Creating A Community of Writers - Anthology

The CCHS Community of Writers    2019 Anthology    

Teacher Consultants:  Allison Baskind  Jeanne Rose  Cornwall High School  HVWP Leadership    Guest Participants:  Ken Cashman  Chief Editor Cornwall Local  Stephen Fowler  Editor Hudson Valley Magazine    Artistic Support:   Eva Whorley’s “Digital Photography” Class                    1

Table of Contents    Ali Baskind, “A Traveler’s Autobiography” ………………………………………………4-5 Nina Creta, A​ Walk in the Dark, C​ hapter One ……………………………………………..6-9 Isabella Crow, “Crickets” …………………………………………………………………10-11 Faith Darling, A​ Lifetime Too Late ………………………………………………………………..1​ 2-20 Aidan Hoff, “Omaha” ………………………………………………………………………21 Connor Hurst, O​ mega Rising​, “Epilogue”.............................................................................22 Gabby Knight, “The Split That Glued Itself Together” ……………………………………23 Martine Louis, ​“Liberation” ……………………………………………………………………….​24-25 James McGill, M​ y Boy ……………………………………………………………………………...2​ 6-35 Jessica McGuire, “The memories of the only girl” ………………………………………...37 Alexandra Raposo, D​ r. Lee ………………………………………………………………………...​39 Jeanne Rose, F​ irst Stop - Shore Drive​ ……………………………………………………..40 Lizzy Walklet, ​Bloomer …………………………………………………………………………….​41 Jessica Wu, 1​ 8 years​ ……………………………………………………………………….42 Kobe Zagon, T​ he Struggles of Pablo Pollock ……………………………………………...43-45 Emma Zwickel, L​ ove, Loss, and Longing ………………………………………………………..​47-50 About the Authors ………………………………………………………………………….52-54           2

Our students, engaged in writing together, is an inspiration for all of us!     3

A Traveler’s Autobiography By: Ali Baskind Her tired eyes have opened wildly at the thought of new adventures. She seeks to know things- more for how they feel, less for the pictures. She has hiked sharp, spiky black, lava mountains on the coast of the Big Island. A Hawaiian fire, which gleams vividly in her mind, as it kissed the Pacific and died. She was happiest here, and she bears that scar proudly. She is full of Big Sur and San Diego dreams, and her heart is aching for that surf, that hot sun, that hot air. She often begs to return. She closes her eyes to remember the smell of fresh, untouched trees and streams, in those jagged, snow-covered, Rocky Mountains. She lost more than her breath there. She lost her fear, and this, she knew, was happiness. She can still feel the vibration of Red Rocks humming in the soles of her feet. If she listens closely, she can still hear the twang of the bass, and the strum of the guitar, and the beating of the drums, but mostly her heart. 4

She thinks of those canals in Amsterdam, and that tuna fish. From that cafe. And those windmills, and those red and yellow tulips, which have colored her mind. She was certain: this must be happiness. She has dipped her fingers in the fountains of Barcelona, and watched flamenco dancers, in awe and in envy. They tapped their heels, as she drank red sangria and tapped into her imagination. She’s known the winters of Belo Horizonte, but she knows the rice, and beans, and star fruit, more than anything else. And Vovo, yes, she knows her laughter and her memories, too. She once laid on her back in a Vermont field, and stared up at the black sky, counting stars that shot across her universe: One, two, three​ - ​Another! And again! It was too much to bear, and she wondered if this, too, was it. And, yes, it all was. Happiness was in all of this. But she knows this is just the beginning, and she smiles and looks forward, and outward, and within, because there is much more left to see and so much more left to feel. 5

