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Editor’s Statement

Dear Readers, A lot of you won’t even read this. You’ll skip past it for one of two reasons. One, you’re just SO anxious to read the the little nuggets of literary genius in this magazine that you skip it in your excitement; or two, you didn’t even bother to open up the email to read it. Whichever one you are, I assure you that the pieces in this magazine are well worth the effort. As I read many of these pieces, I realized that the people in this school are very talented, in many different ways, and it made me think about this magazine and why we on the staff are doing what we are. For a while, I let it rattle around in my head. And then I finally came up with the right reasons. We are here, The Bold Line literary magazine staff, to help you shine. I firmly believe that each person in the world has an inner light to offer to the world. This light has the capability to change lives. We just have to figure out how to unleash it. Some people are naturals at letting their light shine. But what about the rest of us? Some of us need that little nudge and voice behind us saying, “It’s okay. You can do this.” I’ve felt like this has been that wonderful opportunity for people at our school (me included), to show that they have light to show, too. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the first volume of The Bold Line literary mag-azine. And I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Sincerely, Cyndal Bruner Editor-in-Chief

Cyndal Bruner Editor-in-ChiefVeronica Mason Design & Layout EditorMax Mason Staff MemberMegan Bajuscik Staff MemberDanyelle Frazier Staff MemberRaven Boatwright Staff MemberMatt Helm Staff MemberMatt Haslinger Staff MemberJosh Haxton Adviser

Staffers

“Love Poem”by Brittany Amick

Like the artist you are, you draw me in.You painted me a picture and hung it on your heart.I feel so blessed that you reveal what’s within.

Your words of honesty are where I find security.It reminds me of a solid foundation that I know will never break away.I love this form of purity.

I fell in love with the colors of your blanketing personality.I see the effort you give to donate out all you have to of-fer, this selflessness is attractive.Sometimes us, you and I, feels like a dream, so kiss me to awaken me to reality.

Like an unsolved puzzle you are a beautiful mystery,You open yourself up for me to find the individual pieces that make you who you are and yet there’s always more.What thrills me the most is that maybe I might become one in your heart’s gallery.

1

Woeful is the man who sits idly.The days pass him by as he stares blindly.

Routine binds his soul with chains, unbreaking.His castle, a jail, with bars unbending.

The thoughts swirl around him, him on his knee.He knows his dark fate, to never be free.

Rage his second mistress, and hate his first,The years of his life, he thinks, the worst.

His mind a cage, his heart tied to the floor.This man is wond’ring, is there nothing more?

Something, somewhere, someone holds this man’s key.He who holds the key is named Cruelty.

He wanders the labyrinth in his head,And searches his soul for something not dead.

Though he is loved and all is forgiven,His demons say, destruction is given.

As he searches, his demons attack him,Hope of reprieve is growing ever dim.

The avenues of faith elude him so,And nothingness is all he’ll ever know.

Now the eleventh hour draws so near,Now the path, he thinks, is so very clear.

As the tumbler clicks and the bullet sets,He breathes deep, sighs, and kills his last re-grets.

sketch by Valerie Coffee2

Over the sound of his muffled last tears,A sweet, welcome sound, suddenly appears.

He hears a knock from a far away place,The source, a hand, and his lover’s sweet face.

A crack forms in the strong walls of his shellAnd life starts to flow in his mental hell.

The flood of love breaks through the raging storm,Fear and doubt melt as ice does when it’s warm.

His tears before, fated to be his last,Love has rewritten the laws of the past.

The pistol falls with a clank to the floor,He has not the heart to hate anymore.

He lifts his head and sees her soft, brown eyes,Filled to the brim with the love that she cries.

Reaching out for him, and him out for her,They embrace: there cannot be another.

The pain is now gone, the cleansing runs through.The love they once loved is now one anew.

There’s things in life worth much more than gold.To find them, one only need be so bold.

by Nate Sweet

3

“Interview Woes”by Phoebe Ngo

“I think you’re up next,” my mother warned. I gripped my slightly crumpled portfolio a little harder, took in a short breath, and nodded affirmatively. While I anxiously waited for the smart-dressed announcer to summon me to an interviewer’s room, I cast a furtive glance around the organized chaos that was the art hall of Columbia College. It felt as if I had been squatting in that bustling lobby for hours -- days maybe -- waiting, like a caged tiger dreading battle in the Roman Colosseum, silently examining its competition. Even though I didn’t plan on combat-ing any warriors that day, I was aware of my mission. My dream. My oh-so terrifying aspiration that -- maybe -- wasn’t too different from a scuffle with a gladiator. That was the day that I tried out for the Governor’s School for the Arts Summer Camp. Months of preparation and years of desire had driven me to sit restlessly like an impris-oned animal in that lobby. I had listened to countless exhilarating tales of grand adventure other artistically inclined teenagers had relished with their stay at the school’s Greenville campus. Visions of late nights giggling with roommates and performing daring escapades to the vending machine frolicked throughout my imagination. Eager to experience these ventures for myself, I mailed an application to audition for one of the limited spots at the esteemed summer program. Little did I know how my impulsive decision would affect me. I arose before the dawn on a frigid Saturday morning in March with the expression and brain capacity of a member of the undead. Wearing the most elegant clothes I could dig out of my closet the previous night, I drove to Columbia College to discuss who my favorite artist was with an art professor that could probably see the terror written all over my face. Ask any acquaintance of mine and they’ll probably tell you that they’ve had better conversations with rocks than with me. In fact, the rocks were probably more willing to converse than I. The audition to get into the program consisted of two parts: an interview and a drawing workshop. The workshop would be no problem for me, as I was quite confident in my drawing capabilities and was more than willing to show them off. But the interview on the other hand.... “Phoebe Ngo!” My head jerked up at the strident sound of the announcer’s call. The butterflies that I had just restrained in a pathetic attempt at calming myself became free of their chains and waltzed merrily about in my stomach, sending nervous jitters up my spine like electric shocks. All the apprehensive feelings that I had been trying to suppress came rushing back, and my stomach knotted into a horde of tangles that could have rivaled a labyrinth. I believed I would have rather died a thousand cruel, tortuous deaths than be shut in a room all alone with an interviewer and have to carry on a conversation. By myself. “You know what, Mom? We can go home now,” I declared softly. “Don’t be silly,” my mother chided, “you’ll do fine. Now go on, the man won’t wait for-ever.”

