White Carnations

By Liv Bailey

Her dainty married fingers curl

tightly around a fragile stem

The offering ignores me

peace will not show me its dainty face.

There are hands, too, holding the flower’s counterpart

but it is so heavy we cannot see the wielder's face.

But what is war if it is not faceless,

what is a soldier but green and small?

One blurred, grey face turns away from her

another looks, eyes hidden under the brim of a helmet.

We all have our own ways of holding still

when we don’t have the space to move.

She wears a watch, black and stark against her wrist

his gun points at the hand it rests below.

Time is a concept he would like to destroy

blow an aching hole in with the kick of his rifle.

The background blurs, jaggedly, and as she places the flower

in the barrel of his bayonet, and they are all that exist.

And so the path of death is obstructed

by such a small fragile thing.

The Caverns

By Bella Malczynski

'Crunch'

'Scritch'

'Crunch'

The drag of heavy footsteps against the rocky floor sent the centipedes, spiders, and other creepy crawlies scurrying toward the dark nooks and crannies they called home. Their shadows became phantoms and monsters as they danced in the glow of the strange bioluminescent vines that decorated the jagged walls; a promise to the reckless who entered, of the true monsters that dined on gizzards and bone, who ruled over these tunnels with sharp talons and ravenous smiles. The man continued to drag his feet as he walked, paying no mind to the dancing of shadows and skitter of limbs, listening to the echo of his steps echoing off the walls and spreading into the labyrinth of tunnels he had ventured into. He stared absentmindedly at the random sprawlings of priceless gems and crystals, pure enough to allow a family of five to live like the nobility in his daughters' stories. He paid special attention to a small crystal at the corner of his eye, no bigger than his pinkie, and small enough to pry off without any real effort...

He turned his eyes away and trudged on, lifting one worn boot after another towards the heart of the labyrinth. They would know if he decided to abuse their hospitality. And they wouldn't sit quietly either.

...

A series of clicks and cracks filled the air long after the man has left, like the sound of bones popping after remaining in a position for too long. A foolish bug, likely one that hadn't been alive for too long makes the mistake of skittering to close to the sound... an eldritch of bones and eyes slides out from between the nooks and crannies, leaving behind the poor flesh-less corpse of the bug. The man had made a wise choice, but it was only a matter of time until he slipped. After all, he was not the first to venture into these caverns in search of answers and truth. But he would fall eventually.

And the monsters they all met would be there to catch him.

Cerebral Aneurysm

By Liv Bailey

1

February air bites through cloth like a wild dog, tearing and whipping

through the once-warm compartment like it hasn’t eaten in days and our warmth

is it’s only form of nutrition. “Why’d you open the window?”

and her mouth tastes like ice and fear when she says it, and ice is a flavor

she knows well, familiar from the wild hawklike joy of rushing down slopes

familiar from flying. But fear is a flavor that her palate is yet unfamiliar with,

a tang that her tongue traces over the roof of her mouth, but can’t identify.

“I’ve just got a headache, honey. I’ll close it in a minute.”

2

Grey-green stains her eyelids the way

stale cigarette smoke stains her lungs,

and the carpet is rough under her hands

but she isn’t sure she knows that.

The door doesn’t exist, because it

isn’t allowed to exist. Because she doesn’t

want to believe what is beyond. Her fingers

clench around nothing and the flavor of fear

begins to make itself known, as it rolls

over her tongue and loses itself in her throat,

making her stomach turn and her lungs seize.

Nothing else exists in this small couple of rooms

other than her, her tongue, her mother.

3

Newscast

bland voices

suffocating silence

Hard surface of

unforgiving grey

chairs, grey walls

grey mind.

Her mouth tastes

bitter

and she is oh,

so afraid.

High School Satellites.

By Callie Meeham

Sweethearts:

a word far too sickly

sugary and intense

to describe whatever the hell

this actually is.

Like a menial little NASA project,

long abandoned and forgotten,

you’ll orbit my life:

coming into view for only a second

every now and again

before skyrocketing back into the mess of galaxy

outside my knowledge and life.

You’re not as quiet about it as you think you are.

I know you think you’re doing something right, satellite.

But what you never learned in all this time

is that, well…

Lacking an explanation hurts...so, so much more than you think.

