband’s eyes.She felt the fire running softly upon her cheeks.She felt the fire running softly around the room.She went outside to see the rain had stopped.The fire was now alive in every area that was once cold.She saw it glimmering in the sky and in the river.She saw it sparkling where people had been born.She saw it softly shining even where the selfish man had died.She could feel it awakening the hearts of all the people and animals.She saw it in her child.Her child that was once more alive and well.She saw it and felt it everywhere.What she felt did not come from the light alone.It had come from something much smaller.Something that could grow with either vanity or aspirations.A flame of hope and love.A flame of desires and wishes.A flame of wonder.One flame had started it all.Flame.

-‐-‐Grace Frome

photo by

Alexia Ro

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Riverbank

You know that my troubles like to overflow

And the boy who lives down by the river

Hates it when they do

So he’s helping me build a dam

And it’ll benefit both of us

That is, if my troubles don’t knock the dam down first

-‐-‐Natalie Barch

art b

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photo by Meg Turnbull

A light that is true

For you see, the little blind girl does not use her eyes tolook for friends, or love.She uses her heart.

All she sees is darkness.Yet she lives in a world of light.A world that isn't like mine.

Little blind girl, teach me how to see.

-‐-‐Isabella Wang

photo by

Talia Kertsman

Too Many, Too Lonely

Mary Stanley had so many kids. Yet many feel alone, since they all have no friends. It’s not her fault, you know. Her husband on a full time job and she’s always caring for the three babies at once. She cannot take care of all eight. Too many, too much.

Those Stanley kids are bad. But how can they help it when their mother is all alone always taking care of the babies. Mary is constantly changing diapers, breastfeeding and babying, the other boys are ignored. No time to take care of all eight. Their mother never gives any attention to her five others.

We had these neighbors, they were disgusting. They’re like wild, dirty rats. All silent as the dark night sky, lurking around the darkest places ever imaginable, and just waiting for the best time to strike. The best time to sneak into homes for food. Or the best time for tricks. Those boys. The kids’ egg, toilet paper, and spit on houses. Some throw big heavy rocks in their neighbor’s cars. Even my mom’s convertible. Some climb those tall trees like monkeys as if they were born to do so. They never hesitate, they never doubt, they just keep on climbing up, up, and up towards the cloudy sky. Up in those giant trees they wait and wait. Wait till you come outside of your house only for them to drop a big bucket of who knows what all over you. Sometimes it’s sticky as melted caramel against teeth covered in metallic braces. Slimy as a snail’s acidic skin. Wet as a loud thunderstorm of rain, chunky like cooked beans all mushed up together, or even squishy like neon silly putty.

Nobody cares about them anymore. We all try to help but they don’t listen, they just keep doing. The youngest went to the public park and pulled his pants down and was showing off his butt to the girls as they ran away screaming. One of the parents told him to pull up his pants immediately, but he just started peeing on the parent’s shoe while saying, “You’re not the boss of me.” People try to help Mary parent them, but it always backfires on the people with an injury, a destroyed house, or a stinky shoe.

The kids are like hunters, searching out prey. Their prey being the victims, us. The other neighbors. Destroying each neighbor’s house with eggs or spit or soccer balls. But with lonely eyes gazing out from their laughter and taunts. You can see it the way their eyes droop with sorrow and their pupils grow big. They just want attention. Deep down they are lonely and full of sorrow. The only way to express their feelings is to hurt others for all the emotions that are hurting them inside. They got sensitive hearts, but at the same time callous ones. Sensitive as a baby’s soft and soothing skin. But callused as an experienced guitar player’s tough and rigid thumbs. These neighbors were disgusting. But, very lonely. But, those hunters are too chaotic so others ignore and turn them down.

inspired by House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

-‐-‐Jordan Jackson

art by Chloe Nicolaou

Years of torture, Covered with the words of a nation so cold. Desperate people, Smothered by a standard grown old. Not a voice to be heard, Just a thought called absurd.

All looked down on.High-‐ranking folks did not see that they mattered.Striving women, Who fought to keep from being tattered.Ladies waiting for change,Then expanding their range.

Segregation,Four heavy syllables that carry such weight.Pigmentation,Written in the stars, it’s called fate.People fought for their rights,Through their words and their fights.Rainbows waving,Twisting in the fierce crowd of blue cloth and crime.Recognition,“It was all those faces all the time” (Boyce)Didn’t look to be bothered,They worked to be honored.