4

Reluctantly, I lugged myself over to a young man with an official-looking name tag clutching a disorganized clipboard at the doorway of the art hall. At my approach, he grinned cheerfully and said, “Your interview is in Room 2B, good luck!” After mumbling a polite thank you, I plodded down an adjacent dimly lit hallway that Smiling Guy had pointed me to. Sure enough, halfway down the dingy hallway stood Room 2B’s door wide open and waiting, resembling more of a gaping jaw than an entryway. Breathe, I told myself silently. I let out a sigh I hadn’t realized I had been holding in and entered the room. “Hello there!” a friendly-looking older gentleman exclaimed at my entry. I managed a feeble smile and a faint hello in return and seated myself. The man’s offhanded amiability caught me off guard. I was certain that my hammering heartbeat would betray my anxiety and the man would dismiss me from the audition for being a chicken. Quickly realizing my melo-dramatic nightmare scenario was not going to materialize, I was soon able to relax and com-municate with the man as I would one of my friends. With renewed enthusiasm, my audition sketches and artwork from my now very crumpled portfolio were carefully laid out and pre-sented. The gentleman was very polite and professional; he complimented my design skills, as-sisted in showing me how I could improve, and asked about my goals and motivations. With his prominent laugh lines, peppery grey hair, and benevolent eyes, he was a far cry from the vicious and cruel monster that I envisioned an interviewer to be like. At the end of the session, I stood up and shook the interviewer’s hand firmly and with fervor; maybe interviews weren’t so bad after all! Even though rocks may still be better conversationalists than I, that interview taught me a lot about myself. I didn’t need to be an overwhelmingly outgoing person in order to succeed in talking to the interviewer. My goal was far more important to me than any physical, mental, or emotional barrier that my character could limit. Nothing would stop me; no, nothing could stop me. As long as I believed in myself, not a single thing could get in my way if I didn’t want to allow it; even if that “thing” was my own personality. That day, I was able to take myself out of my comfort zone, go against my own nature, and accomplish a dream.

5

photograph by Nicole Garrison

6

Her eyes are rivers after the rain,Expressed not only sadness,Revenge also, as lava poured from the tip of an erupting volcano.It was not crying shame that broke like glass to touch the ground. It was the anger and rage of impotence,Impotence which a child suffers when the adult steals a candy,a carrion bird drunk on a cadaver.He had left home when she was young.

Sus ojos como ríos después de la lluvia,expresaban no solo tristeza,también sed de venganza como lava derramada de la punta de un volcán en erupción.No era por pena aquel llanto en que se rompía como vaso al tocar el suelo.Era por coraje y rabia de la impotencia,impotencia como la que sufre el niño cuando le roba un caramelo el adulto,la misma pena que me embriaga como ave carroña en un cadáver.El la había dejado como cuando dejamos el hogar al crecer.

Francisco Pedro Ramirez

17

I desire to write, but I have no one to write to. No meaning for my pecking away at this keyboard in front of me, no reason for the screen lighting my face in this dully lit room. My eyes are

weary and seek rest, but I won’t allow them to find it. I have too much to say...

I desire to change lives, but no one wants to change. No purpose for that thought, to morph into something new, no need to push for things that will never happen. My mind is heavy with thought and light, but aches for relief and the gift of silence. But no, I

have so much to say...

I desire to inspire, but have nothing to be inspired by. No reason for laying in fields, staring into the dark speckled sky, no day-

dream to take me away from here. My spirit is a photograph, hap-pily frozen in a better place and time. Yet, impossible to stay, I

have too much to say...

I desired to make people think, and they finally had to. Too late for purpose. Too late for meaning. I can only hope that I

changed some fragment of somebody for the better. Then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. Maybe I

wouldn’t be here thinking...

“I had so much to say...”

by Cyndal Bruner

8

“Friends”

All the feelings are still thereAll the memories bring back tearsAll the times I cried, you were thereWe used to have a labelWe used to think that label defined usWe stripped away all the glueTo become just me and youNow that time has passedThey have branded us with the label of friendsBut no matter the label we haveWe will alwaysSee each other reflected back at usThrough each other’s eyes

by “D”

9

“Secrets of a Torturer”by Nikki Bittinger

Themanwasdressedinallblackfromheadtotoe.Heworelatexglovestoleavenotraceoffinger-prints.Theroomwascold,belowfreezing,andpitchdark.Draylintriedtoseethroughtheimpossibledarknessbuthecouldseethewhiteofthemans’gloves.Hestruggledagainstthewhitenylonropesthatboundhimtothesteeltable.Hecouldfeelthefreezingmetalthroughhisthinclothes.Themaninblackwasfidgetingwithsteriletoolsonanothersteelslab.Draylincouldseevarioustypesoftools:saws,scalpels,scissorsandmore.Hekeptstruggling,attemptingtospeak,whichmadethemanchuckle. “Thoseropesareverystrong,boy.There’ssimplynowayforyouto...escape.”themansaid,addingsickpleasureonthelastword.AshiverwentthroughDray’sspine. “Whatdoyouwantwithme?”Drayasked,unnaturallycalm.Silence. “Youwillfeelnopain,son.Itwillbeoverbeforeyouknowit.”Themansteppedcloser,switchingonalightoverDray’sslab.Theman’sfacewasaninhumansighthewouldneverforget.Hisskinwastranslucentandpaperthin.Hislipswerethin,deepcrimsonlinespaintedacrosshisface.Hiseyeswerethemostintimidat-ing.Theyworeadeepcrimsonwithsplashesoforangewhichflashedblackwhenhesmiled.Atlast,heraisedatool,ascalpel.AsheplaceditonDray’sskin,heslowlyfellintounconsciousness.

