Leaves falling from trees at the end of autumn. The day winding down to its dusk. Thoughts transcending the binds of reality to become dreams.

At the core of our concept “Spiral” lays motion, which the writers and artists featured in this magazine have used to characterize the emotions they portray. Dy-namism is key in each of the works presented; transformation, subtle and palpable, ephemeral and enduring, nascent and concluded, is their theme. However, we were careful to preserve the beauty of a concept as open to interpretation as “Spiral” by choosing pieces that do not overstate or restate that idea. We pay a quiet homage to the abstract corkscrew, which we hope will inspire the imaginations of our readers rather than dictate them.

Through this we will dictate: picture yourself at the top of a slide, gravity weigh-ing down your stomach and thoughts. You sit down and prepare to propel yourself forward and down, and for an instant you fear the fall ahead. But you are too late, for your body has acted without your full consent, and you zoom down the plastic swirl. You fly off the end and land on a soft, reassuring ground. You left weight behind you at the top of the slide. You are free from worries no longer relevant. The world still reels from your ride; you are unwound.

Now feel free to slide down the spiral of each piece you read, each picture you admire. Enjoy!

[ -I- ]

Table of ContentsLiterary Magazine 2010-2011 “Spiral”

#01 ___ A Blur of the World as We Spin, Spin, Spin ________________________ Catherine Niu #03 ___ A Voice like Wind __________________________________________________ Farha Pirani#05 ___ Broken Heart. ____________________________________________________ Melissa Sopher#06 ___ Catacomb _________________________________________________________ Alison Stitzel#06 ___ Crack ____________________________________________________________ Jennifer Taffe#07 ___ dreams of fall _______________________________________________________ Kameel Mir#08 ___ Flame ___________________________________________________________ Caitlyn Daniels #10 ___ Flight __________________________________________________________ Caitlyn Daniels#14 ___ Fragment _________________________________________________________ Alison Stitzel#15 ___ Goodbye __________________________________________________________ Melissa Sopher#17 ___ Heal _______________________________________________________________ Emily Hughes#19 ___ Help Wanted _________________________________________________________ Haven Bills#21 ___ Ice Bucket ____________________________________________________________ Nejla Day#21 ___ Love __________________________________________________________________ Nejla Day#22 ___ Lifeguard Lament ___________________________________________________ Emily Hughes#24 ___ Love is no piece of art __________________________________________ Arian Moharari#25 ___ please don’t forget me ___________________________________________ Arian Moharari #25 ___ Manon _______________________________________________________________ Espe Semrau#26 ___ Naive ____________________________________________________________ Lauren Steffes#30 ___ Nana _____________________________________________________________ Melissa Sopher#31 ___ No Regrets ________________________________________________________ Ashley George #32 ___ Now ______________________________________________________________ Molly Mitchell#34 ___ On the Hill of the Dove ___________________________________________ JaeYoung Choi#40 ___ On the Other Side of The Highway _______________________________________ Ben Seco#42 ___ Only One Fish in my Ocean ________________________________________ Kimberly Luong#43 ___ Plight of the Writer ___________________________________________ Natalie Feingold#44 ___ Psychedelic __________________________________________________ Shelby Satterwhite#48 ___ RAW _________________________________________________________________ Haley Brown#49 ___ Ready or Not, Here I am _________________________________________ Jordan Aaronson#52 ___ Regret ___________________________________________________________ Molly Mitchell#53 ___ Ruthless __________________________________________________________ Nicole Assini#54 ___ Simply Stained ____________________________________________________ Ashley George#56 ___ Stitches _________________________________________________________ Alison Stitzel#57 ___ That Four-Letter Word ________________________________________________ Julie Katz#58 ___ The Best College Essay You’ll Ever Read _______________________ Stephanie Alberts#60 ___ The Cubic Vanity __________________________________________________ JaeYoung Choi#69 ___ The Moment Before _________________________________________________ JaeYoung Choi#72 ___ unraveled ____________________________________________________________ Kameel Mir#73 ___ Watermelon Pockets __________________________________________________ Grace Chung#75 ___ Whispered Little Nothings ______________________________________ Elnaz Moghangard#75 ___ Winter Flower Sonnet _______________________________________________ Emily Hughes

[ -II ]

A Blur of the World As We Spin, Spin, SpinCatherine Niu

Enchanting wind dancerFragment of light and color forever swimsTwirling towards dreams, winding towards earthOnly the heart can determine

Violent twisterWhipping, roaring, winds of furyThis lumbering swirl of debrisA bridge between earth and cloud

Tides collidingA whirlpool of clear body and white foamBetween sunlit surfaces and dark watery depthsSpiraling, spinning, spinning

Everything spinning---A plastic purple topClothes tumbling in the dryerWheels on a carGlass revolving doorsThe swish of ball gownsThe hands of a clockSpinning, spinning

We spiral as we sleepAs the earth spins, a revolution of day and nightAs the moon revolves around the earth, pulling blue foaming tides As the earth revolves around the sun, turning the wheel of the yearWe are spinning, spinning

Spinning through constant cycles of death and birthSpinning past opportunities and setbacksSpinning to the eternal rhythm of timeSpinning in a swirling universe of starsSpinning as our own helical DNA describes

Continued...[ 001 ]

[ 002 ]

We spin and spin and spin

Just as the mysterious stars of the deepAnd the powerful winds of the presentAnd the infinitesimal molecules of within spiral onSo we cannot balance the wheel in place---We must spin and spin and spin

A Voice like WindFarha Pirani

With your powerful voice that could match the overwhelming winds of the raging storm outside, you told me to listen carefully to the story of your world,and to let in the sweet lessons you taught mefrom the stories of your childhood.

Then, there were no winds strong enoughto block out the whispered taunting ofthe elite students of your exclusive private school in Pakistan, students who went home to eat meals with expensive meatas they chatted with their families of prominent businessmen.

Not you. In your small home with simple furnishings and meals of mostly vegetables, you helped with household chores,so your parents, dwindled of their wealth by other greedy family,could work hard to pay for your education.You listened there.

You were a happy child though, surrounded by love and always determined to be more,never once saying “It should be easier.”You helped out, studied hard, and shaped your voiceso that it poured out like honey, and everyone yearned for a taste.

You loved opening your heart through song, and you loved the feeling when people eagerly leaned towards you,now whispering, “Who is that lovely girl?”

Continued...[ 003 ]

You discovered with joy that you could blow awayall the wrongs you saw when you sang.

You tell me now, though, your only regrets were the times that,despite your powerful voice, you still could not speak for yourself.I know better because you’ve taught me to stand up for myself.Your voice still rings out,Strong and sure like the sweetest winds.

[ 004 ]

Broken Heart.Melissa Sopher

my mind is a pool with rhythms of thought slowly swaying

you pierced— poisoned this tranquility reminding me I may never find the answers I so hopefully seekan inactive storm, gone…leaving my ripples forever unkempt.

burning from within— the fleeting flash of fire once brightly ablaze, now only ash remains ash so thick, breathing is impossible

suffocating in the images of who I used to be of who we used to be

longing to exhale the pollution but so trapped, so compressed, so…full yet empty. black, save for the one flickering light:

the hope to breathe again.

[ 005 ]

CatacombAlison Stitzel

catacombwrithing larvae nestlein fetid coves of dangling flesh.

gnarled roots rupture spoiled organs and inhale bile.

staccato raindrops puncture capsized soil andflood deflated lungs.

CrackJennifer Taffe

I can stop anytime I want. I swear. It’s nothing serious; I’m just a recreational user. When I’m on it, I feel untouchable. I can do anything, say anything, be anything. I feel in control.

It used to be this underground thing that only the smart kids did to distract them from their studies. But now, everyone’s doing it. And it’s spreading. It seems like the users get younger and younger every day. I started when I was 14, but now kids are starting by the age of 10. It’s really not that big of a deal. My parents know about it, and they’re totally cool with it. They can’t say anything because they do it too. It’s great for the whole family! The other day, my grandma and I did it together. If you walk into our house, you’ll see all of us doing it in different rooms.

I do it because I love the feeling. The rush I get from seeing my “friends” lives documented. Reliving the nights I wasn’t invited to. Laughing at the inside jokes I’m not involved in. It dis-tracts me from the mediocrity of my life. It pulls me out from my shell, into the world. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up and the last thing I do before I fall asleep. It calms me down. I see the people I wish I were and judge the people I’m glad I’m not. I waste hours hypnotized by it. I have to know everything. And when I see someone in person, I feel superior. Like I know everything about them, and they know nothing about me. It’s intoxicating.

When that little red box pops up in the corner, I get chills. Even if it’s just a “like” or tag, it’s

Continued...[ 006 ]

still exhilarating. But you know you’ve had a good day when you get a wall post. Those are the best.

I love it. I live for it. Obsessed is a strong word. Addicted is more accurate.

I have a problem. I’m addicted to Facebook. And it’s bad. Very bad.

dreams of fallKameel Mir

truth is, you don’t existmottled negatives litter the ground,plush for my roaming solesi observe the sky above memeld what i thought was lined.

(hush your lush young mouthbefore the grasping gray it twines realms togetherriddles the sulking branches.)

cold, cold, the doleful coldcold in my bloodi wash away my sullied contoursand sing before the graythe chorus of rueful brooksrunning secrets through the woods.

truth is, i’ve given up on sleepbecause the dark is where your shadow loves best to play.

[ 007 ]

FlameCaitlyn Daniels

The torrential downpour had lessened to a steady drizzle, sending down droplets of water that clung carelessly to her hair as she walked across the field. The spray of mud sent flying by each footfall made a Jackson Pollock of her jeans and knee high black boots; she no-ticed but didn’t care. She was too distracted right now. So distracted, in fact, that she didn’t even notice the man who followed her across the soggy field to the jagged patch of rocks she was heading towards. He was just a man from the surrounding town who went by George simply because he looked like one. He had nothing in mind other than finding out where the Casteel girl went every day when she crossed his pasture. All he knew about her was that she lived with her father on the old MacEvoy property; her name was Aria or Arielle maybe. Though this was his field, he seemed more concerned with where he was stepping than the girl ahead of him did. He picked his way cautiously across the rock-strewn landscape, careful not to twist an ankle or sink knee-deep into mud. As hard as he tried, the dirt and grime managed to cake his already-deteriorating work boots and heavy clothing. With both parties paying such close attention to their one goal, neither noticed the shadow of a third figure following them both. Arielle reached the first rock at the base of the cliff and paused, counting four sharp, shoulder-high peaks to the left and three back. She’d done this plenty of times, but now she paused again to glance warily upwards at the steep incline that hid the entrance to her hide-out. Realizing she couldn’t waste any more time, she leaped once to a low, flat rock. From there, she jumped off the sides of several others until she arrived at a fissure in the side of the incline and ducked inside. The dark here was no ordinary darkness. It pressed into her from all sides, threatening, menacing, promising to send her into a state of panic. But, she found her pocket, flipped the lighter open and slid her thumb down the striker, giving the dark a valiant shove backwards and sending it cowering to the crevices of rock all around. With the small flame as her guide, she continued down the almost-path. It dropped continually in a steep, descending spiral, reminiscent of a descent into hell. But for her, this was both a de-scent to hell and a climb to heaven. For what the cavern below her held were both the horrors of the past as well as her only hope for what was to come. Finally, the slender path opened up and made the yellow flame she held look somehow infinitely smaller than it had before. She closed her eyes and blew on the fire, as if to put a birthday candle. She focused on each indi-vidual candle that lay hidden under the dark and when she opened her eyes, the cavern was filled with a fantastic light. The flame now lit the hundreds of candles throughout the space. She clicked it closed and returned it to her pocket, taking one final step forward to survey her abode. A smile spread across her features as her eyes took in the terrible beauty of what lay

Continued...[ 008 ]

before her: the black lake seemed infinitely deep, but was kept in check by the rocky shoreline and the blazing of a hundred candles. Her foot reached out, almost subconsciously, towards the obsidian water; but instead of sinking through, the sole of her boot found the slippery surface of a submerged rock. With each step, her pride in finding this place grew considerably, no one would ever be able to find her here, or get across this moat without knowing its secrets as she did. The sunken rocks she stepped on lent the illusion of walking on water. She reached the other side quickly and sat down amongst the ancient books and gnarled candles. It was time to begin. George stood there utterly confused. She’d simply disappeared. He couldn’t believe he

[ 009 ]

had lost her. This was his land; he should know more about his land than she did. His boot kicked out at the rocks leading up to the bottom of the cliff. His blood was pounding in his ears, but he never heard the soft crackle of the gravel behind him. Hours later, Arielle emerged from her hideout, looking, once again, upwards at the clouds overhead rather than where her feet were going. Because of this, she didn’t realize before it was too late what she had stepped on. She knew him simply as a man from the town. To her, he had no name, but that didn’t make this any less alarming. She frowned down at the limp body lying at her feet and nudged it gently with the toe of her boot. He was no longer a person, merely a vessel, making what she was about to do much easier. With a sigh, she knelt down and hooked her arms around those of the dead man, and, walking backwards, pulled him along the base of the rocky incline she had entered so long ago. The body lay before her once again, but now it rested on the cold marble of the man-sion she was told was home. A man stood before both Arielle and the body now, surveying them with a cold horror. He bore no resemblance to her, but the angle of his shoulders and the deepness of his fear spoke of a paternal connection. She had already explained what had happened to the man, and he had believed her but was still more concerned than she believed he had reason to be. “Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him,” she said quietly, “But we can handle this right?” Her father merely met her eyes with foreboding look and shook his head.