We like to think that it’s over, That we fixed all the holes, All the chips in the wall. Putting our masks on our faces, We erase all the tracesOf our making them fall.Although it’s true that we’ve changed,That it’s not as severe,It is not gone for good.We need to face what the truth shows,That there still are those with woes,Part of our nationhood.

Humiliation,Just because they looked a certain race to them.

Arizona,The place that passed this biased law,So many blue uniforms,After specific souls.

Pure matrimony,Not given to certain couples,Girl and a boy,The traditional way of love,But love is love,Who are we to judge?

Land of freedom,Different ideas and varying thoughts.Old legacy.Will we keep what’s been already taught?Or let people with closed mindsOpen their eyes; not be blind. -‐-‐Nancy Lopez

photo by Jolie Kemp

They Didn’t Realize What They’d Done

They didn’t realize what they’d done until it was over. And even then, it wasn’t clear to them right away. They refused to believe it; they turned away from the cracked streets, caked with debris. They blocked out the sights of the collapsed houses, reduced to mounds of charred rubble. They even ignored the anguished cries of the starving people that rang out from the trees. They ignored all they had done, until they saw her. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. She was the one they saw, sitting atop the fence, her feet bare and dusty, her lips blue from the cold. They saw her face, shadowed with hunger, bearing the hardness of a youth who has seen too much. But what got to them the most were her eyes. They were engraved with a knowledge, a wisdom that had been forced into her, as her village crumbled before her. Her eyes were narrowed. But not with anger. No tears, either. She had exhausted those emotions long ago, and had found that it was easier to function without them. If she’d let her anger boil over, she wouldn’t have lasted. She would have gone insane.

No. Her eyes were narrowed with scrutiny. She was examining them, wondering if they could even

be human. She wondered where their values had gone. She wondered if they could see. Oh, she knew they looked. They looked, all right. But that was no great feat. And she knew they weren’t used to seeing such a powerful stare. Why was it so powerful? Because her eyes were different. She, who had been through too much, who had watched the destruction of everything she’d known. Of course that penetrating stare of hers made them nervous. Her eyes didn’t just look. They saw.

inspired by “Central Park,” composed by James Newton Howard

-‐-‐Maddie Goldberg

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I Wish

I sit on my bedThe mattress creaks below my weightI straighten my six pleated skirtand fold my hands across my lap

My hair is perfectly combed to each sideChapstick on my dry lipsAbsentmindedly picking off the skin around my nails

I am imagining myself in a different timeA different skirtIn fact, I am wearing a dress

I break from the grasps of realityMy hair is tangledMy lips are drySo I lick them

I am running through the windA bird set free of its cage

I am inhaling nature

Then I am back to realityMy six pleated skirtMy folded hands

And I hear the yellingThe screaming from the kitchenAnd the skin around my nails bleedAnd I clench my hands a little bit harder

Try a little bit more forcefully

I am backI run to the beachAnd sink deep into the sandRun into the wavesSlipping off my dress

I dive head first into the ocean The water cooling off my lipsWashing away my bloody hands

And I am back into reality

Because the yelling is louderand the crying is harderand tears are not from meBut I know they will be soon

I wrestle with my head

I am back at the beach.I step out of the waterShake my hairThe droplets catching the sun

I take off down the beach, leaving the waves in the distance

I runI run until my surroundings are a blur of pure speed and colorWherever my feet take meI will be happyBecause I want to travel.Travel the world.

My feet bring me homeTo my bedMy perfect hair

My blood stains on my skirtMy chapped lips

I start to humFrantically

No, there is nothing horrible happening in my kitchenIt is all about his failing gradesHis “not acceptable” weightAnd fist fights in the alleyways

Can’t he just be perfect the way he is?

But I just can not handle yellingHandle fightstoo many memories I would hate to reviveCan’t they see that each word they speakEvery time they raise their voiceIt cracks my heartbreaks it

just a little

Because I know he used your money without permissionbut can’t he just repay youI know he forgets to turn things inBut he was born that way

I know he liesBut don’t you knowThat he has no friends?Have you noticed he never gets invited anywhere?People call him gaya fagthey punchthey steal his headphoneshis bikeand leave him notes saying they do so

All he wants to do is fit inAll he wants to be is acceptedAll he wants is just one friend

And you say the reason he is failing his classes is because he is not trying hard enoughOh noOh no no no!How can you even think thatWhen you don’t even have the slightest idea

So I escape the world the only way I know howThrough musicI hum louderAnd I taste my salty tears

The words form on my lips

Just gonna stand there and watch me burnBut that's alright because I like the way it hurtsJust gonna stand there and hear me cryBut that's alright because I love the way you lieI love the way you lie

Because he liesYes he lies to your faceBut he does it so you don’t seethe hurt boiling in his eyesThe tears building in his throat

the fists ready at his sides

The tears streaming down my cheeksThey are my only mealBecause I know there will be no dinner tonight.