It tells me either I’m not worth it,

or you’re scared of hurting me.

Who knows, though?

Maybe give it a little time,

it’ll start all over again:

you’ll float back into the atmosphere for a moment,

giving Houston just enough hope.

But no,

you’ll be back in your orbital path, too far away, before I know it.

And I’ll be so very sad.

You won’t care,

Repeat.

Strange, likeminded, out-of-touch high school satellites;

Was there ever a more tragic tale?

The Book

By Callie Meeham

What they never told you was that your life is (or was) an empty diary in time’s attic.

Caked with dust, no one has dared to pick it up

or write in it

since the beginning of time.

Until now.

The blank ivory pages, curled with age,

were ink-spotted by no man, woman, or child.

Until you.

And what you were never told was that your actions write this novel;

Your predecessors the prologue,

chapter three begins with kindergarten

and ends with the first utopia in time known as summer vacation.

Part One is all written by the time the bright star of adolescence

shines on the horizon. Maybe even dragging along ominous storm clouds.

With words of universal teenage turmoil spilling onto page 738.

The universe, unnamed reader, will never read this masterpiece.

And that’s alright;

not every critic shares the same standards.

Make this life a brilliant work of history for yourself, and the approval of no other.

And, depending on what you (and you alone) make of it,

the story of your life will either be a story unread by humanity,

forevermore collecting dust in that cosmic cramped attic of time,

Or a bestseller for the ages.

Because you were no appointed Poet Laureate when you got here.

You’re just you.

Package

by Anonymous

Your package is being sent back

It didn’t arrive to the right person

Instead, it arrived at the person you loved

It arrived to me

And I don’t want it

So I’m delivering it your doorstep

My lip quivering as I step on the icy stairs

DING DONG

“I didn’t expect you here,” you say without remorse

Your bedroom covered in posters in things that you idol

The gun in my pocket is the cure to the pain I have faced

To the heartbreak and tears

To the hurtful words

To the promises broken

To the lies lies lies

To the things you made my fault

To my own heart choosing you...

I saw her eyes begin to tear.

I wanted nothing to do with her

We grew apart, she’s strong and I know shes healed

But then why, is she crying?

Has she just been pretending all this time?

Did I really hurt her that bad?

His face went pale as a ghost

Paler than the normal pale

He never cried

Not even when his grandma died

I raised the gun and pointed it at the place that was empty

His heart

She raised a gun at me

I never thought she was crazy

I just thought she was normal

A normie in all her glory

She fell to her knees sobbing

The gun lowered at her waist

I stood there with no idea what to do

I was alone in the house with a girl I once knew

He stood there, a boy scared out of his mind

I could feel my tears soaking my jeans

My jeans clinging to me like me clinging to the last bit of hope I have

I looked at the gun, a devil in my hand

The small thing that can start a war

A single bullet.

40 million people dead.

I can’t shoot him

I love him

I can’t shoot anyone

I love them

She raised the gun to her head and stared up at me

She said “I love you”

*click*

I flinched

I have never cried

But today I cried

I cried beside her as she lay on my floor blood spilling from her head onto my lap

I cried beside her because I loved her too...

and I didn’t get a chance to tell her.

Don’t Scream

by Anonymous

The first sound you make on your first day here is a scream.

You scream endlessly;

Not thinking to stop when they try to quiet you

The scream: full of bewilderment and discomfort.

You can do nothing but scream and laugh

For years until

Words that have surrounded you your whole life

begin to struggle out of your mouth.

Even then

You still scream when you forget

those words

or Run out

of words

Or you might be too excited to think of them.

