Inkwell 2021

They walk down

a rose thorn pathway 

with eyes strongly 

fixed on the crown.

Blood stains 

stand boldly 

against their white shirts. 

With each step their heels 

click, clack 

against the hard 

concrete floor.

Around them 

soft candles glow

lighting the otherwise 

dark room.

Step by step

they approach the crown,

like a cat

stalking its prey,

slowly, deliberately 

calculating each and every movement.

They won their battle

against the world.

It was a bright, scorching hot morning in Rock Mills, Alabama. The sun had barely just ris’n over the trees. I was expecting to see Ma n’ Pa out on the farm feeding the chickens or somethin’ of the sorts. 

“Ma!” Ain’t no one in sight after I yelled. 

“Pa!” I was gettin’ a little nervous that the county sheriff had come by again. Last week, Ma got in trouble with the sheriff after trespassing on our neighbors’ property. She heard them darn kids screamin’ and yellin’ all day n’ decided to take matters into her own hands. 

“Up yonder those scallywags are always burnin’ wood n’ runnin’ their tractors all damn day,” my dad would come back from the farm complainin’. 

I was so short that my boots barely fit’n my feet. I would go get a new pair but there wasn’t a shop ‘n sight for miles here’n Rock Mills. The only way to leave the house was from Pa’s 2003 Chevy GMC. Thing was rustin’ so bad the engine took ages to fire up. 

I was a freshman ‘n high school, I ain’t takin’ no shit from anybody. Kids are scared of me n’ shit. My grades were piss poor n’ I ain’t play no football or nothin’. I wanted to work on the farm weekdays n’ weekends. I pass my ol’ time with the guitar n’ the tractor out on the farm. If I have any free time I go out n’ fish by the mill pond. 

“Noah, get your ass out on them damn fields, son!” Pa walked toward me n’ the cabin. He must’ve been collectin’ firewood or somethin’. 

“Yes, Pa.” I grabbed my coat n’ went over to the fields. Oh n’ I forgot to mention. I be hunt’n for fun too. I grabbed my rifle n’ strapped it over my shoulder. Anything out there in them woods n’ it gon’ be mine for supper. As I got over to the crop fields the corn was flaking. Time for the hose to be sprayin’ on the crops. If the sun had come out n’ these crops weren’t watered, Pa was gon’ grab the whip n’ hit me for a long time. 

I sprayed the water on the corn so that they stayin’ alive for another day. Pa would never let me have a field of my own ‘cuz he don’t trust me. Ever since I was a little boy, Pa thinkin’ I’m the worst farmer ever or somethin.’ I think I’m a better farmer than Pa. His back is so crooked n’ he got so much pain’n his knees. 

I spent the next few hours tendin’ the crops n’ shit. I was chewing on some hay, n’ my bucket hat was drippin’. There was somethin creepin’ in the woods as I removed the rifle from my shoulder. I loaded ‘er n’ squinted so hard. I aimed for the little rascal n’ pressed the trigger. My ears were ringin’. I hit the darn thing n’ ran over to pick ‘em up. The little rascal was dead for good n’ I scooped ‘em right up. I went right back to the cabin n’ placed the rascal on the porch for supper. 

My Pa n’ Ma both grew up thinkin’ that the only way to live was to sleep, tend your field, keep your shotgun loaded, n’ repeat. The farm was ten acres or so large in Central Rock Mills n’ my job was to tend about two of ‘em on the west field. My father is one of the most notable farmers in the county. Each year we grow potatoes, corn, n’ peas to sell to the Rock Mills market on August 24th, farmers day. Pa usually makes the second or third highest yield in the county, n’ this is how we live. 

Problem was, Pa never liked farmer Dan or Patricio. They always makin’ more than him year after year with their shitty four acre fields. The market sellin’ was coming up next week n’ we needed a good year.

On August 24th, market day for Rock Mills, Pa n’ I packed our thousands of crops in our food transport truck n’ started our journey to Clay County, around forty-five minutes west. Pa was always a nervous wreck on the way to Clay. He was bitin’ his nails n’ jitterin’ the whole way. I was always a bit nervous. I didn’t know what gon’ happen if Pa didn’t get enough money. When we got to the market, I jumped out of the truck n’ opened the back hatch. 

“Hey, can we get some help over here?” I yelled because those darn workers were supposed to be helpin’ us unload into the large crate. 

“How are you two today?” one of the unloaders walked over n’ began heavin’ our crops into the crate. Pa don’t respond. He was breathin deep n’ swiggin’ water around his neck trying to calm down. 

“Pa, are you good?” I went over to check on ‘em. 

“Yeah son, keep helping unload. The yield count’s in fifteen, gotta hurry now.”

During the yield count pa usually asks me to watch the judges count the crops while he lays down n’ the truck. He was too nervous for the result. 

I stayed for an hour n’ listed to the judges yell out each farmer's total. So far Pa was leading in his yield by over $500. This ain’t much tho’. Farmer Dan still got a lot more left in his truck n’ he was only $700 behind. 

It took two hours for the judges to deliver bad news once again. Farmer Dan had won this year's market yield with $32,000. Pa only got $28,000, down $2000 from last year.

I don't even need to break the darn news to Pa when I got back to the truck. He must’ve found out ‘cuz I never seen Pa ballin’ his eyes out before.

I continue along the path, 

Taking in the damp,

Musty smell of the air

From last night's pounding rain. 

Around me, moths flutter silently. 

They fly towards the light

And glow in yellow gold,

Their wings 

Patterned with stripes.

Then quickly, 

They glide back down towards the darkness,

As if captured by its murk.

I rest to admire the forest.

The plants enclose me,

Some neon with color,

Beacons of light in this gloom.

Mesmerized by their brilliance, 

I hunch down.

The leaves and twigs below my feet splinter,

Disturbing the calm of the forest, 

And I inch close towards the plant,

The bristles, soft and soothing, 

Against my dry,

Cracked hands.