A Walk in The Dark (Chapter One) By: Nina Creta There he stood. My head jerked up to peer out of the dirty bus window. A nasty argument had started outside. Chase Thompson in the center of it all. He was a skinny guy but at the same time appeared twice his age. I didn’t really pay that much attention to him since we had, had very few interactions over the years but I knew he was in my grade and we shared a few friends. He wasn't too tall but it looked as if he could tower over me. There was something familiar about him, maybe a look in his eyes. The argument seemed fairly one-sided, and a few jerks from the football team were holding him up in the air upside down and shaking is scrawny body, making his calculator fall out of the front pocket of his blue bag. ​CLANK,​ it hit the ground, and tiny pieces flew through the air. I turned my attention to the bus driver who was silently reading L​ ittle women w​ aiting the mandatory 15 minutes for everyone to load the bus. She paid no attention to that outside. (She didn't get paid to stop an argument n​ ot ​on the bus) My attention was jerked to the window again when Chase’s faced was imprinted with the fist of Ryan Campbell, the captain of the team. His nose seemed oddly misshapen now so I pulled my sleeve up and rubbed my hand on the window to clean off the smudges of dirt. I started to worry that Chase was too hurt to defend himself against so many people. It was as if the entire football team had come together like a pack of wild dogs to attack its prey. It was a show of dominance to broadcast to the whole school they were in charge. I peered praying silently for someone to go and stop the fight, but the bus was filled with the repetitive chants “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT” ​fight fight fight​ I had enough. My body flew out of the seat and sped to double doors at the front of the bus before I could stop myself. I knew the fit jocks could easily squish me but I wasn't going to sit and not do anything. “Where do you think you’re…” I pried open the doors and was gone before my bus driver could threaten a detention slip if I took another step. “Hey leave him alone!” My tiny voice had no impact so I tried again “Just stop!” My eyes narrowed and my body readied for a fight. I planted my feet into the ground expecting to be knocked out any minute. “Back off short stack or else,” They all turned their attention toward me like they had found fresh meat. I tensed under the pressure like a pig before the slaughter. I turned my eyes to the lines in the pavement on the ground. They all laughed and gave each other ritualistic fist bumps and pats on the back. They then turned their attention back to Chase. Bloodlust glazed over their eyes. They looked as if they could kill him. Something in my head snapped and I leaped in front of Chase. A familiar feeling rushed through me as I remembered who I was. I don’t stand for bullies. My adrenaline was pumping and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. “What are you doing, Anna? Get out of the way!” Chase whispered. 6

“Shh!” I snarled back. This time I was ready, I saw them laugh and alternate their attention to me. B​ ang,​ a fist hit me right in the face blurring my vision. Not wanting to participate in a fight but knowing there was no way out I clenched my eyes closed preparing for the worst. Before I could scream I was being held up in the air. Strong hands pierced into my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I flailed my arms and tried to catch my breath so I could yell. Fearfully trying to fight back but there were too many of them. I could hear Chase yelling my name in the background and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he was being held against a wall by two bystanders who wanted to see how the fight would play out. I think I was on the floor and sharp pains continually pieced into my stomach. I heard loud voices and laughter, but then it all stopped. There was a sharp pain in my head. Was I dead? My eyes blinked open I peered at my watch. 2:30 pm. The bus had left 3 minutes ago. Shocking, they left without me. I must have been knocked out. The metallic taste of blood poisoned my mouth. I slowly pushed myself off the ground and wiped the small pieces of gravel off my shirt. “I think she's waking up, Anna?” I heard a familiar voice. Then, quickly coming to my senses I saw Chase hovering over me. His blonde floppy hair was flying frantically with the wind. His eyes gazed down at me with a worried look. My heart pounded within my chest as I focused my attention into his deep green eyes. “Cha…se..? What are you doing here?” I said hazily before starting to cough “Making sure you don't die before an ambulance has time to arrive.” He joked. That's when I noticed his bloody broken nose. It looked worse then when I first looked out the bus window “You got hit pretty hard.Why did you do that?” “So you wouldn't get hurt.” I blushed. An unfamiliar feeling was in my stomach. It was as if my intestines formed a knot. I tried to continue talking but started coughing again. “Shh don’t talk too much just lay down. They didn't show much mercy on you, you must have really pissed them off for trying to help. This school is so messed up, just because it’s after school hours your bus driver said it was the administration’s responsibility to handle any attained injuries.” I layed back, took in a deep hoarse breath, and closed my eyes. Just then another voice arose making me jump a little at its sudden arrival. It was our mutual best friend, Jared. “Anna, you made me miss the bus.” he said annoyingly “Glad to know you still care Jared” But I could tell even underneath his sarcastic smile, he was really worried. Jared had always been a brother to me and although we joked and teased, deep down we would do anything for each other. I had known Jared since the end of sixth grade when my family and I moved into his 7