So I sit there, with my bloody fingers in my lapAnd I lookAnd noticesome glue

On my finger, from art class earlier that dayWhen I had slipped into my skinand plastered on my smile

That glue made me thinkthat maybeMy life is stuck togetherbyglueit keeps me tight, and togethernothing escapesI am caughtbut then it crumblespeeled layer by layermelts in the heatand I am brokenbut someone takes the gluethinking it’s for the bestand seals my emotions into a wooden boxtrappedforeverthinking it’s for the bestbut noI cannot settle for just my emotions trapped awayso I take the glueand I pour it over myselflet it settle on my skinlet it dry on my lipslet it clot my earsuntil I can not longer speaka word of revengeno longer tastethe bitterness and sickno longer hearthe scornful cries of my enemiesno longer smellthe burning of our soulsno longer touch

youand I am stiffas gluebut glueisnotalwaysagoodthing

And I know that heHates glueand that is whyhe uses lies to cover up

And now when I hear those hateful words in the hallwaysThe pebbles skipping across the surface of the waterUntil they sink deep into the heartI standTall and proudBecause every person with every flawis perfectjust perfectto me

-‐-‐Brooke Weller

art by Isabella Wang

A Poem to Poetry

O Poetry, With your twisted waysYour diabolical simplicity

Your vivid tales Of a confused mindScream of depression

And yet also of a happy mediumQuietly singing all that is pretty in this world

Poetry is a blanket made of goldWeighted but beautiful

Like the celebrity with everything implantsBut poems need no Botox

Poems are elegant by themselvesPeople should learn from poemsWhat if Poetry was a religion

Would you worship a poetic god?Perhaps not,

because you, poetryYou are an evil roomDark with no light,

Just ink,Suffocating any writer

It doesn’t matter what language it is inPoetry is a blindfold,

Everybody tries to tear you from their eyesBut only a few succeed

We call them mentally illAll their creativity pulled out until All they have is the dark visions

With no way to say what they are thinkingDo you see what you have done, Poetry?

You have caused argumentsAnd you are the reason I am writing this

poem at all

-‐-‐Izzi Henig


do not reply

foggy windows and foggy minds,all too soon you close the blinds.minds are closed and mouths are open,faking smiles with hopes broken.

“do not reply” they’ve closed the line,however you seem to be out of time.your tearful eyes are silently pleading,your wrists and heart are slowly bleeding.

everything about you they try to break,make everything hard, plastic, and fake.

and to think that this might be the end of it all,with no one there to stop your fall

-‐-‐Grace Stephenson

photo by

Alexia Ro

man

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Swish, Swash, Swoo!

It was quite a freezing night that time. I was out camping, setting up a campfire. Feeling lonely, for my own cheerfulness, I baked my perfect dream dog out of some spare gingerbread that just happened to be in my knapsack, in my portable oven. Tick-‐tock-‐tick-‐tock. Time flew by, for soon enough, the oven door sprang open, which was really strange. Out bounced the dog of my dreams. She was a bright Yorkshire Terrier, and I named her Shamrock, seeing her sniffing at the clovers around her. Peering at me, she suddenly bounded into my lap. “OH, the adventures we’ll have, Shamrock!” I cried out with joy, but also rubbing my eyes sleepily. The dog’s eyelids closed shut, synchronizing

exactly with mine. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I sniffled, and decided that Shammie and I would have a cookout. I’d heard

that this vast forest served a speciality of the rare plant, minalope. We’d have to have a treasure hunt. I stared down at the brown and black ball of silky fur next to me. “Up, girl, up!” I crooned, coaxing her. No reaction, not a budge from her body, though I thought I had seen an eyelid

open, and then swiftly and sneakily close. Lightbulb! (I thanked Thomas A. Edison for the wonderful invention in my mind.)“Squirrel!” I yelled, pointing toward a tree trunk. That did it She leapt up to find it. “There wasn’t a single animal in