FlightCaitlyn Daniels

“Well,” the man said quietly, “I really wouldn’t be the one to ask. I was never really that close with Riley.” He was clearly intimidated by the metal chair and table bolted to the floor in this charcoal colored, cinder block coffin. “I’m only asking you because his mother has a right to know what happened, so she stands a chance of bringing him home.” At this, the teacher snorted. “I’m sorry?” he apologized, as if he were slightly amused with his own inability to hide his disbelief. “His mother wants him back? She never struck me as the maternal type. She showed up to multiple parent-teacher conferences completely intoxicated. Why would she start caring now?” His voice grew louder as he said this. “It was a few months into the school year when one of his papers caught my attention. I had asked my students to write about their lives, do an autobiography of sorts. He wrote about how his father left them because his mother had abandoned all responsibilities. She was completely unstable. His father didn’t bother with a divorce; he left one night when they were asleep. After this, I guess Riley began caring for his little brother, Jake.

Continued...[ 010 ]

“At first I thought he wrote about this because he wanted to make his life seem more interest-ing. Many of my students had embellished their pieces, but Riley wrote the truth.”

The next people called in were all classmates of Riley’s, all in different stages of greiv-ing. Girls with mascara rivers running down their cheeks and boys attempting varying de-grees of manliness. They all seemed to think they were on Law & Order, and their reactions to simple questions ranged from dramatic crying fits to aggression. “Riley!” they all choked out dramatically at some point. Many of the girls believed he had been in love with them the whole time. “Sometimes he was the only reason I went to school in the morning! He was so nice to me; he loved me. Everyone said he was going to ask me to prom. Now he’ll never get the chance!” They sobbed more. One girl’s account stuck out as the most bizarre: “As soon as that Alex girl showed up everything changed. She was the center of attention and she loved it. She practically fed off it. Disgusting. Once she showed up Riley came to school all beat up, wouldn’t tell anyone what happened. I bet it was her father. I bet she lured him in and he saw something he shouldn’t have! I bet he’s one of those rogue officers they always show on TV. I bet he kidnapped him and we’ll never see him again! She continued crying for another few minutes and then yawned loudly.

The darkness tonight seemed almost solid, save for the steady blinking of a lighter. And if you followed that light down the alleyway and up the fire escape of his apartment building you would find Riley; you would find him here nearly any night you looked. This was his spot. Tonight, even though it was pouring rain he still came; and he sat there, rhythmically flicking his lighter on and off, contemplating what he was about to do. He felt like a Saturday-morning cartoon, scrambling before the piano falls on his head. The shadow was growing larger, but he still didn’t know where it would land. The sparks that flew as he struck the lighter were so small, yet they started such a strong flame. A month ago she was just the new girl. To all of his friends she was “fresh meat,” but to him she was enthralling. From what he had heard then, she was an army brat; she’d lived in twelve coun-tries so far, and she was a genius. Her only regular class was the one she had with him, shop. They had separated into groups the first day and even though he’d spent his entire life around cars she managed to fix her car faster than he had. When he’d asked how she did it she said she’d spent a lot of time learning how to fix trucks when her father had some free time on the base.

He remembered when he had sat in the park one Wednesday after she moved. He sat on the bench under the willow tree. He had been lost in thought when he noticed that some-one had sat down next to him. He turned to see Alex sitting there, smiling at him, knees pulled up to her chin.

[ 011 ]

“Hey,” she said, “doing some deep thinking?” He smiled back at her. “Guess you could say that. What are you doing here?” “I saw this tree the other day on my way to school and wanted to come sit under it, but I guess you beat me to it.” The conversation went on like this for a while, casual, almost detached, until he asked how her family felt about moving around so much. She hesitated before answering this. “I never knew my mom; so it was just me and my dad. Neither of us really minded moving because of the army. You get so see so many places, it’s kind of cool. But about three months ago he was killed in combat. So this time I didn’t move because of the army. I’m being shipped between foster homes for now. And it’s awful. I just want to leave.” Riley didn’t know how to respond, so he told her his story. Quickly they became the one constant in each other’s lives. Meeting under that tree every afternoon was almost enough to make them forget.

Two weeks after this he was sitting his bedroom in their dingy apartment, staring at the cracks in his ceiling, playing connect the dots when his brother came home from school trying to hide his tears. Jake immediately tossed his book bag onto their worn-out couch and headed straight for Riley’s room. “What’s up, bud?” Riley asked quickly. Jake just sat there and traced the pattern on the sheets with his middle finger. It was something he always did when he was nervous. “Hey you need to calm down and tell me what’s wrong. Okay? Otherwise there’s noth-ing I can do to help.” “Mommy has a new boyfriend.” Jake began to fidget and glance around the room anx-iously. “Well…” he began again, “he tried to pick me up from school today. Mommy wasn’t with him, and he…he tried to…to get me into his car…to take me.” No. She answered the phone after two rings. “Hello?” the voice on the other end sounded tense. “Hey, Alex? It’s Riley. Um, I really need a favor …” He left the sentence hanging. There was a pause on the other line. Of course she would know something was wrong; she was a genius. She could probably read minds through the phone. When she said she would help, he explained everything. He kept running through the plan in his head. Not two minutes had passed after he hung up the phone his mom’s “boyfriend” launched himself through their door, towing his wasted mother by the arm. Riley’s first move was to get Jake out his window and down the fire escape. But as he spun to find Jake he was yanked off his feet and thrown to the floor. The world around him

Continued...[ 012 ]

seemed to fizz and fog up, and as soon as he hit the ground he was yanked back up onto his feet. He nearly fell down again when he smelled the alcohol on the man’s breath. He staggered backwards and caught a glimpse of his brother making a break for the door to his right and his mother sitting in the corner with the help of the wall and the fridge. Riley had no idea what she’d said to this man, but she was doing nothing to help either of her children. This is it. This is never going to happen again. He risked a second glance towards the door to make sure Jake had made it out; in-stead of seeing the door close and hearing it slam shut he saw a seventeen year old girl with curly hair and green eyes standing in the doorway guarding his little brother. Alex. He woke up in the park a few minutes later, lying on the bench under the willow tree. Alex was sitting on the end of the bench by his feet and Jake sat on the ground pulling up grass by the handful. The next few hours passed quickly as they decided what their next step would be. Somewhere in that time he gathered the courage to kiss her.

The soft footsteps on the fire escape brought him back to the present. Until a month ago, the biting splash of the raindrops on his skin was all that could make him feel. Now, as he listened as the footsteps grew closer, he knew everything had changed for good. He tapped softly on the window and waited patiently as Jake rolled out of his room with their bags, excitement and fear in his eyes. As he looked up, he met the gaze of the girl who had saved them both. “You ready?” she whispered, extending her hand. “Seattle awaits.”

[ 013 ]

FragmentAlison Stitzel

stars explode behind growling masses. sheds of desperationform a harsh exterior.

bloodshot eyes searchthe west horizonfrantically for traces of an unfamiliar sunset.

warped planks creak beneath your weighted feet. rocking on unstable waves.

the moon melts in your palm. silvery tears escape frombetween your fingers and pale your skin.

tinted monsters scrapethe side of your vessel. threatening murmurscollide against you, enrapture youwith tantalizing whispersof relief.

salty winds tangleyour hair. gravity clings to the corners of your mouth.

tragic façade drips down your cheeks

Continued...[ 014 ]

[ 015 ]

in tributaries of black. taperingstaining.

metallic screams scrape anddiffuseabove your swallowed body. rupture at the surface. silence.

ship splintersburrow into your skin. infecting.

GoodbyeMelissa Sopher

maybe we can blame it on the wind, wind so strong it blew your thoughts away and I lost who you are

maybe we can blame it on the skysky so wide I disappeared in the vastness and you didn’t even try to hold onto the stars

maybe we can blame it on the rain, rain so heavy we each drowned in its water and away we drifted…so far apart…

or maybe, maybe we can admit that not all friendships last forever

and we can say goodbye, leaving only a single scar.

[ 016 ]

HealEmily Hughes

She sits alone in the back of the train,leaning her golden head against the glass.Shadows flicker across her resting soul,grasping the scarf that belonged to her son.Against the burning bright, closing her eyes,awaiting the anticipated hour.

Nightmares remind her of that hated hour.A whistle blows from the front of the train.Startled, she opens her bright amber eyes,her breath forming circles upon the glassas she looks out at Paris in the sun,igniting fervor deep within her soul.

She looks about her, not knowing a soul.The station clock reminds her of the hour.She stops to plan and squints into the sun,watching the returning route of her train.Back to the place that shattered her like glass,back to her boy, to her husband’s black eyes.

Summer in Paris brightens up her eyes.She feels each cobblestone under her solesand gazes at the cathedral’s stained glass.Her life is hers again, no longer “ours.”With this new life, her heart she has to trainto love alone and be without her son.

Each day, something sends her thoughts to her son. She did not want to leave. His amber eyeslike hers stared off at her departing train.The image burned into her mind and soul.She knew she could not stay after that hour,when her husband lost love through his gin glass.

[ 017 ]

She makes her plans around the broken glass.From her same fate, she has to save her sonThe plan is set down to the final hour.When he escapes his father’s cold black eyes,only then she could calm and rest her soul.Her boy comes to her by a midnight train

She whispers to her son, “Maintenant, cette heure,nous sommes en train de guérison.” His eyes, as clear as glass, look straight through to her soul.

[ 018 ]

Help WantedHaven Bills

She hits the bed; her long, frizzy hair before her slender, lanky body. A brown swath of hair covers the top of the mattress, almost no white peeking through the thick mass. Bones jut left and right from her 82 pound body. Her muscles, the few she has, ache. Her abs, especially, throb in pain.

She brushes some hair out of her face revealing sunken avocado green eyes embedded in dark circles. Her skin is stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones. She slowly sits up and places her hands on her face, rubbing her tired eyes. She moves her hand to her head and scratches a spot at the top, loosening a clump of hair that ends up in her frail fingers.

A small growl sounds from her concave stomach. In response, she slowly swings her vein-covered legs over the edge of the bed. Pushing herself up, she to walks to the kitch-en and stares solemnly at the refrigerator. She wraps her skeletal fingers around the handle, pulls out her weekly container of cookie dough, sits at the table, and eats her lunch. Shoveling spoonful after spoonful of glutinous, uncooked dough into her mouth until she finishes the quart.

She doesn’t wait long before running to the bathroom. After all, she needs to get rid of the food before she begins to digest. She doesn’t want any to become fat. After she’s done, she stands up and places each of her feet on her scale. 81.4, she thinks, perfect. She sits back down, too weak to stand.