Later you scream when the power flickers off

For a second

and you can only see the little green light from the smoke detector

You don’t scream out of fear because

you are still sitting at the small, gray desk you were sitting at

when the lights were on and you’re pretty sure that you’re still safe

But you scream because

you hear screams around you

And the darkness builds a swarm of excitement

in your chest and shoulders

Then you scream as you lift a few inches off your bicycle seat going over a hill

And you scream to your ceiling when you can’t unzip your dress and you’ve been trying for seven minutes

When you’re even older you scream

because you’re stuck at the top of the ferris wheel and you start rocking a little

And sometimes

even though you tried to stay quiet

You scream because you’ve grown tired of people and unfairness

Even though the scream might be silent

You learn how to scream less

because a scream was the first sound you made on your first day here

You want to scream when you miss being eleven and not needing a job

And you want to scream when you really feel something

but none of the words you know are the right ones

And after you grow up

No matter how much you want to

You can’t scream anymore

Because it’s too loud

And too obvious

So you swallow the scream

forcing it toward your stomach

And just keeping it there for a while

To the Melody of Her Speech

by Maddy Corson

To our vulgar ears,

she spoke as though she’d recently eaten something sour

her voice like your grandmother’s glassware

that you weren’t allowed to touch.

She drew out her O’s with a slack jaw

as if every one of these circular vowels was a surprise,

and upon each one she looked optimistically

as was her nature.

And with each D and T spoken, a small click sounded

like the quiet resonance of the metronome

amidst a loud orchestra;

maintaining the rhythm of her speech.

Her R’s, though, she forgot them,

those poor consonants

and they slipped her mind as easily

as if their rolling reverberance wasn’t as valuable.

Yet when we tried to mimic her beautiful sound

we found ourselves incapable of rendering

such music, made fools of ourselves:

we produced but a meager noise,

incomparable

to the melody of her speech.

Farmer Joan

by Anushka Canfield

It was dark inside the train cart. The lightbulb that swung from the ceiling that hung by a thread had long ago burnt out. The only light emitted from the full moon as she watched over the slumbering towns of the Eastern coast. Not even the multitude of stars could outshine her beauty. No matter how fast the train flew past the plantation fields, the moon always kept the boy company.

The boy sighed, not because he was tired after a long day’s work at Father Joan’s farmer’s market stand selling his prized blue-ribbon-award-winning Smith apples, but because he loved the clouds he made when he exhaled air into the frigid air.

“Look,” he exclaimed, a smile on his face as he exhaled. The vapor disappeared into the night as it trailed away from his cart.

“Isn’t it fascinating? I wonder how it happens. Father Joan’s never told me nothing about how things worked. He always thought I didn’t have the brains for that stuff. His son, who just graduated from somewhere in the big cities, did Father Joan think was smart. His son lives with him again. His son says he grew tired of city life.” He exhaled again and paused as he watched the clouds dissipate. He tilted his head looking directly at the moon and leaned back on his hands, his feet dangling off the cart.

“Do you think I’m smart?” He paused again, this time running his hand through his slick, matted hair. It was his day to shower. Father Joan only allowed him to do so once a week, or on special occasions such as the farmer’s market, but the boy had forgotten. He was distracted by Father Joan’s daughter humming a nursery rhyme as she skipped rope outside. He had to follow her and watch her play. He quietly hummed along, his heart beating along with each thwack that sounded when the rope hit the ground.

“I mean, I may not be smart enough to go to Secondary School like Father Joan’s other children, but I managed to memorize all of Father Joan’s daughter’s diary entries so I could understand her head. She’s smart and if I read her words, I’ll become just as smart. Isn’t that smart?”

He looked expectantly at the moon. The boy blinked a couple of times before he sighed, this time because he was in fact tired. He carefully stepped away from the ledge of the cart and made his way to his corner where a single blanket laid on the floor. Lying down, he maneuvered the blanket to cover him, only a few of his toes were exposed to the chilly air. As he settled into his new found bed, he couldn’t help but think of something.

“Hey, Moon…do you think Father Joan kicked me out because he realized I’m not smart?” He paused, then violently shivered.

“And if I get smart, do you think he’ll invite me back?” He smiled to himself and repositioned the blanket around him.

“Maybe I’ll get to hear her skip rope again.”

Carousel

by Lily Sinker

It happens every year. It doesn’t matter what season or month because it is never consistent. The only thing consistent about it is the person it affects. This year it happened early fall. It marked the day where everything started to fall apart.

She sat alone in her room wide-eyed as the homework that has gone undone for 2 weeks stares at her from the opening in her backpack. The muted noises of yelling and door slamming always managed to seep through the floorboards and no matter how many blankets she piled on the claustrophobia still manages to creep in. “A hermit”, her mother retorted at her constantly, If only she knew. How well she knew deep, harsh breathing and the welling of tears that were so familiar and so foreign at the same time. The only saving grace in her life is him. It doesn’t matter what his name is, just know it started with a Z and the only thing that matters is the light he has brought into her life has gone unmatched for years and years to come.