sight, silly. But come on, we’re off to explore.”Obediently, she hopped ahead of me. We soon halted at a beautiful dazzling, diamond-‐sparkling river. And on the

lush riverbank was a cluster of bushes with...emerald-‐green leaves of minalope! What good luck! I swung a sack with tools off from my back. Then I reached inside and dug out a bucket. Shamrock

and I then ripped out tuftfuls of the aromatic, minty-‐smelling plant. When we’d had our bucket filled, I ruffled the cute terrier’s furry head. We were turning around to stroll back, when WHOOSH, SWISH, SWASH!!! A frightening current moving at an alarming with, my goodness, with bluish-‐greenish piercing eyes and a long, white mustache and beard splashed out. Go figure.

“Leave your bucket here! You have taken the sacred herb!” his voice boomed. Who knew?“No! This, this is mine, I-‐I, I picked it with my dog!” my voice trembled as I spoke, hiding the bucket behind my

back. Shamrock tried for a brave growl, but what came out was a whimper. “There’s no need for a debate. My goodness, I hate politics and arguments. I’ll give you a deal. You fit one more item

in that bucket, you take it, otherwise, give it up.”I tried and tried, but we’d already built a mountain over the top. Every leaf I tried to put on top fell off. I was

despairing. Shamrock, however, scratched her head and rolled around. Suddenly, she halted, perked an ear up, and pitter-‐pattered toward me. She then gnawed and chewed a tiny hole in the bucket. Then she looked up, with her eyes shining, her tail wagging, her tongue out, panting. Her eyes peered from me to the bucket. “Oh, Shammie! You are the smartest dog in this whole world!” I turned toward the spirit. However, instead of being angry, he watched with a very curious, interested look. “See? Shamrock put another thing in that bucket, a hole!” I waved the bucket in his face, grinning. “Yep, I saw all right.” He had a much younger voice, now. With a swish and a twirl (yeah, I know, very unmanly), he turned into a young boy about my age, with dark brown, sleek but messy hair. “I’ve been watching you and your clever dog so far. And...” he paused shyly. “And...what???” I questioned, dying to know. “And, um, I’d-‐I’d like to be your friend.” “Yolo man. What are you waiting for? C’mon!”

His face broke into a wild and mischievous grin. “Last one there is a rotten bone!” Shamrock wrinkled her nose. And we dashed off.

-‐-‐Athena Nair

photo by Yasmine Razzak

Where I’m From:

I am from plastic pools,from lakes and lanchas.I am from piñatas balanced on string.(Bright, inviting, I couldn’t resist)I am from tres leches,birthday partiesthat made me a princess even just for a day.

I’m from Chapstick and Mickey,from Barney and Good Night Moon.I’m from the smarty-‐pants and the carefree,from metiche! and no llores!I’m from roses in June,crying with bee stings,in the twinkling sun.

I’m from Denny’s and that Chinese place whose name I can’t recall,Hotcakes and sweet boba.From the kidneys that failed my uncle,to the tears my grandma shed for another son.

Up in the closet was a baby bag,bulging with memories,a blur of kind facesto rest forever in my heart.I am from those seconds, captured on paper,To live on as I fade.

-‐-‐Nancy Lopez

photo by

Nan

cy Lop

ez

photo by Grace Douvos

art by Katarina Lyseggen

art by Katarina Lyseggen

photo by Elyse Garreau

Imagine a place where being “gay” was normalWhere being straight was illegal You love the same sexThat is normal

Imagine a place where the darker you are the “better” you are The paler you are the more you are discriminated againstBeing white is badWhite skin is a sin

Imagine a place where men stay home all day while women workMen take care of the kidsMen aren’t usefulWomen make the money for the familyWomen do everything

Imagine a world where everything is oppositegay not straightblack not whitewomen not men

“Frustration, years of frustration,Tormented us and ridiculed usTreated us as were subhumanIt was those faces all the timeWe knew there was trouble” (Boyce)

How was this equal?How was this allowed?How was this encouraged?

People standing up for their equal rights.Not allowed, not acceptedIs this who we are?Is this what we stand for?

Protests, boycotts, marchesWas that not enough for us to realize the harm we were doing?

Signs saying “colored” and “white”“no gays” “men only”

They stood up for their rightsBut what if life was still like this?Would you stand up for what you believed in?Or would you just watch in the background,Waiting for a change that would never happen?

-‐-‐Wallis Hess

art by Lauren Ashby

Night Walking

Sun droplets drip from the sky

And scorch the nighttime grass as I

Walk along the pool where the stars meet.