neighborhood. From a young age I was used to just packing up everything and moving in a hurry, I had been to 12 different schools and 8 different states by the age of 12, and this was the longest stay in one place. Due to my dad’s job we always have 3 suitcases packed in the den if we need to get out of town fast. I never really bothered making friends but my mom had pushed me away to say hello to the new neighbors so we didn't look conspicuous. Leaving my comfort zone, I walked through the bushes and patch of grass between my house and his. That's when I found him, little Jared curiously watching us move in as he swung on his blue squeaky swing. He decided to introduce himself and before long we were back at his house playing tag and climbing on the roof. He was my first friend. Jared pressed his two fingers to my wrist to check my pulse. “Jared what are you doing, I’m obviously not dead” Chase was pretending not to pay close attention to me as he glanced down at his phone. S​ wipe, click click​ s​ wipe​ I reached up to his face leaning back a bit now I brushed my thumb over the gash on his cheek. He flinched and tensed his jaw turning away still holding onto his phone tightly. “I wish you wouldn't have done that...” he said admittingly still refusing to make eye contact with me. “Done what? I was just wiping the dried blood off you..” I said still a little hazed and forgetting why I was lying in the school parking lot “No.” He said as he rolled his eyes. “Jumped in front of me. You could have been more severely hurt, and you know everyone loves the football team, the worst thing that will happen is they'll get a slap on the wrist and be back to school Monday.” Regaining reality, I reassured him I was fine. “Trust me Chase, I've taken worse beatings, I’ll be okay.” Jared started making gagging noises in the background, wrapping his arms around his back he turned away from us and mockingly pretended to make out with someone. “Jared, it's not like that” I said awkwardly as if what he said vexed me. On some subconscious level I wasn’t that grossed out. I attempted to get off the ground and stood up, quickly regretting that decision as my knees buckled down and I fell on top of Chase who in turn tried grabbing onto Jared bringing all three of us down. We couldn't help but laugh as we laid there comically. A distant siren was heard in the background. “You didn't really call an ambulance did you?” I asked hesitantly not wanting to make a big deal of what had happened. “No, Ms. Fisher did.” Ms. Fisher was the schools assistant principal who treated the kids as if they were her own. Having no children or husband of her own Midburry central high school had become her family. Despite the schools lack of structure, Ms. Fisher tried to help preserve whatever she could. I looked to my right, she had been there the whole time silently hovering in the corner. Her fingers 8

tightly clutching onto her red polka dot dress that was much too 80s and much too bright. She was very eccentric and a little off kilter…Her short brown hair, curled in neat ringlets made her look much younger then she was. I watched as the wrinkles under her eyes and forehead crinkled when she looked at me. Her dark brown eyes looking me up and down. It was as if my situation perplexed her. Pushing myself off the ground and brushing myself off I reassured her I was fine and just winded. She was so much shorter than me but never seemed intimidated. “There will be none of that” she started “ I saw the whole thing. You will go with the ambulance if not for your health for mine…I don't want to be held responsible for sending a child with injuries home without getting checked.” But she knew well she was the only teacher or staff that actually cared. Just to put her mind at ease I reluctantly went with some of the EMTs to the hospital. Mom picked me up from the hospital. She kept the windows closed and smoked the entire way home. Puffs of toxins got trapped and I watched as they tried to escape and seep through the glass. Chase had offered to drive me home but as much as I wanted to say yes there were too many secrets about my family and home that I wasn't ready to expose. Not even to Jared. I looked around the bland gray pickup truck, the “family car” as my mom said because since dad lost his job a few months ago we couldn't afford another. I bit my lip waiting for a scolding for getting involved in something that wasn't my business. Mom was an avid believer in staying out of other people’s problems even if that person needed help. Her modo was “If you aren't a part of it, avoid it.” As I expected She started lecturing me about my new bad reputation in the public eye. She went on not once making eye contact looking straight ahead as if she was talking more to herself then me. I continued chewing on my bottom lip, biting farther into it to see how hard it would take for it to start bleeding. I stared out the window and half listened to what my mother was saying knowing she wasn't really paying attention as to whether or not I was listening. Not once during the entire way home did she ask if I was okay or acknowledge my injuries. My mother was like that, only out to satisfy her personal vendetta. I was her only child and treated more as an unfinished project then her own kin. She acted as if raising me was the same as putting together a shelf from IKEA, caring more about the end results of her labor and how my image would effect hers. Never really following the instruction manual or putting any affection into the process. As we pulled into the driveway she stopped talking and just looked at me. I knew what she was going to say before the words even came out of her mouth. “Wait until your father hears about you drawing attention to yourself for no reason. He will make sure you don't do anything like that again. I can’t believe you Anna you are in your last year of high school and as soon as you graduate we are getting out of here. We've spent too much time here, any longer and it could get dangerous.” I wasn't listening, I've heard this spiel before. B​ e good anna we only have so long left here and if you can’t live under our rules your father will make sure you don’t live under our roof. ​I wish I had gotten Chase’s number. I wonder if I can find it in the phone book. Do people even use the phone book? No, that would definitely be creepy. 9