Suddenly, I see an opening above,

A break from the growing green.

Peering ahead, I see a brick house,

Its walls 

Inky black, 

With hues of blue 

And orange.

My stomach turns,

And my heart begins to beat harder, faster,

As if pushing out of my chest.

I gape through the hole more,

And in the shadowed window 

I see a dark silhouette.

It’s him. 

Listen (Click here)

To question the politics of a child is a strange thing to do. Most children don’t actively think about politics, and those who do rarely take the time to reflect and question their beliefs. I was raised in a white, middle class, liberal family in a quite liberal part of southern Maine. As a child, I thought my parents and I were as far left as one should be. I didn’t think about the effects of my actions and words, and I simply regurgitated what I heard my parents say about various politicians. Donald Trump is a monster, Hillary Clinton should’ve been president, etc. I thoroughly believed that I was politically superior to the so-called right wing, yet I was still racist. I was still homophobic. I was still a supporter of capitalism and war criminal presidents. I still got angry when other countries made fun of America, my blinding yet subsurface patriotism akin to a cancerous tumor. I couldn’t recognize the flaws in not only my country but in myself as well. It wasn’t until I found a life online that I actually began to think about my standards and ideals, and challenge them to be better, to focus on the benefit of marginalized and oppressed people.

A political essay becomes entrenched in dangerous territory when it’s written pompously and slick with the oil of a white savior complex. The first step is recognizing privilege, and the degree of privilege to which you fall upon. It’s difficult to break the mentality of blissful ignorance, but doing so provides that much-needed push to really begin recognizing the injustice in the world. 

I am a white male. I benefit from my race and gender even if I do not recognize that, because I’ve never been put in the shoes of, say, a black woman. I did not understand what advantages were bestowed upon me because I had never had to live without them. When I was told that I was privileged, my immediate response was to recoil and defend, like a rattlesnake shaking its tail. I thought, How am I privileged? I have an autoimmune disease! I have mental health issues! My life has been hard too! However, being privileged doesn’t mean you haven’t had struggles in your life. It just means that your race, sexual orientation, gender identity, religion, etc., have not had an effect on any of these hardships you may have had to face. As soon as I was able to come to terms with this without spiraling into a defensive posture, I was able to engross myself in the minds and voices of those around me who were systemically oppressed. I stopped speaking over marginalized people and actually began to listen for once. 

By listening to those around me, I was able to recognize political issues in our country that I hadn’t thought of before. I didn’t think about concepts such as police brutality, or more subtle microaggressions, because none of them affected me. That’s a dangerous and selfish mindset to fall into, however. To only focus on issues that affect you is to ignore millions of other people who are facing worse things than you are. I remember a few years back I was talking to my friend about the concept of reverse racism. She told me that it didn’t exist, and I had retreated back into that defensive stance that we so often take when confronted with a different opinion. The only problem was that I couldn’t seem to disprove her arguments. 

When presented with an ideology that conflicts with your own, your brain will go into a fight or flight response. The part of the brain where physical pain is processed is activated, and instead of growing as a person you’re more likely to double down on said opinion. That was the cycle I was stuck in constantly, tides of wavering on the edge, almost at the point where I couldn’t recognize my own faults.

Activism is when, instead of simply not participating in injustice and inequality, you actively take a stand against it and point it out in public conversation. A couple weeks back I was talking to my friend about social media, when the concept of tone indicators came up. For those who aren’t aware, a tone indicator is used at the end of a text-based post to indicate (as the name entails) tone. There are many different varieties, such as /s for sarcasm, /srs for serious, /lh for lighthearted, etc. The purpose of using tone indicators is because some neurodivergent (autistic, dyslexic, etc.) people may have trouble identifying the tone of a message via text. It’s an easy way to make social media more accessible to those who need it. My friend told me that he didn’t get the usage of these indicators, and that it was kind of dumb to him. Now, I had two options here. I could agree with him and silently tell myself, Well, I know I don’t agree with him and that’s all that matters. However, this wouldn’t be helping anyone at all. The second, better option that I chose was to tell him about why tone indicators are used, and try to educate him on the subject. That’s the difference between passivity and activism. Predictably, he became uncomfortable with the idea of me correcting him about a political issue, but it’s normal to feel that brain-activated response. What matters is if you can swallow your pride and change your opinion.

I’m not here to say I’m a good person, or morally superior to anyone. I’m not here to bathe in a white savior complex. My goal in this essay is to probe the mind of whoever is reading this and get them to actively think about their own privilege and choices. Sure, you may consider yourself left wing, but are you left wing enough? You may not be racist, but there’s a difference between not being racist and being anti-racist. Being unaware and being aware. Passive versus active. Ask yourself this: Are you listening? Or are you just hearing?

       When I first stepped into the limousine, I didn’t even see her. The enclosing darkness shrouded her in the peripheral of my vision. Only after the valet shut the door did I notice her there, sitting across from me. It felt a bit like the time I had seen a ghost outside my bedroom when I was little, and I stiffened. 

She did not. In fact, she seemed to come even further undone. Her legs were pulled up close to her, as if she needed them to stay afloat in the ocean of despair that she drifted through. The elegant swoop that her hair had been working to maintain at the beginning of the night had finally begun to fray apart, and rebellious strands fell into her face. They stuck to her cheeks, glued by tears and watery mascara. I vaguely wondered if she had been here the entire time. I had expected her to take a cab to God knows where after the party had turned sour, but here she was, a ghost in our limousine. I noticed sharply that she still wore her wedding ring. Its twinkle seemed dulled.

The limo pulled away from the parking lot, and she swayed a bit in her seat at the motion. I stayed rigid, wanting her to look at me and at the same time never wanting to hear what her eyes had to say. The silence was only broken by her hiccuping tears, which shook her entire frame. 