Funny thing be a weeping girl, with her

Back bended over, and her

Hair almost kissing the water.

Hesitant is the silver, wrapped around my slender

Ankle, preventing my every

Flaw from escaping.

Does the world not seem like

Glass tonight?

Does the splendor of the woods not feel so

Shameful against the pride of the

Lion, who roars, asserting himself

As the king of it all?

King of Glass.

All it is,

Is glass.

Glass that reflects

Itself upon

Itself upon

Itself and

Me.

Me, the girl in white, walking through

The emerald, ebony, curled loosely

Into ribbons and slices of

Connections.

Is it good enough?

Am I good enough?

Will I ever be?

-‐-‐Natalie Barch photo by Jordan Jackson

Tsunami

My mind is whirling faster than a hurricaneTaking hold of one and then anotherJust off the coast of my shoresToo close for comfortI swell to the size of a million suns compacted into an enveloping boxAnd jump up so the jumping rope does not skim my kneesBut instead so that I land upon a terrorized cityI do not pityGo forth with beating incessantnessTearing away this and that,Putting it all together in one big messThat will soon be separated into individuals

To be risen to the heavens at deathBy the hands of meGrowing in size yet again and beat against their guilty sinsI am terror coursing through their veinsDestroying all they knowAnd loveI do not loveFeeding on fear I take back all they have snatched for themselvesTaken from usFrom meFrom my brethren that go globallyUniversally a force knocking on their doorAnd shooting them straight through the heart

In one quick motionSinking to the depths of the earth and bouncing back up to the skyCruel and forgiving in one bundled packageDelivered by a man with a curling mustacheSo thin he would be transparent if he turned sidewaysBut stretching in all directions when facing forwardsYou do not see him comingNot me, nor himUntil we are upon you, us, weInvisible death dealers

-‐-‐Katie Mishra


A single technicolor sash falling from the skyAs it falls it stains with whiteUntil it becomes invisibleThe brilliance of the blues, reds, greens, and purplesChoked out so much that they can no longer speakOnly left with the bitter taste of hateHateThe daughter of Ignorance and FearIt was Hate along with her daughters Oppression and Segregation who put up the signsWhites OnlyNo Blacks, Mexicans, or DogsBut it was Equality that led people to march from Selma to Montgomery320 peopleBoth black, and white320 people all shouting “My feets is tired, but my soul is rested." (Sister Pollard)320 walking the 54 mile journey of equality, and justiceTwo Great Nations separated by a riverThe cruel unforgiving riverA small girl only the age of three crossed this river to a land called AmericaAmerica: the only home she ever knew Yet a voice still tauntsNo you are not AmericanNo you cannot go to collegeNo you cannot get Health CareJust go backI’ve seen a man choose between his health, and his work.I’ve seen a young woman be denied what she deserves just because she is missing some numbersEven though I have seen all this injustice I still hear a choir of “Yes Sir’s” in my headThe work is not done yetThe fight is not overNot until a daughter can be reunited with her motherNot until women are truly equal to menNot until anybody can proudly show their true colors without the fearThe fear of being differentOnly then the war with Hate will be over

-‐-‐Citalli Contreras

photo by Zoe Sarrazin

I Will Never Forget That Day

I will never forget that day as long as I live. I could see it rushing towards us, steam billowing out like a great fiery monster. I heard a whistle pierce the air. A flash of light. A scream. Sirens. Then darkness. Total darkness.

I opened my eyes to a fuzzy scene. There was a woman who I didn’t recognize standing next to a little blonde girl in a wheelchair. To my right was a doctor in a white coat, and two nurses standing beside him. I blinked and the picture came into focus. I tried to sit up, but was immediately forced down by a sharp pain in my head. The room swirled around me. I leaned back onto the stack of soft pillows, wishing this was just a dream. The man in the white coat leaned down towards me and whispered my name.

“Cleo?” I stared up at him, my green eyes penetrating into his dark ones. He pulled a stool over and sat down. The woman wheeled my sister to the other side of my bed. I could see that her arm and leg were both bandaged.

“Aleta. What happened?” Talking required strength. Strength that I did not have. The doctor put a hand on her shoulder.

“Cleo, your family’s car got hit by a train. Both of your parents were killed. When we found you, you were on top of Aleta, shielding her from the train. She only broke her arm and leg, she will recover soon. You undoubtedly saved her life.”