Sitting on the cold tile floor next to the toilet, she counts the flowers she painted on the wall when she was 18. She’d always been good at art. She thought it was her only talent. Everyone always asked her to paint for them, but she never did. She remembers standing on the stool, using the paints her mother had gotten her for her birthday. She remem-bers how she painted them 3 weeks before her mom left, 3 weeks before everything went wrong.

She gathers the strength to stand up and brush her yellow, decaying teeth. They embar-rass her. For a split second she wonders, what am I doing to myself? But when she looks in the mirror she remembers.

~~~

Continued...[ 019 ]

Staring back at me in the mirror is the frizzy haired, avocado eyed, obese girl I always see. I examine myself, turning to the left, disgusted at my whale-like girth. Then to the right, no-ticing my saddlebags. I begin to feel the familiar queasy twinge in my stomach that I tend to get when I see myself. I walk away, too horrified to look any longer.

As I walk over to the table, I pause and look at the picture of my mom that I buried under papers next to my computer. It was before she was diagnosed, before she hated me, before she ran away. I remember when we were happy. When we all lived in the same house, my sister, my mother, and I. I remember when I first started binging, around the time she went crazy.

My knees begin to feel weak, as I remember my sister disappearing shortly after my mother did. In her note she said she couldn’t handle our “crazy” anymore, she said she was better than us. Only a few months ago did she decide to regain contact when she started having kids. She says she did it because she missed me, but I think it’s just because she wants a free babysitter. I had shoved these memories down for so long. I had filed them away in folders, piled in the backs of the file cabinets of my mind. But now they were all coming out.

I stare down at my calves. I could fit marbles in the pockets made by my cellulite. I begin to spiral again, back into thinking about my weight. Everything begins to fit itself back into the crevices of my mind, and I begin to forget. But I don’t want to forget. Quickly, I grab the picture and remember what caused it all, me.

I pick up the phone, and watch as my chubby fingers press the buttons. “No.” I say out loud. I block my thoughts and the only noise I can hear is cacophonous ringing.

“Hello?” I hear her newly familiar voice echo softly.

“Abby?” I hesitate for a moment, “I think I need help.”

[ 020 ]

Ice BucketNejla Day

Dunk my head in an ice bucket kind of nauseous. Breath held below the surface, bubbles of air whipping through the cold, dark, black disorientation. Numbness spreads willingly. I am blind to all beyond this metal shell.Curl up in that oversized sweater carrying a hint of the scent our home.Gut-wrenching horror of the notion you could care so much less.My primal need to see your skull crack, an eggshell, spilling your naked opinions and thoughts of curdled milky yolk onto the filthy rocks for all to see. Vulnerability. You, stretching your arms wide with the momentary insanity that my bullet could meld with you. But iron and blood retract. Hot, bubbling red shrinks away from the unmoving bleak.And so your moon continues unquestioningly onward, pulling the salty resisting broth of my doubts inwards, whispering reassurances of false rationalization.Anger. At the other half of the face of the jack kept hidden by you, my fear, and my hope.My desperate want for a logical explanation.An apology.A glimpse of emotion that even in the most minute aspect I somehow affected you.

LoveNejla Day

White. The most subtle buzz stretched over the surface of these thoughts. Tiny fireflies push-ing against this tight elastic membrane encompassing my mind, yearning to soar. Thoughts so full, spilling over the restrictions of their words.Stomach seizes upward, a helium cushion lifting my heart to my throat. Eyes locked tight, breath captured. Desperate attempts to silence this drum.Lips part, ever so slightly. Attempt to speak this rush into audible logic. White buzzing. Shut again.Fireflies, free. Multiplying, crawling throughout, their miniscule legs send ripples beneath my placid skin. A night full of stars dotted across me, revealing.Power surge. Lifting me into completion, above gravity, above reality, away. Fireflies lay still, shining; rays of muted yellow bursting from within.Collapse. Quiet slumber. Relaxed in the security of you.Safe.

[ 021 ]

Lifeguard LamentEmily Hughes

“Kids! Time to go!”

Yes. Oh my God yes. The mother is starting to pack up their pool bag, but her two kids are the last in the pool and they slap the water in protest. The sassy little girl takes a gasping mouthful of air. Cheeks puffed, she dunks under the water to hide. The older boy, about eight years old, is intent on retrieving the last of his diving rings before getting out so he dives back under the water. The ginger girl breaks the surface and looks around. She sees that her mother is distracted so she dog paddles out to her float toys. I lean forward in my chair and grab my whistle in my hand, mid-twirl.

“Out of the pool now! I’m not kidding, let’s go!”

Obedient brother swims to the edge with the rings in his hand, hops out and collects their toys that are scattered around the pool deck. One down, one to go. The problem child continues to disregard her mother’s warnings and spin around in her Hannah Montana inner tube. I glance at the clock on the pool house wall. If they leave now, I would have an hour to myself! No one comes to the pool at 7, that’s standard feeding time in suburbia. Please get out, little Hannah lover, please get out.

“C’mon, let’s go! I need to go put dinner on!”

Mmm mac and cheese! Aren’t you hungry, little one? Get out of the pool and go get dinner! Mom looks aggravated with her unsuccessful sing-song bribe and she starts to pile Obedient Brother up with their pool supplies. The girl has migrated to the middle of the pool in her inner tube and is now lazily tracing Miley Cyrus’ inflated face on her raft with her pruny little fingers, completely ignoring her mother’s calls.

“Laney! Out! Now!”

Yeah, Laney, get out of my freaking pool. She now has her hands over her ears, her lips in full pout mode, and her red hair shaking back and forth in refusal. I release my whistle from my grasp and swing the lanyard in circles around my fingers, creating rapid windmills to take out my frustration. Gettt ooouuttt, your ginger-ness is contaminating my pool!

“Laney, please, Mommy has to go make dinner!”

Your use of third person will definitely get her out this time, Mom, good one. My toes squish into the rescue tube in impatience. Obedient Brother is standing by the pool gate, weighed down by pool bags and towels, rolling his eyes at their delayed departure. The mother looks frazzled, pink from their long day at the pool and exhausted from keeping up with the evil ginger. Her

Continued...[ 022 ]

eyes look pleadingly at Laney. Obedient Brother’s eyes look pleadingly at Laney. My eyes look pleadingly at Laney! But she remains a stubborn buoy in the middle of the pool.

“Laney. If you don’t get out now… I’m… I’m going to delete the recording of Camp Rock!!”

Laney spins around and looks at her mother with shock and disgust, as if she had just proclaimed her allegiance to Satan. Man, that girl loves her Disney. The mom now holds a victorious stance and beckons to her daughter. The ginger propels herself to the steps and quickly climbs out of the pool, holding her inner tube around her waist. She slips on her hot pink crocs and scuttles out of the gate to their car. The mother smiles as she grabs their last bag and waves to me as she and her son join Laney in the car.

YESSSSSS!!!!! I hop down from my stand and run to the closest lawn chair. I lean back, close my eyes, and listen to their minivan pull away from the parking lot. The only sound left is the pattering of the water feature. That stupid fountain has never sounded so good. Ahhhhh. After a six hour shift with only two adult swims, I deserve a break.

In my moment of pure bliss, a terrible whirr slices through my peace. My eyes fly open in terror. No! I sit up and flash a glance to the parking lot. No cars that I can see. Ok, ok false alarm. I lean back hesitantly, but then I hear a car door slam. No!! I look around, still no one. I run to the farthest table and hide behind the umbrella. If they can’t see me, then they won’t come in because, I mean come on, that’s just dangerous. I peer around the umbrella, praying that no one is there. From where I’m standing, I can see most of the parking lot, just not around the big tree in the corner.

I step out from my hiding spot to the empty pool and laugh at myself. I must have looked ridiculous, standing in the corner by myself, hiding behind an umbrella from potential pool patrons. I take a leisurely stroll along the edge of the pool back to my lawn chair. As I am admiring my golden tan from my long shift in the sun, in the corner of my eye I see something large poking out from above hedges. I quickly turn my attention to the hedge and see that a large inflated alligator is dancing along the top. No!!! The dancing alligator continues along the path and turns toward the gate. Maybe I have heat exhaustion and I’m just hallucinating! Time seems to slow down as the reptile bobs back and forth, making it’s final steps toward the pool deck. I snap back into reality as a small giggling child attached to the alligator comes barreling through the gate.

“JOSHUA! WAIT FOR YOUR MUTHA!”

[ 023 ]

Love is no piece of artArian Moharari

Love is no piece of art: No meticulously formed painting Nor enchanting love song.

love is the blend of the brush and the paint

the smudging and smearing in the palette

the red turning black and the blue burning orange

splattering the apron

staining the ground

surreally leaving its presence on everything it touches

love is the keys on the piano

knots tied into the strings of the orchestra

forming a mass of white and black

brass and phosphor bronze

A solid mass of wood Ivory metal

spewing every single note of a beautiful symphony simultaneously

resonating within the very essence of your being,

chaos shaking the foundations of what you may call a heart.[ 024 ]

please don’t forget meArian Moharari

think of me as a songplease don’t try to remember mebut whenever i am playedjust hum along.

think of me as an umbrellausually uselessbut keep me aroundbecause when the clouds are darki will help.

think of me as your handwritingdon’t try to improve mebut when the words comejust go with the flow.

think of me as a passing thoughta thought that only lasts a secondbut brings a smile to your face

if only for an instant.

ManonEspe Semrau

My sister eats gum like a chipmunk. She bites off each centimeter separately and waits until its flavor is gone to take another bite. Her nose is always cold, and she can wiggle her ears. My sister has the best death stare I have ever received. The best puppy face too. Her big blue eyes get all wide and shiny. If she’s really trying, she can make tears slide down her cheeks. It gets me every time. When she’s annoyed, she lifts one eyebrow and gives you this look that asks, what have I ever done to deserve this? If she weren’t so serious, it would be funny. My sister talks to her cat, but not like normal people, who coo or speak with baby voices. She imitates the sounds her cat makes. The cat meows, and my sister meows back. Then my sister meows, and her cat responds. When my sister leaves her cat wanders around

[ 025 ]

the house. It mews plaintively like its asking, where’s my girl? I take pity and call it, but it doesn’t answer me. My sister listens to old Beatles records on Friday nights. She plays “Penny Lane” and “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” over and over and over again. She falls asleep on the couch and the record player runs out of music. My sister is a dancer, but mostly an archer. Her bow is almost as tall as she is. When she practices, her forehead wrinkles with concentration, and she bites her lower lip. She looks like a modern day Diana or a Cherokee Indian. Mom says to shoot only at targets or face dire consequences. But I stay out of the way just in case. My sister reads almost as much as I do. She smiles with the characters, and laughs. Or she scowls, her mouth pressing into a thin line and turning down at the corners. Or her nose turns pink and her cheeks get splotchy and tears slide off the tip of her nose onto the pages of the book. I always know which books make her cry because her tears wrinkle the paper. My sister makes raspberry blueberry chocolate pancakes on Saturday mornings. When she was four she wanted to be a chef. When she was ten she wanted to be a vet. Now that she’s thirteen, she wants to be a neurosurgeon and go to Harvard. My sister stays up hours every night with homework, trying to make every little thing perfect. I think she finds it meditative. Sometimes, she takes breaks and plays the cello when no one in the house is awake to hear.

Except me.

NaïveLauren Steffes

Saturday, August 7, 2010 ~

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It’s been exactly two days, five hours, and forty-two minutes since I’ve texted him. It’s 11:54. My phone lies limp in my hand as I desperately try to restrain my eyes from looking down at my phone for the zillionth time today…

I need to find a hobby.Continued...[ 026 ]

Ok, who am I trying to fool? This isn’t even funny. I don’t want to be feeling like this. I’m not that kind of girl – I’ve never been that kind of girl who sits around her house in a state of pa-thetic smush, waiting for some stupid boy to respond to some stupid text. I mean, come on…really?