<10yearslater>

Draylinsatupinbedsurroundedbywhitelinen,thefluffycomforterstucktohissweatypalms.Thenightmarecamebackyetagain.Thenightmarethathadplaguedhimsincehewasseventeen.Drayclimbedoutofbed,hiscurlyblackhairfallingintohiseyes.Hepassedbyahallmirror,showingthescarsthatwillneverfade.Themostnoticeablewasonhisfacewhichwentfromthebottomofhislefteyetothetipofhislip,wherethemaninblacktriedtocutitoutbutfailed.Heshutthememoriesawayandtookaquickshower.Whenhefinished,heatebreakfastandhurriedtowork. Draywasaprivateinvestigator.Heknewsincehewasseventeenthatthisiswhathewantedtobe,tocatchthemanthatdidthistohim.HeknewtheManinBlackwasn’tgoingtojuststopwithhim.He’dlookedintomissingpersonscasesthatwentbacktonineteeneightyfour,theyearhewasborn.Eachmissingpersonscasewassimilartowhathe’dbeenthrough:deepslitsfromascalpel,bitsoffleshmissing,bodypartsremovedandreplacedbyhomemadeprosthetics.Healsonoticedsomethingelse.AlloftheManinBlack’svictims--lostandfound--hadnamesthatbeginwith“Dr.”Mostvictimsweremalesbutsomewerefemales.Drayknewthisguywasn’tgoingtostop,unlessheeitherdiedorwascaughtandputbehindbars. Heraisedhispapercoffeecuptohislips,theoverpriced,watereddownliquidflowingintohisdrymouth.Why does this world have serial killers?hethoughttohimself.Psychopaths? Why can’t everyone be normal? “‘Causenormal’sboring,”hesaidaloudtohisemptyoffice.Hesetthestackoffilesasideandrubbedhisdarkgreeneyes.Heneededsomekindofleadtoknowwhothismanwassohecouldfinallycatchhim.Serialkillersareusuallyloners.Alwaysdoingthingsontheirown,sothingswould getdone.Theywouldstayonthedownlow,sotheywouldbethelastpersonpeoplewouldsuspect.Theywouldcovertheirtrackssotheauthoritieswouldn’tbeabletofollow. Drayleanedbackinhisdeskchairandcheckedhise-mail.Most,asalways,wasjunk.Peopletryingtosellhimthings.Butonecaughthiseye.Thesubjectwaslabeled“1984.” Drayreadtheshortletterquickly.HeassumeditwasfromtheManinBlack.Itread:

Dear Mr. Cooper,

I’ve known for a while now what you’ve busied your time with. Searching for someone who does not want to be found. I advise you to stop looking for that person or what happened to you ten years ago will happen again--this time worse.

10

Thee-mailsentchillsdownhisspine.Howwouldhe--orwhoever--sentthise-mailknowthathe’sbeenlooking?Drayhadbeenverydiscreetinhissearches,followingaserialkiller’sguidelines.Leavingnotrace,whatsoever.Whateverthecost,hewasgoingtohavetobemorecareful.Hecreatedafolder,unlabeled,andsavedthee-mailthere,forfurtherresearch.Drayglancedathiswatch.Itreadeighttwentysix.Thedaywastedaway!Draydecidedtocallitanightandpackedhisthingsawayforthenight.Heloggedoffhiscomputerandshutitdown.Ashegrabbedhissuitcase,heheardacarengineoutsidehisofficewindow.Itwasbarelydriz-zling,butjustenoughforthewomandrivingtorunacrosstheparkinglottohisoffice.Shebangedloudlyonthedoor,makingitquiver.Draycrossedhisofficeintwolongstrides.Thoughhisofficewasn’tthatbig,thesizeofacollegedorm,possiblysmaller.Itwascrammedwithalargedesk,filecabinetsandaswivelchair.Heswungthedooropenandthegirlraninside,slammingandlockingitbehindher.Shewasbreathless.Herthindamphairclingingtoherface.Herleafycoloredeyeshuge,frozenwithfear.Shelookedbarelyseventeen. “What’swrong?”Drayasked,lookingherover.That’swhenhenoticedthesplattersofbloodonherclothesandskin.“Whathappenedtoyou?”Thegirltriedtospeakbutfinallygaveupbecauseshecouldn’t.Shesobbedsilentlybutsoonrecoveredalittle. “Listen,”Draysaid,gentlytakingholdofhershouldersandgettingeyeleveltoher.“MynameisDraylinCooper.I’maprivateinvestigator.Iseethatyoucan’tspeakbutIneedtoknowwhathappenedtoyou.Doyouthinkyoucanwriteitdown?”ThegirllookedintoDray’seyesthennodded.Heledhertohisdeskchairandgaveherawritingpadandapen.Immediatelyshestartedwriting. A man tried to kill me. “Who?Whotriedtokilledyou?”Drayasked.Sheshrugged.“Describehimtome,”hesaid.Thegirlthoughtforamomentthenbegantoscribbleagain. He told me that it wouldn’t hurt, that it would be over soon. “Describehimtome,please.” Black. He wore nothing but black. And latex gloves. Suddenly,Dray’sworldstoodstill.He’dwaitedtenyearstogetaleadontheManinBlackbutnevergotone.Untilnow. “Whatdidhedotoyou?”Drayasked.Thegirlbegantosobagain.Sheheldupherrighthand,shewaswritingwithherleft.Themiddleandringfingerweregone,nothingleftbutbloodyrigidnubs.NauseafloodedoverDray.“Whatelse?”Shegesturedtoherwetandbloodybluejeans.Therewerethreelongslitsacrosseachofherthighs.Thelowestone,closesttoherknees,wastheshallowest.Draycouldonlyseeshreddedmuscle.Heassumedthehighestonerevealedbonesalongwithmuscle.Dizzinessaccompaniedhisnausea. “Comeon,I’mgoingtotakeyoutoahospital,”Draysaid,standing.“What’syourname?” Thegirlfinallyspoke,“Dreesha.”Hervoicewasshakyandscared.Drayfeltpityforher,whatshe’dbeenthrough.Heledheroutofhisofficeandhelpedherintohiscar.Theywereatthelocalhospitalinundertenminutes.Soakingwet,theyenteredthehospital.Thereceptionistglancedatthemthencalledforemergencyhelp.Amomentlater,nurses-maleandfemale-camewithawheelchairandledthembothbackintosepa-raterooms.Theretheywereaskedquestionsaboutwhathappened.Dray,unfortunately,couldgivenohelp-fulinformationaboutwhathadhappenedtothepetitedarkhairedladyinthenextroom.HeonlyrepeatedthathesawDreesharunoutofhercarintheraintogettothesafetyofhisoffice.Hetoldthemwhatshehadinformedhimof,otherwisehewasofnohelp. ThedoctorscleanedandbandagedallofDreesha’sphysicalwounds.Thementalones,however,weregoingtoneedtherapy.Draywasallowedtoseeherwheneverythingwasproperlydressed.Helightlyknockedonherdoor,andwithresponsewalkedin.Dreeshawasgivencleanclothes:graysweatpantsandawhitehos-pitalt-shirt.Herhairhadpartiallydried,thecurlywavestuckedbehindherears,strayhairsfellintoherfacethough.Shewasslumpedover,hereyesstaringbutseeingnothing.Herskinlookedghostlypaleandfragile,asifsomethingweretotouchher,shewouldshatterinamilliontinypieces. “Howareyoufeeling?”Drayasked,settlinginthechairbesideher.Shedidn’tmove.