“I thought you had gone.” I started with the easiest words. 

Abruptly, she stopped shaking. Her eyes rose to mine, shot with red streaks and surrounded by smudges of black. She had been crying a long time, then. Without a word, she slipped off her ring and placed it on the seat beside her. It glinted at me, as if to say, “What a waste.”

“I have,” she said, looking at me and through me all at once. She didn’t wipe at the tears on her face, forcing me to look at what I’d done. I had only seen her like this once before, on our wedding night. It was late, and all the guests had gone. She had just realized that she had made the worst mistake of her life. I had found her then, reassured her. But she had been right, all those years ago, and I was just a good liar. 

Her hands rested on top of her knees, and I noticed the spots of raw skin around her cuticles. She hadn’t chewed her nails in years, but tonight she regressed back to the habit. In some places she had drawn blood, and it smeared down her fingertips. It looked strange beside her perfect nail polish. When she saw me looking, she dropped her hands back into her lap, where I couldn’t see the damage. Immediately, embarrassment flushed my cheeks, but she didn’t seem to notice. She leaned her head back and shut her eyes with much effort. 

“Did you ever love me?” She whispered the strained words weakly, and I could see that it was the question that had picked at her edges the entire evening. 

The old lie came to my lips first. It came easier than the truth, as it always did. But I couldn’t lie to her anymore. 

“I told myself I did,” I said. The words sounded forced, even if they were true. I had told myself that I loved her every day since that horrid wedding night. Some days I had convinced myself. But it was always a lie.

It seemed to be the answer she expected, though not the one she wanted. The limousine stopped suddenly then, but we were not outside our apartment. I didn’t recognize the street. I realized then that it would be the last time I ever saw my wife. She stood and stepped out of the limo without even a glance at me, leaving nothing but her ghost and her ring behind.

At age 15, 

I liked the pointlessness.

No job to juggle, 

no family to feed, 

nowhere or no place

with us in need.

But in some strange sense, 

they gave us

the ability to go

wherever we wanted.

His silver ride sped

almost too fast down 295.

The windows down 

all the way, 

the wind

brushed my face 

and scooped my hair

in different directions.

The heavy sky

hovered over 

like a shadowy 

shingled roof, 

with only stars

to keep us company.

I place my hand 

out the window

to feel my sleeves

heave with 

frigid air.

Then I raise my arms 

way up

into the air 

for only a second

to feel the wind

resisting against 

my purposeless palm.

My eyelids

held tight not letting 

anything in, 

but the headlights 

of opposing cars,

which are too radiant

for them to restrain.

The faint lingering latency

of low tide

drifts slightly

into the rolled down

windows, 

reminding us 

of different times.

We speed down the road

as fast as we can,

because we are 

in a rush

on our way 

to nowhere.

Earl thought that giving his class this pizza party would be a fun reward for the hard work they’d put in over the past several weeks. After about an hour of talking with his students on the sidewalk just outside the main entrance of the school, the boys in his class started arguing over whether or not Earl’s car could do burnouts.

“No way Mr. Brown could do burnouts in that piece of junk,” Bobby exclaimed, pointing at Earl’s old, teal green Toyota Camry that was sitting in the parking lot of their high school.

“You’re an idiot, Bobby,” Ethan started. “Never underestimate vintage cars.”

“Thank you, Ethan, for not insulting my car,” Earl said, raising his eyebrows at Bobby while trying not to grin.

Earl had a special relationship with his students. He was the type of teacher that made his students constantly smile and laugh by telling them jokes, having them perform interesting and engaging hands-on activities, and he was known for always having a gigantic bowl full of every student's favorite candy. Earl had a great passion for teaching and tried to make sure he was providing his students with all the necessary tools they needed to excel in his class.

“I’m just saying, Mr. Brown, ol’ Betty looks like she needs to be put to rest,” Bobby chirped. 

“Just because ‘ol Betty has a few rusty edges doesn’t mean the old girl can’t do burnouts,” Mr. Brown responded confidently.

Earl adjusted the ivy cap on his head and stood up from the sidewalk. He shoved his last bite of pizza crust in his mouth before pulling his keys out of his pocket.

“No way!” Bobby yelled. “He’s actually going to do burnouts in the school parking lot!”

All the boys who had been arguing over whether or not Earl could get ‘ol Betty to do burnouts in the parking lot started jumping up and down on the sidewalk, yelling at each other in excitement. 

“I don’t even know what’s going on right now,” Delilah said to Emma.

“Who knows, honestly,” Emma replied.

Earl opened the door to his car and as he did, it made a loud squeaking noise. He could hear the boys start chuckling. Earl was determined to prove that ‘ol Betty could indeed do burnouts. He turned the key in the ignition, and ‘ol Betty made a loud rumble and a high pitched squeal. He pulled out of his parking spot and looped around so he was in front of his class.

“Let’s see it, Mr. Brown!” Ethan shouted, clapping his hands in encouragement.

Earl stepped on the brake with his left foot, and slowly stepped on the gas with his right. The friction between Earl’s tires and the pavement created a loud screeching noise. At first, there was no smoke being generated and Earl was getting worried.

“Ugh, come on old girl,” he whispered to himself.

All of a sudden, a puff of smoke started forming at the base of his left rear tire. Before the boys could say anything, smoke was filling the air. Black tire marks were being drawn across the pavement as Earl was inching his way forward.

“Ha, I told you, Bobby. I expect twenty-five bucks in my locker tomorrow morning,” Ethan said.

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Bobby replied.

While still doing burnouts, Earl stuck his hand out his window and gave the class a rock-on symbol with his hand. Needless to say, Earl was proud of good ol’ Betty.

Magnificence brings the departure of the old.

The remaining elders wilt,

the life seeping from the ancient into the pristine.