Aleta clutched the blanket that was covering her, her tiny face crumpling, pushing into the folds of soft cloth.

“You however, were not so lucky. Both of your legs were crushed and your arm is broken, you also had several cuts on your back and arms.” After that, there was just silence. The two nurses left, beckoning at the woman, indicating for her to leave. She left, reluctantly.

Slowly, Aleta put down the blanket, smoothing it on her lap, her head down. The doctor looked at them for a moment, and headed out too.

“It’s all my fault!” Aleta cried, throwing her good arm around my waist, and putting her head on the bed.

“No. Aleta, don’t go beating yourself up, it wasn’t your fault.” My body quaked, though of emotion or exertion, I wasn’t sure. We stayed there for a while, Aleta resting her head on me as I stroked her hair. “Who was she?”

“Who?”“The lady that was pushing your wheelchair.”“Oh. That’s Ms. Pickett, a social worker.”

The nurses returned. One of them wheeled Aleta out of the room. The other was carrying a plate of food. Putting on the side table, she produced a small table that she placed over my legs. She then set the tray on the table. Leaning forward, I took a sip of water, and picked up the fork. I dropped the fork on the blanket and leaned back on the pillows, tilting my head back and closing my eyes. The next days went by slowly, yet in a blur. I often woke up, and found myself nearly hoarse. When asking the nurses about it, they told me that I had been screaming, from nightmares, they presumed. In an eternity and a blink of an eye Aleta had her casts taken off and started to regain her strength. My condition had improved, but not much. Finally, the doctor decided that we were strong enough to be taken home. We would gather our belongings, go to Scotland to sort out some matters, and then go to live with our aunt in France. She was very nice, but I didn’t want to leave my old life behind.

-‐-‐Jessa Mellea

to read the rest of the story, email [email protected]

do not reply

foggy windows and foggy minds,all too soon you close the blinds.minds are closed and mouths are open,faking smiles with hopes broken.

“do not reply” they’ve closed the line,however you seem to be out of time.your tearful eyes are silently pleading,

your wrists and heart are slowly bleeding.

everything about you they try to break,make everything hard, plastic, and fake.

and to think that this might be the end of it all,with no one there to stop your fall

-‐-‐Grace Stephenson

Cages

You're a piece of sharp silverReady to cut everything you've made to shredsAnd though you have your needle and thread,

Sewing everything together Won't make it the way it used to be

You're a bird little oneFly away before you get hurt

You're a bird little oneAnd your wings will only ever cover you in

dirt

Kiss away the tears of dawn, as youRun through the seasYou see you're a beardTrapped in their throats

And though you remove yourselfThey'll always feel the burn


You're a bird little oneAnd your wings will only ever cover you in

dirt

And when you realize the chance you wasted

Little birdYour heart will

Break


You're a bird little oneAnd your wings will only ever cover you in dirt

-‐-‐Natalie Barch

art by Riona Yoshida

Beautiful

What is that?What is that word that came from your tongue

It's foreign to meAs foreign to me as French is to German

What is it?What is beauty?

A skinny waist?I want a skinny waist

A big bust?I will never have a big bust

A perfect shape?How I need that

All of these thingsAll of these things that make up beauty

I don’t haveI don’t have any of them

Why are they beautiful?I don’t know

But what I do knowWhat I know deep down

That I must be themBut is it truly beautiful?

-‐-‐Meg Turnbull


photo by Yasmine Razzak

The Garments Worn in Flying Dreams

The garments worn in flying dreams,their voices -‐-‐ sun kissed and agelessthough passed us with a silent hour

smiling frost-‐bright in the evening morning

They, who whisper deafening wishes,who seek to find the truth in

colors of endless wind-‐sung liesand wish for eternity in the

death-‐hold of life

I see the matchmaker, heavy withloss, who speaks the future

and sings the pastthrough hourglass words

that dance through the night

I call on the heaviness of wonderand dream of the words

that bind us

The glorious, and the magicalwith the façade of perfect imperfection

and the whimpering truth of dark deceptionthey hang up on the speckled-‐leaves

their stories, spun withthe gold of their wealthy spirit.

And with the wind in the ears of manythey search on

with their heads, dipped in the brightlight of the new morning

and spotted with the mark of night’s whispered legacy

I wait for the momentand seeing the new light of dawn,I fall once again, into that world

of spoken dream.

-‐-‐Noel Peng

photo by

Grace Lee

Documents

Flame 2013