11

Shesighed,“Isupposeyouwouldliketoknowwhathappened?”Draymadenoresponse,justsatandwaitedforhertotellherstory.“Itwasdark,intheroomhekeptme,inandextremelycold.Hekeptmeonasteelslabandkepthistoolsonaseparateone.Iwasthereatleastthreeweeks,maybemore.Eachdayhewouldmaketinyslicesinmyskinorhe’dcutchunksoffor--”shepaused,onthevergeoftears.“Orhe’dcutoffbodyparts.Thatwastheworst.Henevergaveanyanesthetic.Ifelteverything.Hewantedmetofeelevery-thing.Thenhe’dcauterizethewounds.Hesaiditwasnecessary,soIwouldn’tdieofinfection,butitwassoterrible,no,beyondterrible.” “Thisman-heiscompletelyevil.Hehasnomercy,nosoul.Someoneneedstofindhim-quick.”Dreeshayawnedandaskedifshecouldrest.Drayagreed,heknewsheneededit. HecheckedwithDreesha’snurseandtoldherhe’dbebacklater.Then,hegotinhiscaranddrovebacktohisofficetopickupthemissingpersonsfiles.Bythen,theskyletitswrathfallfromanunburnedcharcoal-coloredsky.Hesprintedfromhiscartohisofficedoor.Insidehisfolderslay,untouched,justashe’dleftthem.Hethoughtforamomentanddecidednottoworkinhisofficebutinsteadathishouse.Hesnatchedthefilesandracedbacktohiscar.Rollsofthunderroaredabovehim.Hefollowedtheroadstohishouse.ThethunderandlightningdieddownalittlebuttherainstillhammeredtheEarth.Hishouse,however,wasquietanddry.Onceinside,hewriggledoutofhiscoatandhungitonacoatrack.Heclearedthekitchentableofwhatlittlethatsatthereandorderedthemissingpersonsfilesbydate.Twentyfourmissingpersonscasesinthelasttwentyeightyears.EachmatchingtheManinBlack’srequirements.Hestudiedthedatesthatthepeopleweresupposedlytaken.Eachdatewassixmonths,orless,apart.Helookedattheages,everyoneofthevictimswereseventeen.He’dlookedoverthesefilesnumeroustimes.Heknewthemlikethebackofhishand.What am I missing?hethought.There’s got to be something that I’m missing.Inthisperpetualstateofmind,herememberedsomethingfromanoldTVshow:“Youmaybefocusingtoomuchonthesuspect,tryingtofigureoutwhattheirnextmoveis.Instead,focusontheirorigin.”Draylookedatthefilesagainandasparkofanideasetatinyflameinhismind.Hesearchedhishouseforamapandpinneditonabarewall,awayfromanypry-ingeyes.Hestartedplottingalltheaddressesofthevictims,startingfromthefirstgoinguntilthelast.Whenhefinished,henoticedtheaddressesformedacompletecircle.Hestudiedthemapandconcludedthatthekillermustliveinthecentralvicinityofthecircle. Draysighed.Aftertenyearsofnon-stopsearching,hefinallystumbledonalead-betteryet,theleadstumbleduponhim.Hopefullythisleadledtojustice.Hewantedtosearchthehousesthatwereinathirtymilerangeofthecenterofthecircle.Unfortunately,theskystillcriedbittertearsoutsideandtherewasnowaypossiblehecouldcoverthatamountofareabyhimself.Heneededoutsidehelp.

Thenextmorning,DraycontactedafewfellowFBIagentsthatwerelookingforeasywork.TheyallagreedtobediscreetandwiseintheirsearcheswhileDrayagreedtodothesame.Outside,therainleftbe-hindlargepuddlesalongthecementsidewalk,theairstillhumidfromtheferociousstorm.Thebrightgoldensunshonealittleoverthefartreeline.DraybusiedhismindthinkingofwhattheManinBlackwouldattempttodonext.ThedatethatthelastvictimwastakenwasthesecondofOctoberofthepreviousyear.SomethingweirdbuggedDray.Thelastvictim,beforeDreesha,resembledDray,standingatsixfootthreeinches,withashockofthickblackhairandenticinggreeneyes.DraywaswonderinghowtheManinBlackmanagedtotorturetwovictimsatthesametimewhensomeoneknockedforcefullyonthedoor.Draybrushedhisthingsasidetobesureitcouldn’tbeseen.Inthedoorwaystoodamanbetweentheagesoffortyandfiftybutsur-prisinglyhadaheadfullofthiscoarseblackhair,likeDray’s,withtheexceptionofshocksofashinit.HewastallbutalittleshorterthanDraywithanathleticbody.ThatfactseemedoddtoDrayashestudiedtheman. “Hello,”themansaidinapowerfultone.“DraylinCooper,Ipresume.”ThemanhadathickBritishac-centbutDraydetectedotherlanguagesinhisclearcutvoice. “Goodmorning,”Drayreplied.Themanstaredathimforawhile,likehehadforgottenwhyhe’d comehere. “IamAgentBeuford.IwashiredbyaMr.Mackfire.” Oh.“Excusemymanners.Comeinside.”Draysteppedawayfromthedoor,“Makeyourself comfortable.”