The youth, superior in strength, 

clash against those fading from existence,

reminding everyone of their ever ebbing mortality,

the mortality that slowly begins to drain 

as soon as the growth plateaus. 

The heavily anticipated spiral of decay

Starting.

The casualty of the competitors

extinguish the champion who remains.

Heavenly surroundings refresh, 

fighting against the consistent unchanging

of the rest of the world.

It was early Wednesday morning, about 5:30, and the mist was just starting to settle. Topher had just returned from his morning run and like usual, he grabbed the pot from his coffee machine, filling it to the eight line, for just enough coffee for him and his brother. He dumped the water into the machine, listening to it trickle down until it was still. Adding heaping spoonfuls of his favorite coffee grinds, Topher never really counted how many to add. He only stopped when it felt right. It wasn’t until the coffee pot chimed that it was ready that he noticed something strange. Sitting in with all his other coffee mugs was a ceramic cow-shaped mug. He almost dropped what he was holding in pure shock because he hadn’t seen that mug in fifteen years. It was his late father’s mug sitting there, a memory he thought he had forgotten.

Topher (twenty-two) and his brother Luke (twenty) lived in a small town in Iowa. Neither of them had attended college, but Topher had a steady job at the local supermarket so he could make rent and pay his bills with no issues. At the ages of seven and five, the boys had lost their father in a wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time accident. Neither boy remembered quite what happened, but they knew that it was what cost their father his life, and that's all that mattered. 

It was June, and the family of three had gone out for a late night ice cream run, when the old ‘99 Tacoma back tire went flat. The father turned his flashers on and pulled over. He grabbed the jack, his spare tire, and went to work. And just as he was tightening the last nut on the new tire, he heard a bang and saw the blinding light of an eighteen-wheeler coming towards him. Then and there he was gone, called DOA on scene.

Topher caught his breath and ran to his brother's room, who, to no one's surprise, was still awake from the night before, playing his video games. Luke pulled one of his headphones off of his ears, eyes bloodshot from the lack of blinking he had done in the past eight hours. 

“What, Toph?” he groaned, rolling his eyes.  

“Did you do it? Did you find it and bring it here?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t left the house all day.”

“The mug. Why is it here?” Toph cried.

“What mug?”

“Come to the kitchen then, to see what you did.”

The two of them walked back to the kitchen, the cool tile floors chilling both their feet, when they both saw it. The one thing that did not belong in their home. The ceramic cow mug. 

“What… what the hell is that doing here?” Luke mumbled.

“That’s what I was gonna ask you,” Topher replied, both locking their eyes on the single black and white spotted mug. 

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. This isn’t real. This can’t be. He’s been gone fifteen years. And now this. No!” Luke cried, gripping the sides of his head ‘til his knuckles turned white.

Luke looked deep into Topher's eyes, tears rolling down their cheeks. Neither of them had really confronted their feelings about the passing of their father. Both just moved on from it, not really understanding what it meant for him to be gone. But now, this memento of his life showing up, brought back all their laughs and adventures together. All the memories they had suppressed for years were coming to light in the worst way possible.

Today I’d like to say that

The earth is one step closer 

To awakening from its long hibernation

Though it seemingly only gets colder

Frigid feet with benumbed toes

People bundled up backs hunched

As if they're protecting their most prized possessions

From the vast winds and piercing cold

At a glance everyone is different 

But upon closer inspection they’re not

Everyone has that same one-track mind

Solely trying to hold onto their inner warmth

That satisfaction of a warm entryway just out of reach

The reminiscence of summer 

Is what led this longing train of thought

Photos from just months earlier pop up on a phone or computer

Today was a day that I wish for a fast forward button

Just like in Sandler’s Click 

Today was a day that I wish I could fly

To a warmer happier place

For now I am stuck 

In a dusty routine

A record refusing to move 

Onto the next 60’s hit

“Hello, Gregory. Do you go by Gregory?”

“Yes, this is our Greg. He’s having trouble, aren’t you, honey? It’s been like this since—”

She never stops talking, my mother that is. She can go on all day about her problems, and has a habit of making other people’s problems into her problems. I just have to sit there and fade away like I’m dead until she moves on or runs away crying or something. It’s amazing how much wind she has. She always yammers with the other croaking birds she rolls around with about the lack of good metabolism and to “be your beautiful,” but I swear she burns calories like a pickup truck whenever she lets loose on a tangent. 

You don’t believe me, I know that. But I swear she goes on for hours. My grandmother says she’s “vivacious.” Such a stupid word. Why is being a loudmouth spaz suddenly a good thing when you're an attractive woman? I know that my grandmother understands where I’m coming from. She’s someone who deserves respect. Grandpa knew that. I think. 

You know how everybody and their barber has that one token veteran who was in Vietnam or Korea and went on to live the American Dream? The ones who tell war stories about gambling their cigarettes on the boat home or getting their asses kicked in boot camp? You know about all the stories they don’t tell about what really went down? My grandfather was one of those stories. He died running up some hill or another that didn’t even have a name. They called it “Hill Thirteen” or “Thirty-seven” or something. He fell on a grenade to save the same greasy hippie bastards that now tell all their wonderful stories about their time in the army drowning some poor rookie bastard in a toilet or something. 

He had so many “avulsion” wounds that they couldn’t have an open casket burial. His body must have been all rotted, too, because they weren’t particularly quick about getting it off that hill they worked so hard for. It might’ve even gotten napalmed. I heard the military did that a lot when they knew they couldn’t take on the Viet Cong. Instead, I guess they figured that they would just give their children cancer or mutations and shit with herbicides and ruin their majestic rolling jungles with hellfire. People are shit.

My grandfather was, too, in his own way. My grandmother says, “to put the welfare of others before yourself is important, but never forget that others wish to care for you in the same way.” I guess she means that Grandpa was a hero for jumping on a grenade to save his buddies, but he was an asshole for leaving his wife and four kids alone like that when he could have just looked out for himself and ran the hell away like every other draftee grunt who didn’t want to be there. 