11:56PM

Calm down.

It’s no big deal. It was pretty late when I texted him, and he was probably asleep and didn’t get around to responding this morning. Because he has work. And lots of other important things to do besides text me. Plus, he’s leaving for college in a week and has lots of unfinished business to attend to. Since he’s leaving in college on Friday. Which is in a week. As in seven days.

12:00AM

Seven days.

…One week! I only have one week! One week to get inside this crazy kid’s head to find out what he wants from me. One week to find out if I ever meant something to him, anything to him. One week to make something real happen after a summer of almost-somethings.

12:01AM

I just want to know why.

Why did he come to my house last Monday night? Why would he waste his time? All of the lazy summer days spent laughing and singing and talking and living – together. All of the late night phone calls, late night drives, late night moments. How could they not mean anything? How could I not mean anything?

12:21AM

Ugh.

I can’t stop. Reminiscing, thinking, questioning. None of this makes since. It was just a week ago that he told me that we had something. With his left hand resting on my knobby kneecap, right hand draped around my shoulder, soft, green eyes transfixed on my bright, blue ones, coaxing me to come closer – he told me that this wasn’t all in my head. That I meant as much to him as he did to me.

[ 027 ]

12:45AM

Naïve, naïve little girl.

I hate him. I hate him for the sly, seemingly insignificant mind games he plays with me, and if I tried to explain, people would tell me I’m crazy, and that all of it was in my head. I hate him for the way he looks at me whenever we’re in a large group of people, as if I’m the only person in the room. I hate him for all of the hand-squeezes, double-hugs, deep-stares, and almost-kisses. I hate him for making me feel this way, when he probably – no definitely – doesn’t even care. I hate him for blatantly leading me on…onward indefinitely north of nowhere.

1:00AM

*Buzz*

Oh.

[ 028 ]

[ 029 ]

NanaMelissa Sopher

Nana.

today we are together

I lie next to you upon the cold, barren ground surrounded by frosted stones and faded notes and wilted flowers

and I place my hand above yours hoping this time the warmth may awaken your spirit

and as I lie there with eyes closed I breathe—and as I speak to you I release…

almost as if you’re stealing away my struggles leaving me still…all worries evaporating into your world

and when I open my eyes I am finally calmand you dance above my head painting my world with your bright colors reminding me that everything will be okay.

Butterflies are rare in the winter.

[ 030 ]

No RegretsAshley George

When I closed my eyes

I find myself in a forest. The canopy, a strainer, only allows speckles of light to fall onto the painful path made of shattered remnants of my heart.

My mind wandered aimlessly

The path becomes nothing but a muddy, dirt road that pulls at my feet. It makes each move-ment of my body unnecessarily difficult, but even so I strive to move forward, though my mo-tive is still unknown.

I then heard a weary cry

The soles of my feet, coated with the earth of my mind, lead me to a clearing where a glorious and perfect figure lounges upon the Stone of Nobility.

I caught a glimpse of you, Angel

Your hair embezzles the gold of autumn’s changing leavesYour eyes are those that have pilfered the cerulean of robin’s eggs.

And your wings, white, like snow

Wings that make the limits of my impossible dreams, a mere jest.Wings that make even the most absurd of fairytales so real. So tangible.

They pluck at my heartstrings,How they make me feel whole

But you choose to tear the feathers from your wings. And as each quill is spotted with scarlet stains..You curse.And damnable rivers stream from the azure orbs that are perfectly placed on your flawless skin. You lay sprawled across the Noble‘s stone; broken, tattered, hands blanketed in red.

[ 031 ]

All that is left of your wings are bony, fragile arches.

All left of you, a foolish man. Your eyes meet mine, My Angel

And as you draw your last breathYou smile at me so innocently

Uttering, “No regrets.”

NowMolly Mitchell

1 Day

Today I wake up late. For a brief moment I begin my normal routine. Then it hits me. I re-member what happened last night. I remember you. My eyes burn at the thought. But I com-fort myself. You’ll always be there for me. I’m yours. You’re mine. Forever and always.

Today I feel differently than I ever have before, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I throw myself in bed, close my eyes, and redirect my thoughts back to the dream-like memory of last night. Except it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

Today you are engrained into my memory.

1 Month

Today I cry. I cry for you. I cry for that one seemingly insignificant, life changing, summer night. It’s not your fault though. You’re perfect. I miss you.

Today I pass you in the hall. Our eyes meet for one heartbeat. Then you look away and carry on with your life. My heart drops. We haven’t talked in almost a month, and you don’t even seem to care. It’s like we don’t know each other – like two strangers forever destined not to meet.

Today I fall to the ground. I break down. I can’t help it. So much has changed in the past month, and now my whole world is falling apart. My friends think I’m ill. But they don’t un-derstand. Where are you?

Today I recognize you are slipping.

Continued...[ 032 ]

[ 033 ]

1 Year

Today I see you. I watch the way you walk. The pattern of your foot placement used to make my hands feel tingly, as if the blood circulation had been cut off completely. But now your feet seem slow and habitual.

Today you speak to me. My ears listen as my mind reminds me of how much I used to love your voice. Yet this time is different. I don’t feel the surprising jump in my stomach at the idea of your attention on me. The electricity that used to flow through your words doesn’t spark this time.

Today you touch my hand. I instinctively search for the melting feeling from your magically, soft touch. I can’t find it. As of now, my hands are too callous to absorb your warmth. They don’t care.

Neither do I.

On the Hill of the DoveJaeYoung Choi

On the green knoll top, an archaic church stood still, its silhouette alone piercing through the horizon of my vision. On the top of the roof, the gilded cross, destroyed during the last raid, was repaired and stood erect on the top of the church. Inches-tall flowers swayed, soaked in orange-yellow twilight, casting opaque dusks on the hill. Speckled white, yellow, pink buds, each a mouthful of sunshine, colored the solitary mounds abound, and a bed of grass lying on the glebe was wet with afternoon drizzle dews, each gushing out sapid aromas. The hot sun had descended beneath scudding clouds, while gentle breezes effaced my sweat and frustration. Singing the Hymn of Kutt, a dozen zealous boys trudged behind me. Watch-ing their minuscule steps on the unpaved road, they strolled languidly. They wore identical cream-colored tunics and had stones the size of their fists in their pockets. Although our sojourn was a rare chance to relish an escape from the city of asphalt and concrete, processed and pasteurized, the boys, who never left the city before, seemed disgusted with the rural panorama. Recollecting the grandeur of New Babel, our home, erected uninterrupted scores ago, the boys recited the Hymn in the standard unison, efficiently killing times.

What does await us in the end, the end?Nothing is, nothing is, my dear comrade.What would matter in the end, the end?

Continued...[ 034 ]

Nothing is, nothing is, my dear brother.When the boys and I approached to the isolated church, we heard a fragile, ecclesiastic

clangor of a pipe organ leaking from the church’s fractured red-blue stained glasses. There could be only one person mad enough to play a heretic psalm: Reverend Stephen.

“Reverend Stephen! Reverend Stephen!” I shouted, “The Messenger of Kutt, the god of end, has arrived! Show yourself, Reverend Stephen!”

The pipe organ ceased immediately. After a minute of silence, the church’s aged cypress wood door made a screeching sound. Soon the door opened free and wide. From the door, a senile yet venerable man in his late seventies, holding his feeble hands on an oak tree cane, stepped out of the church. He wore a pure black gown—the vivid color of black horrified the boys. His ashen skin had slight hint of peach; his face had amassed graceful furrows and sagacious dark spots, while his cloud white long beard hung loosely onto his chiseled chin. His ocean blue eyes gazed on my visage, as if he pitied me. He wriggled his lips for moment, and then began to speak heavy American accent.

“My God. You have come to finish me. With boys. I expected that my time was soon, but by the hands of boys! I ask you not to glove their innocuous hands with my bloods.” Stephen begged. The dozen boys giggled, mocking his sincere testimony.

“Reverend Stephen, you shall not taste death if you’re willing to abandon your pagan god.” I proposed, as I opened my arms across to show a sign of magnanimous toleration.

“You heinous liar! Everyman ends someday, even the youngest, the brightest. How can I, while alive, abandon my Lord?” His hands shook, enraged. I was aware of how much he adored his pagan god, but everyman is utilitarian by birth. People must believe in a better god, the more efficient one to believe in.Zephyr swooshed across the plains and the hilltops. The moist grasses were green and untouched. There was another pause. The idle children kept scratching their backs, not knowing what to do.

“Now, now, I understand your devotion, Reverend Stephen. I do. I read your books. I relished them.”

“Did you? I thought your kinds burnt my books long ago on the streets.” his halcyon eyes were rocking with wrath, and his mind was recalling our deeds.

“It is truly unfortunate that your book was first censored, then expurgated, and finally burned; however, the Purge was inevitable, my dear reverend. We ran out of books to burn. People demanded books to burn.” I indeed had enjoyed Stephen’s books. Throughout his books, I learned that he was a sage—a rare kind of man, nearly extinct, in the modern society; I pondered how he could have evaded the Great Purge. After observing his physique grinded with vicissitudes, I fancied that perhaps the termination of Christianity could have been a tragedy to the persecuted, unlike what I was indentured to believe.

I continued on: “Reverend Stephen, if you’re willing, I, as the Messenger of Kutt and [ 035 ]

the Apogee Executer, can confer you the seat of high shaman of Inseng, the god of life.” The children swirled, confused to find that their lynch sacrifice perhaps could be their next shaman. Some sat on the wet grass, gaping at Stephen’s bent back.

“For what reason, do you ask me to commit such blasphemy? Father, deliver me from this monstrosity! I prayed to you to end my misery, but not with children’s hands! Oh, God, have you forsaken me?” Stephen knelt on the ground, raising his hands toward the empty sky. He had clearly refused my benevolent offer—which greatly intrigued me. I recollected his book, Along the Path of Heaven. I admired his ancient ideas, but I never had imagined that he kept his virtues true and alive within his mind and body.

“Your god has not forsaken you, Reverend, for he never was. Even if he were, he’s dead now,” I replied to his desperate outcry.

“How dare you speak of God like that?” Stephen stood, his eyes beaming flames of hell.“My dear Reverend, your god is not efficient enough. Believe in our gods, reverend!

In our faith, we have no need to confess, hence no pain and no hell. Our gods are more productive and, above all, alive. Furthermore, how would you know you are worshipping the right god among infinite possibilities that have set unto universe? How are you so sure that your god is righteousness?” I spoke with an ardor I rarely showed; the children were appalled to find that an Executor could speak in such manner.

Stephen responded with a deeper passion: “For He was, He is, and He will be. You do not seek God with reason and logic. You must love God, for He loved you before you were even born. Love, in some sense, is blind faith. If your wives leave you deserted because they have found greater men who interest them—for under power of reason they assumed that leaving you is efficient—how would you feel? Betrayed, that is. Love is what prevents such abomination. You cannot suppress love for it is of people, of lives, of souls!” When the word soul echoed across the knoll top, the dozen boys, their countenance hardened with disgusted grimaces, plugged their ears with index fingers; soul was too ugly word to be heard; the boys were conditioned. They encircled him from a distance.

“Reverend! You must accept the society’s ideas. You must understand that god is like a cake. People make it, decorate it, and eat it in all their personal epicurean taste. Faith and god, both fine inventions indeed, are great factors of human unification and order. Indeed, god stands as an indispensible answer for the inexplicable queries that arise from our curious minds. However, do not forget murderous history of your creed, which fathered countless massacres and tragedies. Furthermore, science has enlightened us that humans are the true masters of the universe; hence, we have come to be aware that we are gods. Gods were made in our image. That is why today we chose gods among ourselves. Our three chief gods, Sizak, Inseng, and Kutt are ultimate justices, fresh and alive, and surely tangible, unlike yours. When they decease, you could be the very next god!” I crushed his profession of Christianity with Our True Doctrine proverbs.