12

AgentBeufordsatcasuallyontheleathersofaclosesttothedoor. “Wouldyoulikesomethingtoeatordrink,sir?” “No,thankyou.Thismeetingwillhavetoberathershort.I’monaschedule.” DraynoddedandtheAgentclearedhisthroat,“Aboutyourcase,Mr.Mackfiregavemelittleinforma-tiononwhatitisexactlyyouarelookingfor.Wouldyoucaretoexplainittome?” Drayexplainedwhathewantedoftheagentandaskedhimthesamehe’daskedtheothers.Whenhewasfinished,theagentagreedandtheybothstoodforhisdeparture. “Ishouldcontactyoufairlysoon,Mr.Cooper,”theagentsaid,“Anddobecareful.Thingsthatdonotwanttobefound,usuallystayhidden.”HegaveDrayastonecoldlookthenwalkedoutandDraywaslefttoclosethedoorbehindhim. Theagent’sadvicechilledDray’sblood.SomethingaboutAgentBeufordwasn’tquiteright. Laterthatday,DrayreceivedcallsfromotheragentstellinghimdifferenthousesthatcouldbethehomeoftheManinBlack.Theyagreedtomeetsoonandhungup.Anhourlater,threeagentsbythenamesofSmith,Barnes,andRobertsarrived.Theychattedforawhilethenagreedonheadingtothesixhousesthatwereclosesttothecenterofthecirclehe’ddrawn. Thefirsthousewasaplain,beige-coloredmoderndaytwostoryhousethathadanovergrownyardbutcleanFordExpedition.AgentBarnes,theyoungestofthecrew,was24,freshoutoftheacademy.Hehadlightblondehairwithlightbrownstreaks,whichmatchedbrightgrayeyes.Hewasmediumbuilt,probablywasforcedtogainweighttogooutonduty.HeaccompaniedDraytothedoor.Heknockedatthedoorandafewmomentslater,amanapproximatelyinhislatesixtiesorearlyseventiesstoodintheopendoorway. “Goodevening,officers,”themansaidinaraspyvoice,“MayIhelpyou?” “Mr.Williamson?” “Yes?” “Thisisjustaroutinecheck.”AgentBarnesheldupaphotoofoneofthemostrecentvictims.AyoungmannameDraven.“Haveyouseenthismaninthepastyear?”Mr.Williamsonstudiedthepictureforafewmoments,thenshookhishead. “Areyouawareofthedisappearancesaroundthisarea?”Drayasked. “No,Iwasn’tawareuntilyoujusttoldme,”Mr.Williamsonsaid,calmasthecenterofahurricane.Thismanknewaboutthedisappearances.Hewasjusttryingtoactstupid. “Doyoumindifwetakealookaround?” “Doyouhaveawarrant?”heresponded.Barnesshookhishead.“ThenI’msorry,there’snothingforyouhere.”Andwiththat,thedoorshutintheirfaces. Forthenextfewhours,theAgentsandDraywentaroundtotheotherhouses.NoneofthemseemednearascreepyasMr.Williamson.Whentheycametoadesolatetrailerwhichwashometoamanwholookedlikehegotstonedtwiceaday,hetoldthemthathe’dseenanumberofpeoplegomissingfromhislittletrailerpark.AsDrayheldupaphotoofMr.Williamson,thestonerguysaidhewasoneoftheweirdestpeoplehe’devermet,andashedescribedsomeoftheoddthingsaboutMr.Williamson,Draywasmoreandmoreassuredthathewastheirguy.Whenhewasfinished,DrayandBarnesthankedthemanforhisinformation,thenmetupwiththeothertwoatanearbycoffeeshop.Drayorderedhiscoffeeblack,he’dbeenrunningonfumesforthepastfewdays,andhewassuretheothersweretoo.Thethreeagentswerequietlycontemplatingthedayandwhotheythoughtwastheprimesuspect,butDraywasdoingsomethinkingofhisown.Theoldman,Mr.Williamson,hewasfamiliarinsomewaysbutalieninothers.Thewayhiseyesmoved,scanningeachoftheircoldfaces,faintlyremindedhimofhisfather,asdidhispostureandvoice. “Ithinkthestonerguycouldbethemainsuspect,”AgentBarnessaid,theothersnoddinginagree-ment.WhentheylookedtowardsDray,heshookhishead. “IthinkweshouldcheckoutMr.Williamsonagain.Heseemedtobethetype,andthefactthatheclammedupwhenweaskedtolookaround.” “Weneedtogetawarrant.”

13

“Wewon’tbeableto.Didyounoticethathewasn’tevenworriedaboutthefactthatwedidn’thaveoneorwouldtrytogetone?Heprobablyknowsthatwewon’tbeabletogetone.Maybehe’sboughtthecourtsandlocalpoliceforcesout.” “Thenwe’regoingtoheavetoscopeouttheplace.Seeifwecanfindanythingoutoftheordinary,”Smithsaid. “Right.Smith,youandRobertsstaysomewherecloseby.Rentahotelroomorsomething.BarnesandIwillscopeoutMr.Williamson.”

DraylinandAgentBarneshidinasecludedalleyway,hiddenbytallovergrownbushes.Theyhadexpen-sivebutnecessaryequipmentwhichincluded:giantOberwerkbinoculars,twoFlukeTiSthermalscanners,twotasers,andasmallhandgunthatBarneskeptinthedashofhiscar.Fortunately,Drayalwayskeptasilencerinhiscarwhichheattachedtothegun,soiftherewereanyshooting,itwouldnotwaketheneighbors.Itwasclosetolateevening,aroundeleven,asBarnesandDraywereusingtheirequipment.Mr.Williamsonhadalreadyturnedinforthenight.DrayinstructedBarnestokeepaneyeoutforanydanger,andiftherewasany,tonotifyhim.Draystartedfidgetingaroundthetrashandtheyard.TherewasnothingunusualaboutWilliam-son’swasteorlivingarrangements.Suddenlyhefoundahiddendoorundersomeseverelyovergrownweeds.Itresembledadoorthatoldhousesusedtohavethatwenttoastormcellarorbasement.Unfortunatelyitwaslockedwiththreecomplicatedpadlockswhichcouldonlybeunlockedwithlettersinsteadofnumbers.Hewastryingthelockwhenhisphonestartedbuzzinginhisrightpocket.Nodoubt,itwasBarnes.Heansweredthecallandputthewarmplastictohisear. “Yeah?” “Mr.Cooper,Iamupsetthatyoutrespassedontomylandandaresnoopingaroundmypersonalitems.Ittrulybugsme.”Mr.Williamsonpaused.“Ifyouhadjustgottenawarrant,IwouldhaveallowedyoutobethelittlePIyouare.” Draytriedtospeak,butcouldn’tquitefindhiswords.Mr.Williamson’svoicewasnotasithadbeenthisafternoon.Itbroughtbackdeepmemories,whichopenedandirritatedold,butnotyethealed,wounds.NowonderwhyWilliamsonhadnotbeenupsetbyhisappearance.Heknewwhathadhappened. “Please,donottrytotalk,Mr.Cooper.”Drayheardsomerustlingoverthephoneandknewwherehewas.“Iwarnedyoutoleavewellenoughalonebutyoudidnotheedmywarning.Youkeptforcingyournoseintoamysterythatshouldnotbesolved...oramurdernotreadytobecaptured.” Itallfittogetherthen.Mr.WilliamsonsaidthesamethingthatAgentBeufordsaid,whichmeanthewastheagent,andMr.WilliamsonwastheManinBlack. “It’syou,”Draywhispered. “Abouttimeyoufigureditout.HonestlyIthoughtI’dbeinjailbynow.”Draystartedwalkingquietlytotheothersideofthehouse,carefultokeepWilliamsonbusywhileheattempt-edtocatchhim. “Whydidyoudoit?”Drayasked,“Whatdidyougetoutofdismemberingandscarringdozensofkids?” Williamsonseemedtothinkforamoment.“Ihonestlyhavenocluewhy.Possiblybecauseoftheplea-sure.”Williamsonpaused,“Mr.Cooper,Iadviseyoutostaywhereyouare.Otherwise,yourpartnerherewillnotbe...comfortable.” Draystoodstillforamomentthenbolted,throwingthephoneontheground.HespottedWilliamsonbentovertheunconsciousbodyofAgentBarnes.Draycamefacetofaceyetagainwiththemanhesworehewouldtorturethesamewayhewastortured. “Leavehim,”Draysaid,“Hehasnothingtodowiththis.”Williamsonsmiled,showingaperfectrowofperfectwhiteteeth. “Onthecontrary,hedoes.”Hepaused,waitingforDraytothink.“Youneverclearlylookedatall themissingpersonsreports,otherwiseyou’dknow.”ConfusionstruckDray.He’dknownthosecases betterthanthebackofhishand. “What’reyougettingat?”Drayasked.