crickets​ by isabella crow summer and heaviness hangs in the air. i open the bathroom window begging for a breeze you give yourself bangs this is the evening we scream ourselves hoarse a car radio howls down the street (something from 2011). your laugh somehow pierces the thick fabric of tangerine streetlight a bead of sweat crystalline on the tip of your nose. summer goes and summer comes again hot and full of lust for youth and maybe something else entirely. july brings high school parking lots and restlessness. a feeling that we have been alive before, running out of options. bare feet and broiling asphalt. i sing “super trouper” out of your car’s moonroof at midnight in a neighborhood that isn’t ours. at the longest red light: lean over and kiss me. i dare you. borrowed swimsuits and an ill-fitting party dress. i love you, i think. black roof-shingles melt rubber flip-flops and we imagine a city that has more stars. the air is loud and swollen with crickets. or cicadas. is it a cicada year let’s go swimming in the huron. i know a spot 10

in the arb. it’s always empty this town forgets it has a river. take me driving; get us lost. go somewhere new freedom is a temporary thing found in coffee shops in other people’s cities.         11

A Lifetime Too Late By: Faith Darling “You know Bethany, people might start to live their lives a little bit more once they realize that the last seconds of it are most likely not going to be spent in the presence of their loved ones,” I remarked to my nurse. “Mrs. Bunting, do I need to get you your meds again? You’ve been saying quite a lot of-um-interesting things lately. I mean, I don’t think that it’d be that necessary since you’re already this close to dy-” Bethany quickly covered her mouth, realizing her mistake. Kids these days just don’t know when to shut their yaps. Of course I knew that I was going to die, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t even surprised that it was going to take place in a hospital bed. When you’ve lasted a good few decades with severe heart problems that went undiagnosed until you turned 30, nothing surprises you anymore. What did come to a shock to me was that my only witness is a recently graduated medical student, who was just about ready to cart me off herself. Bethany was great and all, but I could tell that she was just waiting to pull the plug and haul in the next elderly person whose body was on the brink of giving out. “Just get me a water and then get out. I’m fine. I just need some time to think, preferably without company.” That wasn’t entirely true. I had always loved talking to people, just not in the company of someone whose paycheck relied on my state of living. “No problem Mrs. Bunting. Hope you feel better!” She couldn’t have sounded more fake if she was reading off of a teleprompter. She closed the door and I was left. Alone. With my thoughts. I did not like it. Not one bit. Especially in terms of what happened to my life recently. When you have been alone for practically half a century with no one to check up on how you’re feeling besides the mailman who brings you your electric bill once a month, it can become quite lonesome. But then, out of nowhere, I had unexpected visitors at my house. I had lived in the small city of Hot Coffee, Mississippi (look it up, it exists) my entire life. Went to an in-state college, majored in English, then took a crack at teaching elementary schoolers right after I graduated. I’d like to think that I was a good teacher, but let’s face it, second grade really isn’t all too memorable. So when a former student of 12

mine, Aberta Clements, came knocking on my doorstep one day, I had quite the shock. She turned out to be one of the most major screw ups I have ever seen any of my students grow up to be. I could tell that she did not have the “straight-forward plan, whole life spelled out for me right in front of my eyes” mantra that I did when I came out of college. I mean, at least I did, until he...no no no we’re not getting into that right now, back to Aberta. It was a muggy morning in July. I was busy going through some old yearbooks, remembering old students, unfortunately recognizing some names from the paper (and they weren’t on the cover for any g​ ood​ reason). But then there was a knock at the door. And let me tell you, when you are 65 years old and haven’t had company since the Jehovah’s paid their weekly visit, any sort of sound coming from your door scares the devil right out of you. So, I grabbed my rifle (not loaded of course, never was, always for show), and peered out the window, and who do I see? One of the faces that I had just recently glazed over in a photo not moments ago. So I invite her in and she tells me her tale of woes. I originally had thought that finally someone had remembered that I exist and wanted to pay their good old elderly elementary school teacher a visit. I was mistaken. Aberta simply wanted to visit because she had recently dumped this guy, Douglass, and wanted to move on with her life by, going back into the earliest parts of it? It all confused me very much, however, I was happy to lend an ear, and maybe even some baked goods. She said that she just needed someone to talk to, and I had been one of the first people she turned to (I took note of the phrase “one of”). Overall, though, it didn’t even sound like the gentleman had done anything wrong, she claimed he didn’t “do enough”, what is that supposed to mean? If a man truly is infatuated with you, and you to him, then anything the other does should be enough, and if it’s not, talk about it, and then if that doesn’t work, THEN you start to consider other options. Not right after one complaint. But I tried not to give my opinion too much, she seemed very stressed. But, shockingly, Aberta wasn’t the only surprise I had that afternoon. She thanked me for the food, and the emotional support, and then, as she was opening the door, standing in the doorway right about to knock was yet ANOTHER one of my students! And not just any of my students, the girl who used to be Aberta’s best friend, Uinta! Who had, get this, also come to me during the same afternoon with boy woes. There was a lot of screaming from the two girls, for, this was not planned. They hadn’t actually 13