Continued...[ 036 ]

Stephen attempted to say: “Humans are not gods,” but he silenced his voice before finishing his intended sentence. He stroked his beard and thought. Then he reassumed: “We have not invented God. We have discovered Him. No matter what you do, you can’t change my mind. Unreasonable? Unpragmatic? Well, what else men are?”

A din of thunder interrupted his speech. On the far east side of my vision, I saw a storm cloud bursting with electricity. A storm was coming. The boys were terrified in awe.

“Reverend! Can you not see? Reason and logic have killed your pagan god. I advise you to abandon your horrendous superstition, your faith in a dead god.” I quoted The Reasoning. Reverend Stephen quoted In Love of God in return: “Reason and logic, too, are mere humane instincts, alike libido and gluttony. Men are slaves of their tempting power. Religion is far beyond their wanting reach.”I debunked his theories with yet another golden reason: “Are they? If I were the omnipotent, the omniscient, I would efface this treacherous world from the fabric of reality. How can he still remain silence before this sinful world?”

“You know nothing of God, and His divine covenants! Do you even know what rainbow means?”

“A mere illusion of eyes, catching reflections of lights, that is. Symbols are given by men and their contract, not by gods,” I answered his interrogation. Stephen suddenly ceased his fervent rhetoric—to him, god was not illusion. Hi ocean eyes reflected the barbarity of the dozen boys, burning with the desire to kill, waiting for the moment to strike. After scrutinizing the boys, Stephen spoke:

“I suppose the world is incorrigible now. No longer shall it return to the state of its grace. Those little hands to be tainted. It’s over. All over.” Stephen chuckled, disparaged. Then he gently loosed his grasp on the cane and hope, deliberately shutting his eyes tight. He kept his silence.

“I ask you for the last time, Reverend. Now answer me. Do you believe in your pagan god, knowing the consequence?” I asked. The children reached for the stones in their pockets.

“Yes, I do.” Stephen answered, without a moment of hesitation.“Just say no. One word, no. Reverend, I respect you as an intelligent human being. You

shall be a great shaman. Why can you not say one simple word that will save you? Why can you not say no?”

“Then you have not read my books,” Stephen answered my frustration. One brave boy threw a stone toward Reverend’s face, and the stone’s sharp edge torn his right eyelid apart. Reverend bleed and cried. Nevertheless, he smiled, peaceful. His left eye met where sky meets earth.

The last words of Reverend: “God, please forgive those who sinned against me.”The boys rained Reverend with stones. The reverend fell on the ground, the blood

soaking inches-tall flowers in red, the corpse casting dark shadows on the hill. I stood still. [ 037 ]

The boys were chanting amen over and over, insulting the last remnant of Christianity. The boys were laughing, stomping on the dead reverend, defiling their tunics in the heretic blood. Another din of thunder drummed across the hill tops; however, the boys were no longer afraid. Blinded, frenzied, united under the reverend’s blood, the boys were wild and proud. I kindled a match stick and threw it on the cypress door; soon, the church began falling apart. The boys were dancing around the burning church, chanting inscrutable—speaking in tongues. Amidst the collapsing church, a dove flew over one boy’s head. The boys were too far blinded to see a bird. A dove: I thought doves were extinct ages ago. The dove, with its soft wings, faded toward the birdless heavens.

[ 038 ]

[ 039 ]

On the Other Side of the HighwayBen Seco

When no one was there to save me,What choice did I have?When my whole world, everything,Even the sky fell,When there was no one left to wait for,Left alone in an empty plain,With scorched arms,Was it right of me to run away?

The children didn’t know,Frolicking on their tar-black,Dancing in the acid-rain.Smiling, playing,Their laughter muffled in the thick air.In the shadow of the sky-keeper.

They, the misguided,Bathing in their smog-covered coinsAnd their blood-stained paper.Green in the eyes, they stare down from dark windows,High in the sky,Where the clouds are thin like peeling skin.

The first step was the most difficult.I almost fell in,I had never known it was this soft. Balancing myself,I unsheathed each foot.And my bare flesh felt the embraceOf the warm soil below.And what was tentative began to run.

First through the fields,Tall grasses whipping at my calves,A faint buzzing that surrounds.

Continued...[ 040 ]

Then into the forest,Dodging the shifting pines,Tasting the crisp, evergreen air.

I stumble upon a secret place,A meadow serene, blooming with simplicity,Undulating in a low-blowing wind.The drip-drip of a nearby stream is enticing,Wandering, I am engulfed,Torn by the currents, stripped of old destiny.

But there is something missing.I have a taste for gasoline,A desire for man-made perfection.So I torrent to the surface,Against the currents,From the darkest abyss of volcanic water,Into the moist, molasses air,Into the heat of the all-melting star.

I ride divine over the stream,Tap-dancing across the surface,Like a water strider.I tiptoe thunderously through the meadow,Like a sudden summer storm,Passing swarms of fireflies.

I pounce about the pines of the forest,From limb to limb with agility.Destructively, I make my own path.Through the burning field,And leave ballet footprintsIn the gravel along the highway.

The rusty iron burns my lips,As I kiss the gates to metropolis.In an attempt to find meaning,And to unravel the complexities,

I'm lost in

the sea of words

I imagine, and I drown

in them when I try to speak. I've done a good job of keeping afloat--

for now. In my tiny boat of what I can really say, I fish up new lines from

the sea. Most of them are too insignificant, while the others just yank me and my

boat along. I suppose the biggest catch isn't worth the most, and I should really

consider keeping the anchovies. It's not like I could pull up a whale shark anyway.

But for you, I think I could. When I imagine that I have enough courage to return

to shore empty-handed, I laugh at myself, because I'm sure you'd laugh at me. No. That's

not true. You're too nice, and that's what I love about you. Here. I give up. I've

reeled up my line; it's half a spoiled fish. The bait, half-nibbled, probably

looks like what I'm going

to say, but really,

that's okay. Sincerity

counts. Right?

I found myselfWishing for a life of luxury,A life of industrial simplicity. Was it really right of me to run away?

[ 041 ]

Only One Fish in my OceanKimberly “Lobster” Luong

I'm lost in

the sea of words

I imagine, and I drown

in them when I try to speak. I've done a good job of keeping afloat--

for now. In my tiny boat of what I can really say, I fish up new lines from

the sea. Most of them are too insignificant, while the others just yank me and my

boat along. I suppose the biggest catch isn't worth the most, and I should really

consider keeping the anchovies. It's not like I could pull up a whale shark anyway.

But for you, I think I could. When I imagine that I have enough courage to return

to shore empty-handed, I laugh at myself, because I'm sure you'd laugh at me. No. That's

not true. You're too nice, and that's what I love about you. Here. I give up. I've

reeled up my line; it's half a spoiled fish. The bait, half-nibbled, probably

looks like what I'm going

to say, but really,

that's okay. Sincerity

counts. Right?

[ 042 ]

Plight of the WriterNatalie Feingold

I find myself here in letters and vowels,Phrases and clauses and sentences,Put together by my hand in that careful way of self-expression;Each word used to evoke an emotion from the tempest of adolescence,Secured and ensnared in stages and scripts and stanzas. In my frivolous youth, I vow to achieve everything to the fullest,To enthrall and enliven, to entertain and delight,To amuse and impress, So the world will hear my voice.

Around me the sounds bounce and crowd my faceUntil I settle down to lounge in my desk,Separated from the closing doors, the shuffling students, The chatting girls and the grunting boys.I block the Siren song of boredom by finding interest in activity,And through that interest, my joy becomes visible,My favorable features manifesting themselvesand inking into print.And I like what I learn ‘midst the groaning of the world.

As I work, I wonder who listens to the poet’s song.Does anyone bother to hear others speak?No, they have their own problems and songs to sing,I have heard too many others before, I hear them everyday,And the ringing in my ears makes my voice scratch and quiet.But I cannot let that happen, not while sounds, tastes, ideas remain in my mind,And beauty, mystery, philosophy remain in my life.I call out loud, and they will have to listen.They will come to know what I already do,That my words can never be forgotten so long as I live to share them.

[ 043 ]

PsychedelicShelby Satterwhite

i. let’s be psychedelic together

your smile could stop gang fights in mexicoand your blue eyes could make the oceans jealousand the way you whisper my name over and over againpaints my mind with pictures of sunflower fields, jigsawpuzzles and macaroni art.

everything about you is supernatural;you’re an electric twist my lips just can’tdeny

you’re crazy but not, simple but complexyou’re just youand that’s pretty stellar if you ask me

ii. let’s unscrew the stars from the sky

you asked me if i could have anything in the worldwhat would it bei said it would be you, but you told methat i already had you so thatdoesn’t count

you asked me again and this timei said i wanted the stars;they’re the ultimate super glue,they keep all those galaxies and nebulas intact;they’re stitches and with their stitching,i could never fall apart

...but you said i’d fall apart anyway

i don’t see how

Continued...[ 044 ]

iii. let’s be a tape and rewind

we aren’t what we used to beif were anything at all

i’m ripping, tearing, breaking downand you’re just watching

maybe I’m hopeless and there’s nothing you can door maybe there’s nothing you want to do

i don’t know how this all startedand I’m not sure i want it to end

so in the meanwhile i’ll just sit inmy room and play our favorite songover and over again because then—

it’s like nothing’s wrong

iv. let’s have our cake and eat it too

my birthday rolls around and even thoughi tell you over and over again how muchi hate it you don’t listen;you give me a cake—angel’s food cakeand tell me to eat up

i don’t know how to respond becausei know you’re trying to tell me something--but it isn’t worth a smile. you’re just beating meblack and blue with pretty words, telling meof what i almost have--

but will never receive

v. let’s just try to fly

[ 045 ]

maybe we could be somethingif we only tried

dreams are for fools you saybut for me-- they’re all I have

you just don’t understand

i stand on a bridge and spread my armsout like wings and breathe—in and out, in and outand you stifle a laugh and tell mei don’t have wings—only angels do

i asked if I were your angel...

you just smiled,but i knew.

then all of a sudden i realizedyou don’t think i can fly but you sure think i can

F A L L

vi. let’s just...stop

maybe your smile could stop gang fights in mexicobut they start wars in my heart and maybethe ocean is jealous of your blue eyes but theymake me want to drown and maybe --just maybe —your whispers are nothing more than cold winds slowlyfreezing my damaged heart.

everything about you is supernatural ;Continued...[ 046 ]

[ 047 ]

you’re an electric twist slowly killing me,zapping me until i break into a bunch ofbeautiful, colorful pieces

you’re crazy but not, simple but complexyou’re just you.and i hate it.

and now I stand on that bridge with mygalactic stitching and the taste ofangel in my mouth and I spread my armsout wide—

and when I jump, I have wingsI can fly, if only for a secondbut I still laugh and smileand I can’t anymore

RAWHaley Brown

Sweet baby bird- you’re not going to be a baby for longMother hen has gone a while ago – to new coops, new nests, new chicksYou’re going to have to spread your wings on your own nowAnd when your limbs are clipped, you’re going to be aloneBut you won’t be able fly to the place where you belong nowThe place where your head is severed, your remains fried,And your body dipped in ketchup.

[ 048 ]

Ready or Not, Here I amJordan Aaronson

The ground was naked. Just a flat field of dirt. There was a crowded forest about twenty yards away with plenty of trees to hide behind, but I wanted to find a place more original than that. I began to wander off into the mass of never-ending woods, looking around for a creative spot. It only took a moment of searching to realize that I wouldn’t find anything better than a tree trunk. I shrugged at the thought and trudged on.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ready or not, here I come!” someone shouted behind me. The giggles and screams of children being found turned into soft whispers as I became more and more encir-cled by the sea of green.

Soon, I found myself deep within the woods, so deep that I could no longer see the trail lead-ing back. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but time didn’t matter. I took a moment and just stood still, admiring the sky-scraping pine tree overhead and the overgrowing weeds emerging from the soil below. I was alone, only accompanied by the voluminous vegetation surrounding me.