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“Remember,Mr.Cooper.OneofthelastfivetodisappearwasamanbythenameofDritonWhite.Hewasfoundwiththeleastphysicaldamagebutthementaldamagewasjustasbadasyours.Mr.Whiteiswithusrightnow.”WilliamsonkickedBarnesinthechest. AgentBarneswasacovername.Aprop.HewasactuallyaformerhostageoftheManinBlack.That’swhyhewassoreadytojumponthecase.Alsothereasonwhyhewasn’tafraidofDray’sappearance. “Seemslikeyoudidn’tknowthiscaseatall,”Williamsonsneered.Drayfeltlight-headed,dizzy.Hefeltthegroundbeneathhimbuthewaslost.Lostinaplacethattimehasforgottenbuthe,alltoowell,hadre-membered.Hewasforcedtorememberthenighthewastortured.

Whenheopenedhiseyes,hefeltlikehewasseventeenagain.Thescenewasalltoovivid.ThemetalslabcoldasArcticicethroughhisthinclothes.Hecouldseetheassortmentoftoolsonaslabnexttohim.Thegleamingsilvertaintedhim,remindinghimwhereeachtoolwondermethisskin. Heknewthatthistime,hewasn’tgoingtobeallowedtoescape.ThistimeWilliamsonwasgoingtofinishwhathestarted.Heheardheavyfootstepsonwoodenstairs.Williamsonworeblackslacksandablackt-shirtwithhislatexglovesinhand.HewalkedovertoasinkthatDraybarelynoticedbefore.Heheardadistantsoundofstreamingwaterthatrecededtonothing.Draytriedtospeak,buthiswordscameoutasmumbledslurs. “You’llnevergetawaywiththis,”hesaid.Williamsonchuckled. “I’vegottenawaywithitforalmostthirtyyears,son.” Withthat,hetookascalpelandmadeaslitatthebaseofhisownthroat,butnobloodflowedfromtheslit.Hereachedbehindtheslitandpulledawayfakeflesh,revealingagenuineexpressionofpleasureandcontentment. TherecognitionoverwhelmedDray.Standinginfrontofhimwashisfather.Heknewitwithouthavingbeentold.Bewildermentflowedthroughhim,followedbyangeranddisgust. “Dad?”Drayasked,hisvoicecrackingontheunfamiliarword. “Hello,son.I’mtrulysorryforthepainandsufferingI’vecausedyou.I’mafraidI’vebeenvery...sickandIcan’tseemtorecover.”Hepaused.“Son,I’mherenowtoendyourpainandsuffering.Justthinkofitasfatherlylove.” Dray’sscreamsechoedoffthewalls,asdidthesoundsofhisownfathertearinghimapart.Finally,afterwhatfeltlikeaneternity,Drayfeltnothing.

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“Dream Catcher”by Caroline Thompson

The last withering willow dissolves in the dim twilight of the night,catching the last drops of sunset before they spill over the edges of the world like rain.

Each branch lifelessly enkindles,falling to ashes that escape in the wind.

The breeze carries them like a faint whisper over broken limbs and crumbling crimson leaves,

to the depths of the forest I cannot reach.

This edge of the earth where I now find my feet lingering at its boundaries, is left empty.A hazy ash stains the air,

burning my heart dry of all the dreams I once dared to whisper to the intertwining willow of my catcher of dreams.

And as dusk kisses the porcelain stone of my skin, and tightens the breath within me,

I can feel my heart fluttering open for the first time,leaving me exposed and vulnerable for humanity to scrutinize.

The remains of the forest softly blur together with the rest of the past I’m leaving behind.All that is left are my feet idling on the edge of the only soil I’ve ever known.

As I step from the shadows and emerge into a strange familiar world,

Only a web of dreams fills my palm.Only the russet feathers that hang from the woven ring can now guide me on journeys to

places I’ve only seen with closed eyes.Only this dream catcher can capture the fear that made me afraid of the fall.

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photograph by Hali Williams

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Weak ankles? Stairs are your enemy.

-Cyndal Bruner

Six-Word MeMoirS

I’ve never given up on you.

-Nate Sweet

Never claimed to be a saint.-Mandi Conner

He said faithful. He was lying. -Mina Gunter

doodles by Veronica Mason

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Everything’s better with bacon on top.

-Cody Jones

Can’t think of six simple words.

-Brandon Dowell

Math class = full page mural.-Veronica Mason

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xc

“When Puzzle Pieces Fit Together”by Kerri Sniegon

There is one person in the world who I could never forget. She’s positive, green-eyed, and my best friend. She’s changed my life entirely and helped me through so much. But, I didn’t always have her as my best friend. In fact, I didn’t really know what a best friend was until she came along.

During the summer when I was nine years old, my parents brought me to a daycare, as they had done previous summers before. I knew the daycare building front to back. I stared at it from outside, looking over every insignificant detail. I even noticed the old fading white paint was chipping in some places. Inside, I knew, was crawling with loud, out of control kids. I didn’t like going because it gave me headaches, but I had to because my parents both worked during the summer.

I finally took a deep breath, and stepped inside. I was immediately overwhelmed with the rush of noise that overcame my hearing as I took a few steps inside the car-peted room. There were kids playing board games on the floor and coloring at the tables. In the room next to the one I was now in, there were kids playing on comput-ers and watching TV. It was the first day of summer break and my friends from day-care were out with their families having fun. I walked around the room for awhile, looking for someone to talk to. I finally spotted a girl who looked about my age and sat down in front of her.

“Hi, my name is Kerri, what is your name?” I smiled at her as if she had been my friend since forever. She stared at me expressionless for a few seconds but smiled back at me.

“My name is Mallarie,” she replied in a small voice. I smiled again and stood up, sud-denly remembering something my brother showed me the night before. A game called fifty two pick up. He took a bunch of cards that were on the kitchen counter and asked if I wanted to play. I, not knowing what the game was, happily agreed. He pointed to the stack of cards, telling me there were fifty two of them in the pile. I nodded, thinking it would be a type of magic trick until he proceeded to drop all the cards in front of me, and told me to pick them all up.