Every movement Z made was so unnervingly coordinated. He knew everything about her. The said and unsaid truths. He knew almost too much about her. Like some sort of psychic he was able to read her mind and tell the truths she hasn’t even come to terms with or fully understood yet. Answering questions indirectly almost as a way to not fully accept the answer himself. Their personalities were one of the same and everyone saw it. They were told constantly and interchangeably that they were too much alike. Of course, they both knew it because he was like a drug to her. Of course, the days continuously dragged on almost mind-numbingly as she dipped deeper into the Fall. Waiting for her source of happiness.

In the meantime occupying herself with meaningless tasks. Looking at herself from the outside most days. Staring at herself through the frosted over window strung with wet orange leaves going brown around the edges. Trying to solve her problems outside of her body. Yet daydreaming was the best way to cope. Making things seem less real and less harsh then they actually were. An imaginary world no one could see and no one could have a say in. Even though the world she created was still lonely she was happier in it. It was warmer, brighter and most importantly it was controlled by her. Most things were out of her control. When control was out of arms reach it felt like a child that rode the carousel one too many time and the dizzying flashes of yellow, blue, and red start to send their eyes swirling in their sockets just as the nauseating music sends melted ice cream and half-digested sugar cone into the green grass slick with dew and dissolved cotton candy.

Control wasn’t the only thing that made her nervous. Everything did. Change mostly. Things had to stay consistent and anything out of place could result in a shutdown. An automatic panic button almost. Comfort was key to combating change. The same pants, the same shoes, the same morning routine, the same meals, the same, the same, the same. Everything had to be the same. There was a constant feeling in her chest just above her stomach but just below her heart. Swirling like a hurricane and the only thing it fed off of was destruction. It never went away but dimmed every now and then. Continuing through the minutes, hours, days, and weeks.

Then it changed. It was someone new, a female this time. Her name started with a P. But it was different. She was just as bright as Z but made her almost happier than he could. Like a rush of when you walk into a room and everyone is smiling at you. She saw her every day, during breakfast most of the time. P brought a lot of change but it started slowly. Going to school became easier over time and the swirling has now calmed down. It was more like the warm waters off the sandy white coast of Greece, calm, blue, serene, more mellow, and less destruction. She liked this feeling. Her mind wasn’t always in her own head daydreaming anymore. Of course, she still daydreamed when she was bored because it was a warm, safe place. No reality could match up to it but now it wasn’t a way to get out of the cold dread of the real world anymore. She did things differently now. Like going outside, going for a walk, not telling her mother she is sick every other day in order to miss school. Anyhow cold and flu season was almost over. The winter that has kept her inside was now drying up and being replaced with the scent of sweet lilac and rotting leaves. It was changing. Something she usually didn’t like but now her breakfast companion was making the sun shine a little brighter this Spring.

Even though Z was still on her mind, she saw him from time to time but now it was different. She didn’t always have to depend on him for happiness. Of course, he still burned a bright hole in her heart just like always. He still knew her secrets but her breakfast companion now knew more. She also knew how to solve them, make them simpler and slow them down. Her panic button also changed, of course, it still beamed bright red sometimes blinking methodically but it was getting smaller and harder to push. Minutes, hours, days and weeks passed and her breathing was lighter, airier, more carefree and less distressed. Minutes weren’t counted meticulously anymore. She was as lively and animated as she was when she was a child. Before the immorality of life had taken its toll on her every waking breath. Life was easier. She thanked her breakfast companion, P, for that. Now you are probably dying to know who these people are. Maybe you’re thinking how could someone find another person so perfect for them? Well, it was easy because they weren’t people at all. They were tiny pills that paved new roads in your brain that lead to bright and sunny places instead of places as frigid and cold as the arctic. Prozac was what was holding her hand and guiding her to her happy place. Instead of being her best friend Zoloft was now a passing thought. Spring blossomed into Summer and was greeted with her warm smile that finally seemed to be permanent instead of a mask.