Mom and Dad couldn’t come to the rescue this time; they probably assumed that I was still with the neighbors, innocently playing catch on the field or goofing around and staining my jeans a deep brown that would never fade, even after 10 cycles through the washing machine. Unfortunately for them, I wouldn’t be returning home tonight with a dirty outfit in need of some Oxyclean. Honestly, I hoped that I never had to return home to that awful house with the spotless wood floors reeking of cleaning products and the “no touching” glass collection hanging on the ugly, black metal shelf next to my bedroom door. I was neat-freaked out for one lifetime.

I never had any freedom. Even when I reached the age of twelve, the fence in my cramped backyard was the boundary holding me captive. I had always felt as if I didn’t belong in this family. Over the years, I basically convinced myself that my parents had chosen the wrong child. I just wasn’t a good fit, I guess. I rode the roller coasters with the crazy spiral flips and straight-down hills while they sat on the benches below, paranoid out of their minds.

One time, we vacationed in Mexico at an extremely safe resort, and my parents wouldn’t let me drink the water or eat anything that touched it. No fresh fruit, no fresh vegetables; “they were washed in the contaminated water.” It was overpriced bottles or no water at all. Did they understand that the best food in Mexico is the fresh watermelon and avocado made into gua-

[ 049 ]

camole? Did they understand the rarity of getting sick from Mexican water at a five star re-sort? No. But I couldn’t live with anyone else. A. They obviously would never let me and B. my mom hadn’t been heard from since the day of my birth. Who knew where she lived or if she was even living for that matter? Whatever. I didn’t want to think about it; when I thought too much about meeting her, I would raise my hopes up higher than the pine trees just for them to be smashed into the dirt again. It hurt too much. All I needed was a break from my control freaks.

This expedition through the woods and its mysterious trail was my opportunity to be un-leashed from the strings that had me so tightly wound. You’d think I would be afraid, but I wasn’t, nor did I have the desire to turn back. Something was coaxing me to continue, almost begging me. I think it was my curiosity, or maybe my desperate thirst for adventure.

I stopped abruptly on the trail when I heard a loud ‘thump’ behind me. I swung around to find an unusually large grey rock lying on the soft dirt, lifeless. I crouched down to stroke it. It felt damp, smooth, and the slightest bit fuzzy almost like one of those stingrays you can pet at the aquarium. I glanced above, seeing another dark green and intimidating pine tree, attempting to find where the rock had fallen from. I heard whispered chirps coming from one of the high-est, thinnest, and brownest branches on the tree. A bird’s nest made of twigs, small sticks, and dead crunchy leaves was peacefully settled on that old branch. I listened to the chirps and squeaks of the baby birds and their mother as the noise turned into a calming melody. For those few moments, my mind wandered from the grey rock.

Before I even had the time to look back down at the dull rock grasped by my hand, another rock fell, and I found myself instantly lying flat on trail. There was an earthy taste of dirt in my mouth and a tickle of ants crawling up my leg. My head was pounding, yet I still felt peaceful as the birds chirped their pleasant tune and the sun shined brightly. The tall pine tree swayed in the wind and the cool breeze caressed my face. My eyelids felt as heavy as the rock in my hand; I shut them slowly.

When I awakened, or so I thought, the bright rays glistening over me soon started to dim until they were as soft as candlelight. I somehow got up and drifted into the sunset without think-ing about glancing back. I knew night was coming, but I didn’t care. All I needed was to con-tinue. Just a little bit further.

Night struck faster than expected. The moon was full and shined like a lamp with the stars acting as its light bulbs. They lit up the trail ahead, and I could still see the green surround-ing me. Luckily it was a clear sky, not one cloud. I saw the outline of everything: the gigantic

Continued...[ 050 ]

trees, the low-cut bushes with flowers. I could still hear the friendly tweets of the birds and feel the nice breeze on my skin.

However, there was something that caught my eye in the far distance. It was a blinding, bright light that appeared to be a floating chandelier. I didn’t understand what it was or where it was coming from. I had lost all touch with reality. My curiosity was still overpowering my mind, so I headed in the direction of the mysterious light.

As I got closer, I noticed an outline of a surreal, airborne cottage. The chandelier was shining through its second story window. I was hesitant at first, but I decided to go enter the house. I know, it was a crazy idea, but it was my chance to rebel for all the times that my “parents” locked me up at home. For all the times I was punished for wandering too far without supervi-sion. For all the times I got in trouble for crossing the street alone. This was the type of risk I had always wanted, and I was going to take it.

Slowly, I twirled gracefully up the steps to the front porch. I felt content, invincible, fearless. I made my way up to the front door; my hand was steady; I felt anything but afraid. Slowly… I opened the door. The house smelled of freshly baked snicker doodle cookies, my favorite. Straight ahead, a portrait of myself as a child playing in my beloved tree house hung on the wall. In the photograph, I was wearing the pearl necklace that had belonged to my great-grandmother; it was the only item that I had inherited from my mother. The peculiar thing was, my parents hadn’t allowed me to wear it yet. I stared at the picture for what seemed like hours reminiscing on my nostalgic childhood.

I heard footsteps on the second floor. My heart started racing. Who lived here and why did I come here? I was contemplating on leaving, but my legs were gone. I just floated there, unable to make myself move. A recognizable person showed herself at the top of the spiral staircase and gracefully slid down the stairs.

Once she and I were face to face, she reached her glowing white hand out to me. I was hesi-tant to reach back, but I took her hand in mine and instantly, I felt an intense happiness overcome my emotions. The hole in my stomach, that had ached so badly for so long, was gone.

“I have waited my entire life for this moment. It is so nice to finally meet you, sweetheart,” the woman said.

“Mom…?” I whispered. She just smiled, teeth as white as the pearls she had passed on to me. [ 051 ]

Suddenly, everything turned into a colorful blur that started swirling as I drifted away, out of the house and back into the forest. I awakened, startled, lying on the forest floor, dirt still in my mouth and ants still on my legs. I was feeling oddly content. The bright sun began to set, the sky turned into a peaceful pinkish red color, and I could still hear the birds tweeting their melodic song.

RegretMolly Mitchell

What happens after you become numb? Do you gain confidence? Find renewal?Or accept defeat and silently fade away…

Can we go back to that one night long ago? The one when I thought I was hopelessly lost?You found meand brought me back to reality.And I sat with you under the stars, laughing,thinking that nothing mattered.

But this time you can’t save mebecause I pushed you away.I strengthened my guardand weakened my belief in you– us.And now all I can seem to beis empty.

So I sit alone under the rising sun, and I wait to feel something different– anything to help me understand what to do now.Because I let you go.And I have been sitting here, regretting it,ever since.

[ 052 ]

RuthlessNicole Assini

The ice splits, and you must pick a sideso you pull out that gold scale.You watch, you weigh, and you decideto abandon those you think will fail.

Yet beneath your feet the ice cracks again–quickly, now! You have to choose.Run to the people you think are your friends,the ones you believe you will never lose.

The ice is crumbling, they are fading awayyou are losing them, it is almost too late.But because you have been led astray,you are unable to avoid this unfortunate fate.

Now you wait on your scaffold of ice, alone,a tiny mar on the surface of this ocean. You think you are sturdy and strong, on your own,but you are simply a slave to your own emotion.

You may have won these battles, but not this war.When you leave us, you will not be wearing whitebecause you are not holy, you will not soar, and you will fall the moment you take flight.

Now you watch the ice as it melts beneath youand you see that it leads nowhere but hell.We will burn the words that you have spoken untrueand then as you run we will burn you, as well.

[ 053 ]

Simply StainedAshley George

Through stained-glass windows– Reality fadesIt seems I’ve lost my MindEyes flicker across the Mind’s charadesThe Fictional-unbindsHaunted by the World so crass,I’ll keep Them tucked awayBut through the eyes of the Looking GlassI’m sure to find my wayThrough shades of Violet, shades of BlueA sublime lake sereneTrusting every word– untrueSincerity ObsceneSinking in a vision RedI find a fool’s Devotion Misplaced Admiration-fedDeceived by False EmotionUpon discovering the crystal GreenDusty hands reveal their PalmsVeins unearth the emotion– greedThe Congregation all but calmOrange and Yellow Topaz shiningThe Twilight fades to blackThough every Cloud has its liningEvery Vase has its crackThe Looking Glass then shatters And when I open my eyes The Realization is an annoying chatterAll Knowing not so wiseSome say I may be crazy Others say I’m too withdrawn I say my Vision’s hazyThey say my Mind is gone.

[ 054 ]

[ 055 ]

StitchesAlison Stitzel

i found a square of fabric. the corners were damaged–the border had been removed.somebody did not like it.

i found a spool of lace.its intricate patternembraced the ripped patchwith such tenderness.

i found a strand of thread. nobody had used it before.it seemed the perfect lengthto mend this tattered rag.

i found a needle. sharp, new, sure to pierce the fabricin all the right places.

i threaded the needle. i could not sewone straight stitch. the needlelost its gleam–my unclean handstarnished it.

the needle stabbedthrough my calloused fingertips.ruby drops beaded,pooling over shallow ridges,they slipped from my graspand steadily crept along the unstable fibers.

crimson corruptedthe branching tendrilsof pure white,hissing lies intothe core. the droplets, they seeped through and soaked me.

carmine tracedthe complex chainof delicate lace,its doublespeak curling throughthe labyrinth.the droplets, they seeped through and soaked me.

I am a square of fabric.my corners are damaged–my border had been removed.somebody did not love me.

[ 056 ]

That Four-Letter WordJulie Katz

I don’t know what to think.

You’re already talking to the dog. I guess that’s a step forward from having conversations with the furniture.

You complain that your son never calls from college. I tell you that you don’t want to know what he’s been doing there.

You say that you love the freedom of being an empty nester. I point to myself and say, “guess who’s still here?” You laugh and say I’m the easy child.

You’ve started looking through my baby pictures with that nostalgic look on your face.

You call incessantly and demand to know where I am. After four years, you still haven’t seemed to learn what time I get out of school.

You can’t keep my friends’ names straight.

Sometimes you accuse me of not telling you anything.

We get into fights that start with screaming matches and obscenities.

We end those fights with hot cocoa and Desperate Housewives.

You cook new foods so I can be “cultured.” After dinner, I pat you on the back and tell you, “good try.”

You refuse to let the dog out in the morning when she barks. I finally walk into your room and threaten to hit you with a pillow. I tell you that’s for making me lose those ten extra minutes of sleep.

You laugh when I nag you. You tell me that “Mom” isn’t a four-letter word. Then you nag me.

You complain about Grandma always asking if you have a boyfriend.

I complain about Grandma always asking if I have a boyfriend.

You tell me that you wished I didn’t take after you in so many ways.

You drive me absolutely crazy sometimes. You frustrate me beyond belief.

But it’s going to be weird without you next year.

And I don’t know what to think. [ 057 ]

The Best College Essay You’ll Ever ReadStephanie Alberts

Since the dawn of time, man has wanted a higher education. Webster’s dictionary defines “education” as the gradual process of acquiring knowledge. Mark Twain once said, “I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.” I would be honored if you, Wake Forest, would consider me for your school.

“College” is defined as an institution of higher education created to educate and grant degrees. But it’s not just a place; it’s a state of mind. The theme of college is experience, and I know the experience gained from your school, Duke, would be incredible. But, sadly, I have a long history of experiences in my childhood. After the death of my great-grandfather when I was seven years old, I spiraled into a deep depression and became anorexic. That was the hardest thirteen hours of my life. Then after the divorce of my parents at the age of nine, I broke down. The distance of four miles between my once loving parents felt like four hundred miles. At the age of eleven I found comfort in the quick fixes of Advil and nasal spray. But my quick fixes turned into a gruesome addiction of crack-cocaine and meth. Drugs became my teddy bear, my cozy blanket, my only security. After several months, I thought my ad-diction was unbeatable. It consumed me. I focused on getting more and more instead of my schoolwork, and my grades suffered as a result. Then one day I looked in the mirror and be-neath the drug-driven monster I had become as a result of my dead great-grandfather, out-of-control eating disorder, and divorced parents, I saw a person. A person begging for a second chance. A person with real feelings. A person that deserved a better education. From that point on I was determined get involved with sports to try and impress a spectacular college like you, Georgia Tech.