“Do you want to play a game called fifty two pick up?” I smiled widely, trying not to laugh.

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“Sure,” she replied happily after only hesitating a little. I walked over to where a box of cards were stacked, just waiting to be played with, and picked one up. For a split second, I thought about putting the cards back and telling Mallarie that the game is pointless and we should play something else instead. But, I had already told her about it and it might make her laugh. I knew that making someone laugh was a great way to get them to be friends with you, so I decided to show her the game. I quickly walked back over to where she was. I breathed in and dropped all the cards in front of her, not even stopping to wonder if there were actually fifty two cards in the pile.

“Okay, pick them up.” I smiled at her, laughing now. She stared at me, confused at first and then shocked. I felt bad about it as I watched her stare at the cards. This didn’t work out the way I thought it would at all, she was supposed to laugh but now she’ll probably hate me forever. “Here, I’ll help you,” I offered and started picking them up one by one. I didn’t even care if she helped or not, I just wanted to rewind and pick something different to play. She pitched in and started picking them up anyway and I smiled at her. I couldn’t believe she would help me after I had done something like that when only just meeting her. She stopped going to daycare two days later, and she slowly started to fade from my memories.

The first day of sixth grade, I was nervous, excited, and oblivious of the years to come. I found my first class easily and sat down in a seat near some people I knew. I scanned the classroom, naming each kid in my head as I did so. There was only one I didn’t know the name of, a girl. She looked sort of familiar but I thought for sure I had never seen her before in my life. The teacher started to call the roll so I waited to hear her name.

“Mallarie Craps?” the teacher’s piercing voice called out. The girl slowly raised her hand. I thought about this, I didn’t know a Mallarie. I decided it wasn’t something I should make a big deal about but she seemed like she would be a nice person. I suddenly felt the need to get to know her better and made a promise to myself that I would. The bell rang then, and my next class was Spanish. I walked in and found a seat beside a friend of mine and Mallarie. I was glad she had this class as well, that meant I would definitely get to know her better.

Mallarie watched me as I sat down, almost as if she was trying to figure out where she knew me from as well. She noticed what she was doing and smiled. We talked the next few days about our favorite things. She told me that her favorite color was pink and that she liked to put noses on her smiley faces. She told me she was terrified of roller coasters and had a little brother and sister. In return I told her that my favor-ite color was blue and that I disliked putting noses on my smiley faces. I told her that I enjoyed roller coasters and had an older brother and sister. We were completely different than each other but she could always make me laugh.

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This bothered my friend, who we also sat beside. She didn’t really know Mallarie as well as I had gotten to know her and she decided to joke around with her. On some days my friend would throw Mallarie’s pencil across the room and on others she would scribble nonsense on her paper. It was always something different. I didn’t say anything about it for a few weeks because she was my friend but when I went home one day, I thought about how I would have felt if a girl I didn’t even know was joking around and no one was there to help.

The next day I went to school and started to be extra nice to Mallarie. If Mallarie needed a pencil that my friend stole, I’d give her a new one. Once my friend saw that I was being nice to Mallarie despite her efforts to make fun of her, she eventually stopped. So in the end, I gave Mallie a friend and she, in a way, gave me a voice. I later found out she was the girl I played fifty two pick up with and thought it was ironic how we became best friends.

The way we met may not have been the most wonderful, but that doesn’t really matter to us. I spend almost all of my time with Mallie, almost as much as I breathe. And although we’re sometimes different from each other, we’re also a lot alike. She’s different than anyone I will ever meet. I never fight with her, we accept our dif-ferences easily. She can always get me to smile and is always there for me when no one else seems to be.

She changed my life by giving me a chance to see what best friends are really like. As I look back on the fifty two pick up game, I realize that she taught me that people can be forgiving. She’s impacted my life more than anyone in the world. Without knowing it, she’s inspired me to be a better person. I make sure every day that I’m the greatest friend I can be to her because she’s always done that for me. I will nev-er forget how I met Mallie; she’s absolutely the greatest friend I could ever ask for.

Sincerely, Cyndal Bruner Editor in Chief

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painting by Phoebe Ngo

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“Beehive”by Justin Burgess

The golden martyrAttacks the fearsome thief andPlummets quietly

“A Haiku that is a Palindrome”by Max Mason

I sat on evilHow as I won, now I saw

Oh, live not as I

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When I see you I feel sudden reliefYour very presence can light up a roomTo be parted from you would cause me griefWhen you’re gone my heart is heavy with gloom Without you my essence would never thriveI’ll never search for anotherYour aroma brings my senses aliveBecause of you there will be no otherThe love of my life, we shall never partNo other than you will ever make doYour masterpiece is a true work of artMy life would not be complete without youOur beloved connection is not a jokeOh the joy when I drink my Diet Coke

sonnet by Hannah Hooker

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photograph by Nicole Garrison26

You say you love melike the parents you try to be

then you slap me downand I had an emotional breakdown

because the people I could Always trusta perfect unjust

the taste of blood in my mouthI spit on the floor in disgust

And run out the doorlooking like I’m trying to explore

explore the emotional, physical, and mental painbut I just cannot restrain

from punching the red brick of our “home”and a thought ran across my mind, ‘I have No

home’

as the warm, red liquid dripped from knucklesI try to arrest but I cry for help

“Cry for Help”by Aja Rodriguez

27

“Scary”by Veronica Mason

I stumble through the dense undergrowth as the icy rain enfolds me in a wet embrace. Looking around I

can see no familiar landmarks. My shoes sink into the swampy ground and I have to fight to pull them out.

I’m lost. I know it will be getting dark soon but I can’t find the campsite anywhere. I continue trudging

through the dusky forest. After disentagling myself from a thorny bush I see a dark splotch in the distance.

It’s hard to make out exactly what it is through the sheet of rain. I hurry towards it, hoping it’s the camp-

site or a ranger’s station.As I approach I can see it’s just an old forgotten shack. I can’t hold back a wave of disappointment, but then I

feel slightly better at the thought of a dry place to sleep. The rickety stairs moan as I climb them. I stand on the porch for a moment trying to drip-dry a little before I go in. But before I can open the door, it swings open

silently and a small bent figure peers out.It’s an elderly man with a few wispy strands of pure

white hair on his lumpy head. He’s skeletally thin; pale wrinkled flesh stretched over sharp bones with flimsy muscle in between. His eyes are a dull, filmy grey and

his clothes look about two sizes too big, and a hundred years overdue for a cleaning.

I stand awkwardly before him, trying to find some sort of explanation, but my mind is empty. He tilts his head

to look up at me.