He seemed like a good guy, if not a smart one. Grandma wasn’t a cheap woman. In terms of like, mental or moral traits and stuff I mean. She told me that she was always quiet around guys who tried to date her (or maybe it was “suitors who were courting her” or whatever back then) and she would let them talk and listen quietly and all. However, she would use this as a tactic to root out loudmouthed assholes. Grandpa was quiet, too, she said. He would always ask her what she thought and listen to her like she listened to him. He always tried to deliver on the promises he made. Guess she forgot to make him promise not to get himself killed doing some righteous BS. It seems like that's what guys are expected to do, ideally not dying in the process, but still. Seems like the American way is male halfwits and female loudmouths. I just do—

“Gregory. Gregory.” 

I snapped back to attention just then. The psychiatrist was looking at me with a distressed look. He might have even been sweating. They must have had to damn near wrench my mother out of that room. Everybody always wants to be around the problem once it's recognised, even if they can do nothing but get in the way and be hysterical. 

“Yes,” I said dully.

“I’m Doctor Nilson, nice to meet you.”

“Hello.” I was kind of annoyed, I wanted to get my head back in the clouds again.

“I understand that you have been harming yourself recently.”

“Yes.” The scars ached a little bit while I thought about them. 

“What method of self harm do you use most?” To that I just rolled up my long sleeves. The scars from my razor criss-crossed both forearms. Mostly the left arm though. I wanted to make them equal for some reason, who knows why. If I was a rational and composed individual at the time, I wouldn’t have filleted my wrists like that. 

“I see,” he said, while making a brief note on his clipboard. It seemed like he was more composed now, almost like my words had relaxed him. It figures, I guess. He's probably more comfortable around soulless people like me than raving lunatics such as my mother. He’s probably this place’s depression specialist or something. “Now, Greg—”

“Gabriel. I prefer Gabriel.” I hate Greg. I’m not some brutish greaser or some shit. Gregory is just as bad, it makes me sound like some ugly posh bastard who’s going to challenge you to a duel or something. 

“So, Gabriel,” he continued, unfazed. “Are there specific things that drive you to self-harm, or is it more ambiguous and random?”

“I just feel like shit, or feel like nothing, and I want to feel anything else.” I felt disgusted with myself saying it. I sounded like such a childish piece of garbage. What did a suburban white kid have to whine about in America? Nothing. The room was tense. At least it wasn’t a psychiatrist's office like the ones in the movies with the patient laid out on that big leather couch thing being looked down on by this spidery doctor guy. 

To be honest it was really underwhelming. The chairs we were sitting in were like the “good” chairs in the library that were only preferred due to their comparative superiority to the hard plastic desk chairs that crushed your tailbone no matter what position you sat in. They had cushions with a scratchy texture that were good enough as long as you wore long sleeves, which I always did. The structure of the chair even passed as wooden enough, which I suppose isn’t much of an accomplishment these days.

“Well,” his voice receded, “What about your family? Your mother is obviously trying to help you. What about the rest of your family?” At that I let out a shallow laugh.

“Key word: trying.” 

“Can you elaborate?” I was annoyed because I had already gone over all that before, so I just summarized it. He was a bit of a pain, but he did shut up while I rambled away. Jesus Christ, you’d think I was Castro himself once I got an audience. I damn near preached to him and felt the bile rising in my throat. You’re yammering just like your mother. 

I felt like I had really vomited once the appointment was over. The floor even looked like I had. It was grimy blue and green tiles with yellowish off-white patterns sprinkled in. I spent most of my time looking at the grey ceiling tiles and the AC. There was a window, but the view just looked out on a rancid-looking pond and with some dope fiend sleeping on the bench next to it. Those are the other guys you never heard the good old “vets” talk about in their war stories. Our country probably lost just as many people to the concrete jungle as they did to the real jungle back in ‘Nam. 

“Are we done now?” He laughed a little at that.

“Yes, you are free. We’ll meet for a little chat just like this every Tuesday. I’ll see you next week, Gabriel.”

“Hm,” I replied. It was more polite than just staying silent. Everybody gets freaked out when you stay silent. You could put people in a room with a terrorist in a bomb vest and an assault rifle and as long as that terrorist spoke English well enough, they could stay composed enough. But if you put that same group of people in a room with some silent guy who didn’t talk or respond to them, they would lose their shit. The quiet guy could just be a deaf mute or have some sort of mental disability or something and they would be more afraid of him than the goddamn terrorist. Probably, at least. 

That was all I could think about on the drive home.

I

A young moon 

peeks through the curtain sky, 

not ready to show more 

than a sliver of its face. 

Nervous moon. 

II

Night slips away,

making room for the boisterous sun, 

but the moon remains, 

stripped naked 

for all the world to see. 

It lingers, 

unaccustomed to the bright world, 

like a child

opening their eyes for the first time. 

III

Wolves scream, 

heads pulled back to the moon. 

It reflects in the darks of their eyes, 

a single pool of light

in an unforgiving sky. 

The wolves revere their midnight monarch,

then run off to hunt, 

like knights 

possessed by moonlight. 

IV

The moon hums 

its silent songnt

to an audience who stopped listening, 

accompanied by a band of stars 

who stopped playing 

inside a theater of night

which places a single spotlight 

on only one side of its face. 

At sixteen, I liked to drive,

blasting music out the open windows

and feeling the bass thump in my chest.

On warm summer days, I would stick

my arm out, and feel the wind blow my hair

twirling in all directions.

The freedom I had

was amplifying, and

the daring edge to revolt expanded.

I loved the stench of tires burning on the pavement

as I peeled out of my driveway,

chasing after my aspirations.

I liked the way it looked too.

The streaks stood as a sign of identity,

as if I was marking my territory.