I joined the school soccer team to keep my mind off my spiraling depression, sepa-rated parents, and fervent drug addiction. At first the emptiness of my life was reflected in the emptiness of my passion for the sport. But then on that one fateful night during our playoff game, my coach sent me in for an injured player. He said, “Stephanie, this is your chance. Be.our.hero.” I saw the scoreboard counting down as the ball rolled to my feet in front of the goal. 3…2…1…GOAL! That night I looked at myself for the second time in the mirror. I saw a smile for the first time in six years. In that smile I saw a bright future. I knew it was time to pull up my grades and get more involved in my community.

I saw an opportunity for redemption in a church sponsored mission trip. I found my-self on that trip. I found a genuinely good person, and I found the boy I love who I am follow-ing to college. And in a small ditch next to the house I had built from the ground up, I left my depression, I left my anxiety, and I left the last of my drugs. I was done being that person.

Continued...[ 058 ]

And being the first in my family to apply to college, I hope to bring my broken family a small sliver of honor that I have denied them for so long. I am applying to you, Emory, in hopes that you can see the person I am. After my terrible childhood, I now realize that I am worth something. I hope you see I am too.

[ 059 ]

The Cubic VanityJaeYoung Choi

Citizen Jefferson woke up. 2:55 A.M. The daily anti-somiac serum had kicked in his body. Soothing the electrifying pain he felt in his brain, he stared at the ceiling screen—the Honorable Daily Civic duty. The monochromatic Grand Society dramas played 24 hours a day in the square ceiling screen. The so-called dramas were rather an unending enunciation of the Citizen Codes and a hodgepodge of extolment dedicated for the Supreme Commander.

Attention, citizens. It is the All-Perfect, the Most High, Our Supreme Commander.

The voice of Moria, the announcer of the ceiling screen, was monotonous and mechanical; not a minute sense of living humanity to be found. While few livid stick figures moved to and fro, the portrait of the Supreme Commander shined in the center of ceiling screen. “Our Supreme Commander. Hail,” Citizen Jefferson muttered, “Oh, praise his glory and honor…”

Oh. Praise His glory and honor. Remember, citizens, the Citizen Code one hundred sixty—

“—Sixty five. Always obey the Supreme Commander,” Citizen Jefferson grumbled. Two hundred of the Citizen Codes, among 963 Codes, were identical: Obey the Supreme Commander. There may be several different wordings, perhaps. He meaninglessly repeated what he sensed; it was a mere imitation of what was heard, without insightfully comprehending any conventional symbolism of glory and honor. He had never left his 125 cubic meter room, as far as he remembered. How he managed to survive his babyhood, he could not recollect.

After watching the Grand Society dramas for a half hour, Citizen Jefferson rose up from his bed and reached for the nutrition distributor pipe and its valve, placed on the west side of wall. Then he placed the plastic nozzle inside his mouth and turned the plastic valve clockwise; a pale white, thick, tasteless nutrition soup soon slowly flowed through the transparent distribution pipe. Citizen Jefferson always starved for more soup, but the supply was limited—flow stopped after four gulps. Hunger and thirst—he recalled the Citizen Code 365. “More,” he requested. No reply: the way it had been for twenty-seven years. Only after the flow of soup stopped Citizen Jefferson locked the valve, counterclockwise.

Citizens! Now we begin the daily Grand Society Social Skill Citizen Codes Recitation. Remember the Citizen Code—

Continued...[ 060 ]

[ 061 ]

Along with the announcement, two black stick figures in the screen were standing still, facing each other—representing what a meeting of men supposedly looks. “—The Citizen Code five hundred fifty five: Say ‘Hello, Citizen. [State my name here]. Please Identify yourself’ when you have encountered another citizen.” Citizen Jefferson, although he recited the Codes calm and quiet, felt his mind was trembling from excitement. It was a special day for Citizen Jefferson; he was informed yesterday that he would have the meeting. “The Citizen Code five hundred fifty…” Citizen Jefferson whispered to himself, reciting the Grand Society Social Skills, the Citizen Codes five hundred fifty to six hundred. Still, he could not hide his bursting joy—it was to be be his first contact with a living human. Times flew away.

--do. The Citizen Code five-hundred eighty nine. Always—

The Citizen Code 589. “Always keep yourself and your room clean.” Citizen Jefferson, after the recitation, remembered that he had been oblivious of the Code 589. He observed his room, and checked if he or his room was unkempt. “The ceiling screen perfectly clean. The toilet and bed flawlessly clean. The nutrition pipe and valve unfailingly clean,” he self-talked. Although Citizen Jefferson’s word choices and sentence structures were limited, nevertheless he enjoyed using the language. The white walls, fading into a gray as it approached floor, were spotless. And the floors, silicon-syntax granite—

—Opening the door. Please step away from the south wall. Now opening in three, two—

Ah! Citizen Jefferson’s heart ran amuck. Breathing human! Excitement overhauled Citizen Jefferson as the door slowly opened. A Grand Society Social Servant, the inferior mankind, stood still in the hallway, across the opened door.

The Grand Society Social Servant was a stick figure and a disappointment. It enclosed itself in thick iron armor and a spherical steel helmet with the Social Servant’s symbol, the crossed guns, printed on them, devoid of human characteristics Citizen Jefferson had hoped to see. Neither of them knew what a gun was.

“Citizen Jef, Je—Jeff, Jefferson. Please stand,” it ordered, stuttering, standing in the hall. Citizen Jefferson obeyed; both of them followed the Grand Society Social Skills. Although Citizen Jefferson was disappointed, it was truly revolutionary moment nevertheless. The radical idea of having a contact with another human face to face (albeit covered one) shook his very soul. Citizen Jefferson was unbearably happy, however dismayed to find himself unable

Continued...[ 062 ]

to express the passion channeling through his veins. The word happy was expurgated from the Grand Society Dictionary decades ago. “Citizen Jef, Jefferson,” it said, pointing at its right, Citizen “See the door, walk there. Enter the door. That, the She am awaiting.” Citizen Jefferson obeyed, however hesitatingly, for he did not quite yet grasp the word door yet; He had never opened one before. Then he took his step outside from his white-gray cubic cage, into the fluorescent-light-filled hallway, a new horizon of world for Citizen Jefferson. “Ehii…” unintelligible syllabi slipped from Citizen Jefferson’s lips, in an absolute amazement. The hall was twice taller, twice wider than Citizen Jefferson’s room. “Citizen Jef-Jefferson, the door you see, enter…” It ordered, still stuttering, silencing the last part of the command. Citizen Jefferson walked toward the door. The door Citizen Jefferson saw was a dot.

…

When Citizen Jefferson was approaching toward the door in an excellent Citizen demeanor, he noticed a man in a cream-colored jump suit nearing from his left. A true human being, another citizen, Jefferson recognized. Citizen Jefferson trembled uncontrollably at his feet. The man’s eyes and hair were dark-brown blended with rich black. He was slightly taller than the Social Servant, however looked weak. He was terribly pale and wan: an aghast apparition. His opaque eyes gazed unto empty hallway, as if Citizen Jefferson was imperceptible. Citizen Jefferson successfully remembered the Citizen Code 555. “Hello, citizen. State my name here. Please identify yourself.” Jefferson inquired, the question being an astonishing feat for his first try. The man in the cream-colored jump suit wriggled his lips, but did not make a sound. Terrified of the man’s unorthodoxity, Citizen Jefferson asked once again. “Hello, citizen. Sta... State my… Jefferson. Please identify yourself.” The man in a jump suit kept on moving his lips in the same fashion. He seemed desperate to talk but he could not. A Disabled. The violator and impurifier of the Citizen Codes.

Enemies of the Grand Society!

The monotonous voice of the Grand Society drama narrator echoed inside Citizen Jefferson’s head. He raised his fist to eliminate the danger of the Grand Society. The man also raised his fist. Citizen Jefferson threw his punch. The man, too, threw his punch. Their fists collided. The man’s fist was cold as ice and hard as iron. But Citizen Jefferson had never learned to surrender—he raised his hand once again, pounded the man again and again, and collided his fists against the man’s fist again and again and again. With a thundering noise, the mirror

[ 063 ]

shattered into pieces.

“I have,” declared Citizen Jefferson, “successfully eliminated the danger of Grand Society.” A nice example of the Citizen Code 597: the declaration of victory. Smearing his hands, gloved in black blood-substitutes, on his suit, Jefferson continued to approach the door. The same voice of ceiling screen was sounding through the hall.

Remember citizens, always obey the Supreme Commander.

…

When Citizen Jefferson opened the door, a terrifying scene was set before him. The horror! The horror! Things dot the room in an irregular manner. Unorganized, scattered. Not what had been told to exist. Such a thing! Citizen Jefferson sniffed—bringing him a horrific effect. A smell. A slightest olfaction drove Citizen Jefferson delirious. What was this thing, this feeling…

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a soft yet vigorous voice of a woman came from behind the things. Citizen Jefferson, frightened, froze, initiated the Social Skill Citizen Code. “Hello, citizen. State my name here. Please identify—” Jefferson had to stop. A young woman in a long white coat, blonde, green-eyed, with a graceful smile: the true human being Jefferson thirsted for. “Well, these are just beautiful, aren’t they?” The human! The human! Jefferson vowed himself before her feet. A moment of silence passed by and she spoke: “Good evening, Jefferson.”

…..

“Ah…” Jefferson couldn’t say what the woman said. “Do you see, Jefferson? These are trees.” A homo sapiens, alive, was talking to Jefferson. “Trees…” Jefferson imitated. Trees: An exotic word that never was inside Jefferson’s infinitesimal world. Jefferson gazed the trees in awe, trying to express his amazement. “Trees…” he pointed at the green leafs hung around it. “Oh, you mean the color! Say ‘G-R-E-E-N.’ Green.” The woman, the first and last of divinity within Jefferson, instructed. “Gre-en.” A mere imitation followed. Jefferson liked how words Trees and Green rolled upon his tongue. Trees, Green. Jefferson gaped into her green eyes, begging for more knowledge.

The woman took out an apple from her coat pocket and offered it to Jefferson. Vigorous bursting color almost blinded Jefferson. She offered the apple again: “There you go, Jefferson. Yes. Put this thing in your mouth and take a bite. Yes, yes. Chew it. Yes, open your mouth…

Continued...[ 064 ]

bite. Like this.” She exaggeratingly clanked her teeth. “Yes, yes. A good citizen, you are. How does that taste?” Jefferson felt the taste shivering his spine top to bottom. He again tried to express his new notion he just acquired, in a failing attempt. “It’s called sweet, Jefferson. S-W-E-E-T.” Sweet. Jefferson loved how the sound sweet sounded in his ear.…..

“How long have you been in the Garden, Jefferson?” the woman questioned. “Twenty seven days.” Jefferson answered. “Well, it’s about time. Jefferson, do you have any question? Question. Things you still don’t understand,” she said. Jefferson, with a slight hesitation, responded, “Why am I here?” She smiled him back, and said, “Excellent! You seem to understand the logic of why. The most beautiful inquiry men can have. Yes, it’s is the time, I suppose. I will tell you the Control now, since you became reasonable enough.” There were delights, and then pity in her green eyes.

“You see, Jefferson, all humans must live. It is somewhat innate superstitious faith; it’s the very reason you shoved the nutrition pipe in to your mouth without much thinking. Live. Exist. Persist. Preservation of human gene is the first, primary goal of all humanity. When that goal was achieved so easily by our ancestors throughout progress, we, people, being utilitarian by heart, began to seek something more challenging… challenge: to find secrets of universe. No one had any idea how to even approach the question. But the God-sent, the genius, the father of Our Grand Society, Our Lord Gustavinus, believes that human instincts may reveal some key secrets of… the world, God, everything. So we, people, made colossal underground facility. Me, you, these, all underground. And you—”

“Why am I here?” Jefferson intervened to ask. He didn’t understand what she meant; he believed that there were others, more vital essences to learn.