talked to each other since high school, so they, both being recent college graduates, were VERY excited. I put some more buns in the oven and welcomed them both back in. Uinta had a different story to tell. Apparently, the man she had been seeing, Richardson, was not all too keen on commitment, and Uinta wasn’t even sure as to what he thought of her. She had been all over him, but he didn’t seem to reciprocate the same feelings, yet at the same time, didn’t seem like he wanted her to leave. Much more complicated. Even though it had only been two stories, my head had already hurt from listening. I simply told them men can cause many pains and should be avoided at all costs. There’s no man that has even half a brain, and the ones that do are able to tear a heart apart without even realizing it. And yes, I knew that at an age such as theirs, they should be searching and latching on to any and all guys that they find before it’s too late, HOWEVER, at least make sure that they are somewhat decent before doing so. In summary, I just told them to choose wisely, and not to rush into things. Did this make me a hypocrite, yes, but should they learn from my mistakes, also yes. I watched their love lives unfold and refold and get all tangled in knots that summer. Apparently each of the girls had fallen in love with the other’s boyfriend, both of them were jealous, they stopped talking to each other, all bad. They both came to me, and I tried to explain to them why their friendship was more sacred than anything. Yes, they may have had a falling out after high school ended, but they were still friends. And friends help you through the good and the bad, and don’t just leave at the slightest sign of conflict. Boys come and go, but friendships, TRUE friendships, can last a lifetime. Currently, they still haven’t spoken to each other, and does this mean that I may die knowing that I had no impact on them and I may have actually made both of their lives worse, yes. But, like I said before, I’m not surprised at anything anymore. I already knew that I made terrible life decisions. Such as back when, many many years ago, when I was not even their age, I fell in love way too quickly. It was August of 1964, the summer right before my college classes started, and I was in the library trying to get my hands on all of the parenting books that I could find. Was I going to be a parent, no, but was I going to be spending large amounts of time surrounded by small children who need a good role model, yes. I remember that I had picked up at least eight of them before a young man stopped me in the aisle to chat. 14

“Looking for something ma’am?” I glanced through the shelves and, instead of more books, I saw a dapper young face staring back at me. “I was looking for something difficult to read, and”, I size him up from head to toe, “having stumbled upon your face, I have come to realize that I have definitely not found it yet.” I turn to leave and check out my stockpile, but he takes it from my arms before I have the chance to. “I’m Ira. Ira Bunting. And I believe that a lady such as yourself shouldn’t have to carry something as heavy as this”, the stranger said with more pride than the jungle hierarchy of Africa. “Oh please, you may have the body of a sailor and the looks of a marine, but you are not fooling anyone. Even with all of that confidence, the one thing I highly doubt that you’d be able to carry is a decent intellectual conversation”, I quipped, snagging my books back. He seemed too full of himself, besides, I didn’t need anyone to lean on, not now, not ever. I could take care of myself. “We could test that theory if you’d like. Would you have the pleasure of accompanying me to dinner this Friday night, my treat. Not a date, just an experiment. That is-” he suddenly took a better look at the books I was holding, “if you’re not taken already.” I suddenly realized what he meant. “Oh no no no, I don’t actually have children of my own, I’m just, becoming, um, a teacher, in the fall, or, at least, taking classes to be and, and, um…” Why was I stuttering? Did I like him? Ira was just some random man who had stumbled upon me in a library with, with, dark brown hair, and, roasted chestnut eyes, and a stupid smile, and, quite the charming name and...you know what? “No, I’m not taken, or busy that is. Friday sounds great. Here’s my address, you can pick me up at eight.” WHAT WAS I DOING I JUST MET HIM. Okay, calm down, we’re just um, seeing what this guy is about. “Sounds perfect. Except, I don’t recall catching a name out of that pretty mouth of yours.” No man had the right to look this smug, ever. “You think it’s pret-oh Evelynn, it’s Evelynn.”After Friday, I will never have to see him again. Just an experiment. However, I did end up seeing him again. And again. And again. Four years of schooling, and before I knew it I was done with college and ready to settle down with Ira Bunting, my charming knight in shining armor. A proposal, a wedding date, a whole new, but not necessarily bad, life plan. But then came the draft. 15