Every time I got into the car,

and turned my keys to hear the engine click,

a part of me wanted to run away,

speeding through the depths of the daring mountains,

all the way to the rocky cliffs off the open sea.

I wanted to sit by the waves crashing on the shore like an arm,

trying to grasp onto the only thing it had left.

I would gaze out into the miles of blue possibilities,

where I could run away from all my pain,

where I could run away from everything

and never look back.

Strong, quiet woman 

watching her grandchildren 

play with the dog.

Sitting in her wooden rocking chair 

in the dusty corner of her home.

She looks up and swipes 

a lock of silver hair 

away from her thick glasses.

Her worn eyes,

filled with stories,

gaze over them,

casting a blanket of protection.

She leans her elbow 

against the armrest,

holding up the weight 

of decades of waiting 

for a moment like this.

Knowing she is at peace.

Her happy family smiles, 

and laughs,

throwing their heads to the heavens.

She lets out a long-awaited sigh.

With Noah by her side, Josie pushed the back of the stapler, sending one of the little pieces of metal through the paper and into the wood of the telephone pole. In big blocky letters it read: “MISSING PERSONS, Alexa Miller, 19-year-old female, light brown hair, 5’6, last seen in white t-shirt, green zip up hoodie, jeans and yellow Converse sneakers. Call (123) 456-7890 with info.” Those yellow sneakers were the ones they both got so they could match, and it hurt to have to hang up the posters with those same shoes tied tightly on her feet.

Josie and Noah were both close with Alexa, but Josie was her best friend. Every Friday night, Alexa and Josie would go out somewhere for a good time. They were college students, and they didn’t have much money, so they usually brought Noah along. He was the only one who had a job to make him enough money to do anything with. He had just recently started buying old shoes from thrift shops and reselling them. The two girls had always wondered how he found such good brand shoes and made so much money, but it didn't matter to them, because they still got their Friday night fun either way. 

It was last Friday when Alexa didn’t show up for their night out that Josie started to worry. Alexa hadn’t been to any of her classes after lunch that day either. Josie hadn’t questioned that because when Noah and Alexa were getting lunch Alexa told him that she was ditching for the rest of the day, which wasn’t out of character for her. 

Josie and Noah continued along the streets, hanging posters on every other telephone pole. They had gone about half way across town when Josie realized that her handful of posters was running dry. She and Noah hung up the few posters left and decided to call it a night. As they were getting ready to part ways and head back to their houses, Noah noticed Josie seemed really emotional. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Okay!? My best friend is missing, and now I have to walk past her house on my way home. I can’t—I just can’t do it.” 

Noah grabbed her shoulder. 

“We’re gonna find her. Walk back to my place with me and I’ll drive you home later tonight.” Josie’s tears slowed as she nodded her head.

They arrived back at Noah's house.

“Take off your shoes and coat and go sit down. Make yourself at home while I get us some food.” Josie followed behind him and looked around the room through her blurry, tear-filled eyes. She hung up her coat on the rack and placed her shoes next to the pile of the other ones that she assumed he was going to resell. She walked into the living room and lay down on the couch. She just sat there and cried for a while. There wasn’t much else she could do, anyway. 

After a little while, Noah walked in with two plates of pasta and set them down on the coffee table. 

“Eat up and rest a bit, then we'll get you home to sleep,” said Noah.

Josie thanked him and began to eat. She was so upset that she didn’t have much of an appetite but she still tried to eat up something. She began to calm down a little and wiped the tears from her eyes. She was still terribly upset, but at least she was able to compose herself a little bit. After she finished what she could of the pasta, she sat on the couch for a little while. She was so tired. 

“I really think I should head home and just go to bed. Thank you so much.” She stumbled over to the door and Noah followed close behind, ready to drive her home. She kneeled down to grab her yellow sneakers when she realized that, even though she was holding a yellow Converse sneaker, both of hers were left right where she put them when she walked in. It processed in her brain that she had probably picked up a shoe from his pile to resell, and right before she put it back she noticed a few red splashes of color on it. 

Josie's heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. The shoe tumbled to the ground and seemed to make the biggest crash Josie had ever heard. She was trying to figure out if she really just saw what she thought she did. Her eyes began darting around the room until they locked upon the green zip-up hoodie placed beside her own jacket. Finally she looked up at Noah. Her mouth opened as she tried to speak but her throat locked up and not a single word came out. It felt as though she watched in slow motion as Noah lifted a frying pan up over his shoulder and swung it straight into Josie's head.

Later that night Noah worked on cleaning and revamping some of his shoes to resell. First thing in the morning the next day he walked around town stapling his posters right over some other ones. “Noah’s Shoe Heaven: Restock: new shoes added to the shelf including two matching pairs of yellow Converse sneakers! Get them while you can!”

A slumped man sits

in a room of no color.

Dust layers the floor

and the stains.

Sheets drape forgotten furniture,

the furniture 

filled with so many memories.

He holds a ring in his rough hands

tired of the constant field work.

The ring is dainty,

modest, 

and rusted with loving age.

The man’s tired face grows sour 

as tears roll down his lean, sunken cheeks.

No words were heard,

only the cries

of a broken soul.

“There is no color anymore.”

He looks to the floor,

to the blood that was forced out of her lungs,

constant coughing lingering,

until silence.

She was gone so soon,

left without a trace.

Only her ring remains

in the hands of her beloved,

still trapped in that day

with a constant reminder:

there was nothing he could do.

A pair of eyes stares through the screen,

blurry, yet focused directly on me.

He looks at me from the side

like I have just caught his attention.

But I cannot be sure I want it.

Clouds paint the background with a sunset scene

as the light highlights the apples of his cheeks.

He is chiseled and raw

as if carved by a great sculptor,

molded from a slab of marble.

Encircling his eyes are arcane shadows

put in place by a darkness inside of him. 