“Because, we, people, are studying very interesting subject. You are the answer, Jefferson. The answer to the possibility of absolute human conditioning—the inception of the perfect community. Hypnosis, in some manner; however, a happy hypnosis. Now, Citizen Jefferson—”

“Why am I here? Why I am?” Jefferson asked.

“—I’m sorry, Jefferson. The question of the purpose of life is being researched right now. Within three decades or so, we the people surely can articulate the answer. Now, Citizen Jefferson—”

“Why I am? And you are? And we?” Jefferson demanded to know. He wished to express his Continued...[ 065 ]

[ 066 ]

innermost passion burning from his heart he has not learned to feel: The fervid superstition, the living zeal, the blind thirst.“Hmm. I do not understand your question. Now, Citizen Jefferson, during the past week, you have learned that this place is a nicer place to live, compared to your previous condition. It is to defy reason and logic to return to your cell. Unfortunately, Jefferson,” she said, drawing out a portrait of the Supreme Commander out of her pocket, “by the order of the Supreme Commander, I ask you to leave now. Return to your room, stay in your room, and never, ever come out.”

Remember, citizens—A monotonous voice rang inside Citizen Jefferson’s brain—always obey the Supreme Commander. He wished to resist what was predestinated for him. Remember, citizens, always obey the Supreme Commander. Citizen Jefferson wrapped his head with his arms, attempting to disobey the command. Remember—Trees, Greens, Sweets—citizens, always obey the Supreme Commander. Citizen Jefferson rolled on the dirt floor, attempted to defy his scripted fate. He felt the submission serum ticking. “Freedom! Freedom!” in a vain. Remember, citizens, always obey—Freedom, Liberty, Joy, Lo—the Supreme Commander!

Jefferson rose up, slowly walked out of Pseudo-Eden, left everything behind, and faded beyond the horizon of the endless hall. To the void he entered.

[ 067 ]

[ 068 ]

The Moment BeforeJaeYoung Choi

I awake. My face is wet with sweat and tears. I can feel my panting breath. I am on a bed. The bedclothes are soft and warm. The pillow is soft, too. I can’t see anything. Am I blind? No. The room is dark. I ponder: What just happened? A nightmare, possibly. The beam. My toes are trembling with a fear I cannot remember. I still feel the terror lurking under my consciousness. I think I slept for awhile but I am awfully tired. Only then, I feel a presence beside me. Someone’s on the bed. I am always alone. There should not be a presence beside myself. Although I cannot clearly see, I can tell that the stranger is a woman. I don’t know why. I can hardly move, frightened. Am I still dreaming? I must not fear. I must face it. I calm my voice down and inquire: “Who are you?” “I am your wife.”

“You all right?” A man asks. I’m awake. I’m on a bed. The bedclothes are soft and warm. The pillow, too, is soft. Everything is white in this room. I rub my eyes to soothe throb-bing sores. A man is standing beside the bed. He is a short, stout man with a pince-nez idly sitting on his aquiline nose. I recognize him. I know him. He’s a doctor and friend of mine. He’s been taking care of me for a time. Ever since I was young, I used to play hide-and-seek with him. He was always the find-er, and I was always the runner. He was an awfully good finder. But he really didn’t care for the game. He liked to fish. He used to live in a verdant shack by a lakeside, and was proud of the view he had. Sometimes, he would throw fish he caught in the lake on my head. It seems a crude habit now, but years ago it was a sincere humor. I’d laugh. He’d laugh. “It’s all right, it was just a dream. Everything’s fine,” he says. It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. The creaks. I can still feel the horror lurking under my consciousness. He grins and stares. He thinks I’m bit disoriented. That’s all there is. That’s that, and how everything goes. I am in an empty train. I am sitting on a chair, hard and cold. The train clatters regu-larly like an unfailing pendulum. I’m probably on my way home. The flickering fluorescent lights and the grimed brown train floor. I’m probably on the No. 4 subway train. Was I asleep? The stool. Have I passed Redtree Avenue? Before the questions could be answered, I feel some-thing is not right: Something is missing. My wallet, keys, and gray handkerchief are safe in my pockets. What’s missing? Something’s not in my hand that should be. Then, I hear a presence—sound of heavy breathing—in the train car I am in. I look around, hiding my surprise. A stranger standing on the corner of the car. The stranger is a

[ 069 ]

stooping senile woman wrapped in green blankets; yet, she constantly shivers. Her face is hid-eous, full of warts and blotches. She barely stands with antique rod she held. Each time the train clatters again, her body moved to and fro, slowly. She reminds me of something I cannot describe in words. To ask her some questions, I walk toward her. She makes not the slightest response to my approach. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I ask politely. “Have we passed Redtree Avenue?”

“Honey! Honey! Are you sleeping on the toilet again?” The voice of woman behind the door demands. It’s Maria. My wife. I find myself sitting on a toilet. I’m in a spotlessly clean bathroom with chess-patterned graphite floor tiles. The air is cold. But I feel warm. I have a toothbrush in my right hand and toothpaste in my left hand. I assume I was about to brush my teeth. I shout: “No, I’m brushing my teeth!” “For fifteen minutes?” “No, I just started!” “Then what were you doing in the bathroom until now?” “Shaving.” “You told me this morning that you ran out of shaving cream.” “We actually had some extra on the bottom of the can.” “You shaved this morning without cream.” “Okay. I was sleeping on the toilet.” “Oh. As usual.” “As usual.” “Honey, could you unlock the door? I’m in a hurry.” I know who she is, how she is, and why she is. I can savor every last essence of my dear lover. Maria and I were childhood friends, seeing each other every day. I used to play hide-and-seek with her. I was always the finder, and she was always the runner. She wasn’t that good of a runner. She was almost terrified whenever I found her. So she really didn’t care about the game. She loved to swim. She used to live in a shack beside a lakeside, and was proud of the view she had. The platform. She would swim in there for hours and hours. She smelled of fishes, always. I unlock and open the door. There is no one behind the door.

“So? What did you dream about?” My friend asks, fixing his pince-nez. Funny thing, I can’t remember. My memories are as empty as the white room I am in. Just a moment ago I was terrified to see something. Wait, I was in a dark room. A blindfold. Could have I seen something? Her face! Her hideous face! It’s impossible. It’s impossible. “Umm, hello?” He urges. I try to answer. I cannot move my lips. I taste bloods covering-

Continued...[ 070 ]

my tongue. My lips are sewn together with lead wire. Mysteriously, I know its color is crimson brown, dyed in white-yellow pus leaking from my lip punctures. I feel a scorching pain on my lips. My friend grins harder, slowly turning his face into a wry grimace. He drools. He drools. His torso violently quivers. He is still staring at me. I smell spoiled fish on my head. It’s not a fish. Dead flesh. Stupefied, I do nothing. Nothing at all. What was his name? I attempt to recall. He does not have a name. He bursts in laughter.

“Ma’am?” I ask. She stays silent. “Excuse me, ma’am, have we passed Redtree Avenue?” I ask. She remains silent. Her taciturnity frustrates and annoys me a little. “Ma’am?” Speaking same word once again, I poke her shoulder in hope of getting a re-sponse. The noose. She falls on the brown train floor. Cold, dead, and fetid. I see vacuous two black holes swarming with vermin where eyes should be. Her limbs are decaying, gushing out an effluent stench. Her jaw is dangling, barely managing itself from being torn apart. “Of course,” she answers, “We passed Redtree Avenue long ago.”

Maria is in the bedroom, her glass-blue eyes gazing at my contrite stature. Her charm-ing smile is now defiled and corrupted, and her clothing is torn and wet. What’s done can-not be undone. I stand still like a rotting scarecrow, too dumbfounded to say a word. Maria’s countenance is cut with a grotesque grimace, terrified of what I have done to her. I still feel the terror lurking under my consciousness. My heart races fast. My unwinged, silent angel floats buoyantly amid air. Dripping urine from her toes to the floor, she slowly swings to and fro. Fall.

I awoke. I was in the small concrete room. The walls were bleached white. My toes were trembling with fear. Soon I realized that all was nothing but a dream. I dreamed of things I never had. Things I demanded but never had. The room was cold and hard. The pillow was stiff, too. “Are you sleeping on the toilet again?” A man behind the door asked. “No.” I answered. Then a short, stout man with a pince-nez idly sitting on his nose entered. He asked me great deal of questions. I answered them all. I told him I can’t precisely remember how I drowned her. But I did remember how she looked and how she hated it. I just did. My hands still smelled of dead flesh. They smelled like fish. Only in my imagination, the guilt persisted. With confused and somber eyes, the man said something which I did not heard, and lead me outside.

[ 071 ]

The beam stood amid tranquil silence. The cacophonic creaks sounded with each step I took. The stool was empty, waiting to be occupied. People on the platform uttered some prayers and covered my eyes with a blindfold. The noose slowly swings to and fro.

I fall.

unraveledKameel Mir

the days were tightly woven together beforebut now as the loom expands

the threads give way.and everything goes,

limp in the breeze of my fingers flying.black marble marvels

roll gleeful down the see-saw.black marble marvels HEE-haw

at me there clutchingmy chattering bones.

i stand there, i should have knownthat everything goes.

something that everyone but me knowslife is but a chapter in the story of dying.

[ 072 ]

Watermelon PocketsGrace Chung

I wore a pretty dress that day

It had ripples of pink with those watermelon pockets

I had shoes to match you know

Polished blue heels with the shiny sparkles you added for me

I even got permission to wear Mama’s straw hat

Remember the one she wears when it’s strawberry season?

But on that day they looked at me funny

It made me squirm inside and my stomach twist and bubble

But I looked at them funny too

They wore the same expressions

Tired and restless

They wore the same colors

Dull and rotten

They even smelled the same

Stubborn

At recess the boys ripped off my dress’s pockets

I found them nailed to the trunk of a tree

After lunch the girls stole my straw hat

I found it in the sandbox shredded up this way and that

By the end of the day, my dress shoes were soiled and dirty

I’m not sad though

I think they were just jealous of those watermelon pockets

[ 073 ]

[ 074 ]

Whispered Little NothingsElnaz Moghangard

I have always been instructed to elevate my writing, to make it perhaps more eloquent, more sophisticated. And while that did Shakespeare a good deal, I find that this pompous etiquette of language only serves to construct a maze of letters and sounds. Must I really say, “The oblivious young woman was certainly unaware of her predicament and lacked the ability to perceive the importance of her circumstances.” Why can’t I just say, “That dumb b**** was dumb.” And as I go through this mental battle with myself, stretching my mind’s capacity hoping that it will serve to be elastic and therefore wrap itself around a particular idea or so-lution, I find myself filtering the clutter of life down to one simple realization. Sometimes you don’t need that grand explanation. Sometimes you don’t need that logic. Sometimes, many times, all you need is a thought that ignites the flame of creativity and absurdity. Sometimes, all you need are those little whispered nothings– that with time, with imagination grow louder and louder.

Winter Flower SonnetEmily Hughes

“I’m cold,” she whispers softly in the wind

The icy chill has turned her blossom brown

Around her, trees are bare and vines have thinned

Her petals slowly float down to the ground

Strong, speckled leaves support their precious bloom

Attempt to keep her well throughout the frost

The leaves protect her as the dark days loom

In this cold season, hopes of warmth are lost

She passes time waiting for the spring rain

Through clouded days, skies blotted dark like ink

Her inner rings show all the faint remains

Of a summer color, vibrant and pink

She keeps those memories close to her heart

Dreaming of when the winter clouds depart[ 075 ]

Thanks for Reading!Chief Editor

Kameel Mir

Co-Chief EditorsEmily Hughes

Natalie Feingold

Chief Poetry EditorJennifer Taffe

Co-Chief Poetry EditorEmily Hornberger

PoetryAshley George

Shelby SatterwhiteLaney DavisWes Clark

Alison StitzelEleni Zafirouli

Co-Chief Prose EditorMelissa Sopher

Julie Katz

Prose TeamLeslie DoctorPat Cambias

Rachel ElliotNejla Day

JaeYoung ChoiLane DoroughHaven BillsEspe Semrau

Jordan AaronsonKamaria Liang

Chief Art EditorCaitlyn Daniels

Art TeamHaley BrownLaney Davis

Stephanie AlbertsLindsay CarboMallie Taylor

Eleni Zafirouli

Chief Copy EditorKimberly Luong

Co-Chief Copy EditorsMolly MitchellLauren Steffes

Copy TeamHaley BrownEspe Semrau

Nicole AssiniMallie Taylor

Art Contributors

Ashley Blocker: 29Aven Jackson: 2Camila Gibson: 9, 13, 15, 28, 33Mallie Taylor: I, 7, 14. 16, 25, 38, 39, 41, 45, 48, 52, 53, 54, 56, 59, 67, 72, 74Morgan Dubrof: 68Rachell Kim: 4, 47, 55, 61, 66

[ END ]