28

“Ahhh, we have a visitor. We must let them in. Come, come. We have a warm fire, you may rest yourself

here,” he says. His voice reminds me of sandpaper rub-bing on wood. I am more than a little wary of his hospi-tality. But the wind rubs against my back sending chills

all over my body so I hurry inside the inky doorway.Inside is dusty. Cobwebs float on the rafters. Thick lay-ers of dirt carpet the floor. The only things in the room are a large brick fireplace, some faded mats, and a pile

of crates covered with tarps in the corner.“We know you think it’s strange to find us out here,”

the old man says with a crooked grin, “but we got stuck here, just like you, and we just couldn’t leave.

We’ve been here ever since. Alone.”“Yes-um- that’s very nice, but could you just tell me which way the nearest ranger’s station is? I’ve been

separated from my camping group.” I watch him as he shuffles around building up the fire.

“Many years, oh so many years, we’ve been here all alone. But now you’re here.” He turns to look at me

with another unsettling smile. “Now we have company in our lonely little home.”

I inch towards the door while his back is turned to me. I’ve decided to brave nature’s fury. I think it a safer place than this eerie cottage and its inhabitant. The

floor boards squeal under my weight and I curse them in my head. The old man spins around, his eyes wide

with fright. He hobbles over to the door, drawing a heavy wooden bolt across it.

29

“You don’t want to be out there,” he mutters quietly. A dark aura seems to settle around him like a fog. “It’s

very stormy and dark out there…” he stands at the door for a long moment, swaying slightly.

“Umm sir…?” I say, my voice no more than a whisper.“Ah,” he jerks around to face me, “Sorry, sorry! We

just don’t want our guest to get hurt in the storm. You should stay here until it passes. We can tell you a story!

A very, very good story.”I stand uncertainly in the middle of the room. The old

man beckons to a moldering mat in front of the fire-place. He pats the spot softly with his gnarled hand.

The look in his eyes tells me it is not an invitation, but a command. I’m not a guest. I’m a prisoner.

With as much confidence as I can muster, I sit on the floor next to the blazing fire. The tempest outside

throws itself against the wooden walls as the old man begins his tale.

“When we were young, we were very rebellious. We did bad, bad things. We lied to our mother, we stole,

and we cheated. We were punished every time, but we didn’t care. We had no friends. But we knew how to

have fun by ourselves.“We liked to play with our sister’s pet mouse. It

brought us joy to see how it wiggled when we cut it. But soon it stopped wiggling. Of course our sister

found out. And she would have told if we hadn’t made her quiet. But when mother couldn’t find her she was so upset. We were upset too, but we could never tell, and they would never find her if we didn’t tell.” The

30

man gazes into the flames as if watching his past deeds from where he’s sitting now. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips while his eyes are dark with terror. I feel a

shiver climb up my spine. I try to find a way to excuse myself, when suddenly he resumes his story. “They

had a funeral for our sister, and after that mother got very sick. We were sent away when she was sick. We

were sent to our uncle’s house. It was very far, we nev-er traveled so far before.

“The house was bigger than any we’d ever seen, and older too. Our uncle was very rich. Most of the sur-

rounding woodlands belonged to him. We liked the forests, there we could be alone. The forest is where we

met our friend, too.“Our friend doesn’t have a body, but he can still speak

to us. He met us in the forest. We asked him to play with us, but he said he could only play if we went to his house. We did not know where his house was, so he showed us. He put the pictures in our mind so we

could visit him the next day. “When we left the next morning, our friend was wait-

ing in the forest. We could feel him walking with us. He guided us through the darkest part of the forest. He

said he couldn’t be in sunlight. We went very far into the woods. But we found his house, and we were so

happy because we could play with our friend.“His house was old, and broken, and we were scared,

but our friend was inside. He brought us in and showed us his toys. He had all sorts of interesting

knick-knacks. He showed us his books too. They had pictures that scared us, but he told us they were just

stories and comforted us.31

“We came to his house every day for many weeks after that. One day it was raining and we wanted to go home

because the thunder scared us. But our friend told us we could live with him in his house forever if we want-

ed. All we had to do was let him in and we could be friends forever.” The man slowly turns towards me.

His face is completely different. His smile has a depth of cruelty that wasn’t there before. I slowly start to back

away as he continues speaking.“Now we are trapped here. We cannot leave. Our

friend is always with us, in our head, but we are so lonely…” He crawls towards me, and I see that he’s still a frightened little kid. I almost feel bad for him.

“Well, that-that was an- uhh- interesting story sir, but really I must get going.” I reach backwards, placing my

hand on the bar that locks the door.“No. You will never leave,” a new voice comes from

the man’s lips. “We are bored with this body. We need a new friend.” A shadow forms behind the empty shell of the old man. I tear at the wooden beam, but it refus-es to move. I feel the shadow approaching me. Its cold

fingers reaching for my face. The hollow frame of the former host crumbles to dust before my eyes. I cry out in horror and the demon glides down my throat. I feel

it consume me and everything goes dark.

THE END

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“Love Is Like a Hole”

love is like a holeyou wander aimlesslyand stumble into it,falling helplesslynaïve to what lies within

love is like a holeyou cannot climb outyou are blinded by its wallstrapped by its promisestricked by its depth

love is like a holea luring thoughttempting you to come neareruntil you lose your grip on re-alitybecoming engulfed in the un-known

love is like a holecrashing through the dark-nesshitting rock bottomdefeated andbroken from the fall

love is like a holesuffocating as it collapses around youburying you aliveit crushes you,while the one who pushed you inhelps fill the hole with dirt

love is like a holein the heart of the one who fell for ita hole that is emptyand never forgottenleaving a lasting impression on a burdened heart

love is like a hole.

-Emily Pilot

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“A House in the Woods”and photograph

by Endia Cochran

A house in the woodsStanding all aloneSilently screaming

For someone to call it home.

Out in front stands a large oakBranches reaching towards the sky

Praying for someone, anyone,To just stop by.

Then a rustling of leaves,And the whisper of soft voices

Then out into the clearingAppears a family making lots of noises.

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The house in the woodsNow has a residing family there

Who loves the houseAnd gives it much care.

The large oak out frontNow has a swing.

Many children run round itWhile it wishes it could sing.

The children grow upAnd move away.

The parents get old and need help,So in the woods they no longer stay.

So once again the house in the woodsIs standing all aloneSilently screaming

For someone to call it home.

And the large oak out front With its branches reaching towards the skyIs once again praying for someone, anyone,

To just stop by.

The house in the woods and the large oak out frontShall both stay this way

Until another family ventures into the woodsSo silently they wait for that day.

sket

ch b

y Ve

roni

ca M

ason

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