His lips are as red as the heart beating inside him—

His hair is carelessly unkempt.

He is dressed for an occasion

for which it seems I was uninvited.

Who knew one could look so 

menacing in a simple suit and tie?

His face is relaying information

that I may not want to hear.

His lips part, as if about to say something,

But I do not hear a word. 

The light was shining through the glass,

and there you see the bird take flight

from where he perched upon the branch,

and stare in awe at beating wings.

The capacity of the supernatural is the cunning mystery 

to the perfectionists of the splitting universe.

There is a malicious multitude of sympathetic favoritism

surrounding the element of uncertainty, 

as the Illuminati of the universe signify its enlightenment. 

The cerulean colors glisten through inspiration falls, 

waving their masculinity through the channel engagement.

Teleportation intimidates the magnificent evil

that lies below the unfathomable universe,  

as diligent minds flutter through the action. 

The favoritism of the universe is defined by 

the diversity of the persevering, confident, and vigorous 

individuals drifting through the motions, as if a 

caterpillar is continuously transforming into a butterfly,

and a dolphin is swiftly gliding through the ocean.

I’ve seen you many times before, 

Yet this one seems different.

You walk around with dignity, 

Showing off your strength. 

You have grown big enough to move mountains 

And don’t let anyone get in your way.

And at this moment, you show off,

Showing everyone your skills.

We all know the real story

But won’t turn your mountains into hills.

You are different from the last time, 

Braver, stronger, and fierce.

Yet I know the brave will disappear,

As soon as anyone comes near.

You don’t want them to see you scared, 

So instead you run and hide.

It’s okay, 

We all know you tried. 

It was a place for telling secrets. On the shore of the lake, tucked into the trees enough that during the daytime, you would look up at it and wonder what that old jumble of boards was for. But after the sun went down, we sought it out. The windows were paneless, open to the summer wind and the night that closed in and made the one-room shack the only reality.  Nothing outside it mattered, and all you could see inside it was what could be illuminated by the throw of a flashlight’s beam. The windows leaked darkness into the corners of the wooden bench which lined three of the walls. The floor was littered with things left by those before us: bottles and twigs and trash. Things that didn’t matter to anyone anymore in a place that didn’t matter to anyone anymore. We just kicked them aside and sat down. It was the kind of place where you didn’t lean on anything for too long, for fear of leaning into a spiderweb, or leaning too hard and breaking the whole shack down. But despite all of that, it was a place for secret-telling. Something about the open windows and scraggly boards made it feel soundproof. Secrets were etched into its very structure, like that was all that kept it upright. Every board in the place was scrawled or scratched with words, floor to ceiling. Names, dates, greetings and warnings and just straight nonsense. Initials, carved into the wall as a promise. Whether that promise was broken or kept is anyone’s guess, but it's a romantic enough idea. Some of the words we couldn’t even make out anymore. They’d faded with age or been written over by somebody who came after. We spent the nights there reading the secrets off the walls and telling some of our own, bartering with the little shack. We traded in secrets told and secrets kept. 

An angel from Brooklyn, the King of New York.

He sits atop the cloud, dastardly as ever,

facilitating the world through the heavens.

Contributing without spare, through spits and disses.

Passing without premise, a casualty of beats and bars.

His immaculate rhymes blessed those without consciousness,

reaching the youth, which some said were impassable.

Undiscovered lyrics lie vastly underground.

Creating a void in the industry so distinct.

Without the Woo, I don’t know what to do.

The angst of the loss, thundering without end.

Within the darkness, his figure sits distinguished,

draped with white linen, suited with a halo.

And although the numbing pain will never hitch away,

his music breaks all anguish, living to see another day.

Pop Smoke remains.

A soft purple haze covers the inside of the building, coating sneakers and water bottles that have been left on top of benches and tipped over on the carpeted floor. Dolly Parton’s voice sings over the speakers, as heads bob and lips mutter the lyrics of “9 to 5.” A few green and red lights flash on the ceiling, illuminating a hardwood floor covered with scuffs and scratches from silly accidents and major collisions. A few people sit on the benches, surrounded by the shoes, but the majority of the crowd is out on that hardwood floor, cruising around the small oval over and over again, their smiles never fading, even after hours of that repetition. An employee skates backward around the center of the oval, jumping onto their toes to stop and protect a fallen customer from the quickly moving crowd, the rubber of their toe stops squeaking shrilly as they grind to a stop. Every so often a whiff of popcorn butter penetrates the air and brings a child stumbling off the hardwood and onto the soft carpeted floor, where they run as best they can and trip over other eager children to get to the concessions stand. They excitedly point at overflowing red pinstriped bags of popcorn and vibrantly designed boxes of sweet candy, a few sneaky fingers reaching into the basket of roller skate stickers on the counter, trying to save twenty-five cents. An elderly man leans against a carpeted countertop, his tired eyes watching his grandchild organize the rental skates in storage, his own tough hands checking the bearings of a pair of skates and spraying the inside of the boot with a deodorant. A smile appears at the edges of his thin lips, the joy of seeing the next generation enjoy the hardwood floors, bringing him back to his days on the same floor, making the same journey around the oval in the last minutes before closing time.

Morning’s soft glow reveals itself from the light clouds,

blanketing the world in a cloak of delicacy.

Her rays shine on my pale face,

opening my eyes even wider.

My problems dissipate as we carry on.

With a million different lives below me,

life's trivialities don't seem so big anymore.

The force of nature has the power to guide us to clarity.

The blissful hum of the engine

promises more than just a final destination,

rather a journey in all forms.

Memories, dreams, and reality all seem to harmonize.

There is so much more to life than we know.

So many people are stuck in their worlds,

they don't get to see how big ours is. 

Life comes down to perspective. 

Yes, my head is in the clouds,

but the universe is so much clearer up here.

The weight of my struggles shrink

while the burning tension in my chest grows.

I drift through this serene blue world 

that is quieter than my own.

I watch my own thoughts float up and away

like the bashful bubbles that escape my mouth.

They float back to the real world,

back to the exposing light of day,

just out of reach of my aching mind.

They will not be missed.

I wish I could stay in this moment forever,

listen to the ocean’s ambient hum,

feel the cool and complete embrace of the water,

and escape the pressure of being my mother’s daughter.

My lungs scream for me to return to the real world.

A world of air, life, and expectations.

But my mind tells me that world can wait,

and I should remain in this blissful escape.

Time was fast and moving along

School bells dingedddd at the same time every day

The sound was drilled into our heads with a nail

Time was fast and moving along

And it felt neither up nor down

The world welcomed you to roam it with open arms

As the bell dismissing to endless possibilities

You couldn’t hear the underlying fear in the world

And it felt neither up nor down

The sunny skies clouded up

As the heavy rain poured down

It turned to hail, soaking everyone

Breaking through the sturdiest of buildings 

The sunny skies clouded up

The tigers pounced at the walls of their cages

Desperately trying to break out

They were supposed to be roaming free

Yet dodged the time flying past like arrows

The tigers pounced at the walls of their cages 

Time was fast and moving along

Normal became unrecognizable 

Storms travelled across the seas

Ripping apart speckles of sand 

And taking them on foreign journeys 

Time was fast and moving along

The runners began to catch their breath

The hills became closer, yet steeper

But at least things were looking up 

At the top of the mountain you couldn’t see past the fog

The runners began to catch their breath

Floods drained as the damage remained

Items were broken and unfixable

But foundations can always be rebuilt

It all depends if it’s worth repairing the old worn-out couch

Or spending extra on a brand-new one 

Floods drained as the damage remained

Time was fast, it still feels like yesterday

And normal has no meaning

The sunny skies clouded up

Everyone took out their umbrellas

and shiny new raincoats

Time was fast, it still feels like yesterday

        About halfway between where you are and where you want to go, the streets start to mimic one another. This part of town darts away from your view, seemingly making darkness from nothing but the monochrome moonlight. It is a place where no one wants to stay, because those who did were held in its skeletal embrace and crushed into the pavement beneath your feet, their fragile beings ground into dust. 

The air feels gritty still here, and it carries with it a scent of stale blood. Streetlamps of bright, lifeless light line the edge of the sidewalk, separating your path from the inexplicable danger of the empty street. They string you along with practiced ease, until you’ve passed every turn you meant to take. Your search for a building that you might recognize is fruitless, as each one looks the same as the one you just saw. The lights in the windows slip into blackness when you look at them. If you stopped for just a moment, you’d realize that there is no sound here. None at all. Even the power lines above your head are silent, purposeless props in a troubling production. Your heart ups its tempo, but you can’t even pick that out over the suffocating silence. Everything is wrong here. It seems the streets have forgotten what it means to be right. Where were you trying to go? It's too hard to remember. Your feet move soundlessly over the pavement as you choose to keep walking. Or maybe the choice was made for you. 

Far in the distance, a single neon sign hangs in the air, like a figment of your paranoia. From here, it’s a pinprick of glowing green light. Though you squint, you can’t possibly make out the words it displays. It’s the only light that stays on as you look at it, wordlessly issuing a challenge. From across the street, a high whistle cuts the stagnant air and forces you to listen. The sound is nearly deafening in the complete silence, and as you turn toward its source, a silhouette has already started running. The race is on. 

It goes unsaid that you both have one goal. As you sprint toward the neon light, the air cuts your  lungs. The streetlamps douse themselves as you pass them, leaving nothing behind you but consuming darkness. It chases your footsteps, hungering after the ghost of your presence. The silhouette across the street matches your pace without much effort, but does not overtake you. All the time, the green light grows closer. Something deep inside your mind knows it’s your only chance, your only opportunity to escape the fate of those crushed into the pavement that you run on. The thought pushes you forward. 

When it seems as though the silhouette has won, and you are carried on by nothing more than your momentum, your feet catch on each other. The pavement and your bare skin share an abrasive greeting, and you can almost hear the whispered pleas of the souls trapped beneath it. You look up slowly, and the neon green sign hangs above your head, as though it was hovering above you the entire time. Your racing partner is nowhere to be seen, disappeared down one of the mimicking streets. The sign displays only one word: WELCOME.

         There’s a special feeling strikes younglings from the suburbs when they gaze upon the sequoia dusk where the light never fades.  We come from houses of blessings; at home, we are at war with ourselves but here, you think you’ve come to the heaven where the blue angel lies down with the flame inside you.  Everything’s different; no arguments stir the peaceful air.  The sun spills its rays for you.  And the breathtaking, sensual finesse of the birds chirping their song; singing: “Home!  I’m home!”  And then the night comes, you don’t have to fear it, it covers the bright land of Heaven on earth as if it’s a blanket, but in this dark, the land still remains glowing, slips of moonlight from the Belgium cream moon make their appearance as my eyes adjust to the dark, my eyes meet those of an owl as I walk through the dim-lit trail. 

The staff of Inkwell is incredibly grateful to the MSAD #51 community. We would especially like to thank the following:

The Students of Greely High School, without them sharing their talents with us, we would not exist. 

MSAD #51 Board of Directors, for their support of our magazine, and the talents displayed with it. 

Superintendent Jeff Porter, Mr. Chris Hoffman, and Mr. Don Gray, for their continued support of Inkwell and the arts. 

Mrs. Susan Inman and Mr. Bobby Livingston, for being the greatest advisors a club can ask for. 

Ms. Ceri Botto and Ms. Emily Rupe, for encouraging their students to pursue their talents in the arts, and sharing them with us. 

Mrs. Deb Pinkham, for starting Inkwell all those years ago, and for supporting us ever since.