The year 1969 will forever haunt my memory. He was chosen, and who knew how long the war was going to last. Ira had never been a fan of the armed forces, but he was loyal to his country, so he obliged. So we rushed a wedding, hoped for a future after the war, and that was that. And I was promised many things. That things wouldn’t change, that he’d always write, that he’d always love me. But the one that hurt worst of all was: “I promise, I’ll come back. No matter how long it takes Evelynn, ‘till death do we part, and I swear on my life I will see you before then. I promise.” I believed him, how could I not? When a promise like that is sealed with a kiss that felt like it bound us together in a way that words couldn’t even attempt to construct, how could it ever be a lie? But then he never came back. The letters eventually ceased, all of the promises eventually broke. Some of his colleagues came back, war buddies, old college friends, people that could have been him. They weren’t. I waited for him, I asked every possible link to him “Where is Ira? Ira Bunting? Is he alive? Is he dead? Please, someone, something, ANYTHING!” The worst part was, no one knew. Some say they heard him run off with some women from a brothel, others say he changed his name and moved to Guam, no one knew. So I gave up searching. I gave up hoping. The only thing that I could hope for anymore was that he had been killed in action and that he was waiting for me up in heaven. So I lived the rest of my life trying to make damn sure that I get there. Of course, until the day two girls appeared on my doorstep and reminded me that love was not easy for anyone. There’s a good chance that my love could be in someone else’s arms, so what’s the point anymore. To hell with him. I didn’t need him then, I don’t need him now. He probably forgot about me years ago. I wish it weren’t true, oh how I wish that wasn’t a possibility, oh how I wish Ira was by my bedside right now and could fall in love with me all over again. But he’s not. He never will be. So, as the pace of my inner engine starts to slow, I go gently into that good night. ♦♦♦ It was raining. And it was dark. It was only nine in the morning and yet somehow it felt as though the entire day was gone. I go to my usual cafe, and order my usual cup of black coffee, no cream, no sugar, just simple. It was a return back to the mundane routine that I called my life. At the ripe old age 16

of seventy, your life has run out of things to find exciting. Everything just becomes weaker, darker, and nullified. The waiter didn’t even bother to come talk to me at my little tucked away corner of a booth. I appreciated it. We had a mutual understanding, something that was hard to come by these days. I have encountered some totally random strangers who feel compelled to walk up to me and ask about my entire life story out of curiosity. But, then again, that’s only happened to me twice. And, believe it or not, both times were in the same day. I believe that it was a few weeks ago, maybe days, maybe months, perhaps. But I was simply sitting in my normal spot in the diner, minding my own business, avoiding eye contact with any passerby, when this young man plopped himself right down next to me. This had never happened to me before. I can’t tell you how many years I had had the same routine in regards to that diner, it hadn’t changed since the day I rented out an apartment right across the street from the place. That had been at the very least, a couple of years ago. But, this fresh out of college boy just sits with me and, I don’t exactly know how, but I could tell he was in some desperate need of advice. With, you guessed it, women. The most complicated creatures of all. Richardson was his name, and there was this girl he had become infatuated with for a few months, however, he didn’t exactly know how to take the next step. And from how he described himself, it sounded like he was distancing himself from this girl rather than getting closer. So I recommended perhaps talking to her directly, but he simply shrugged off my advice with the typical adolescent response of “But that’s haaard.” And yes, maybe it was, but he was the one to come to my table, not the other way around. So, since I did not feel obligated to do anything more for him if he was not willing to listen to me, I told him to scoot. Take his problems to a REAL doctor. And then my life went back to it’s methodic routine, quiet, but predictable. How I liked it. But wouldn’t you know it, not five minutes later, ANOTHER young man comes to my table. Thankfully not the same one, but one around the same age. Now, keep in mind that for both of the interactions, neither of them actually asked me to sit. They just assumed that I’d be willing to lend an ear. I guess I just have one of those faces for their generation. This one’s name was Douglass. And unlike Richardson, he actually seemed to have an ounce of common sense in him. He had just been recently dumped by a girl who thought that he didn’t do enough in their relationship. In his defense, they hadn’t even been dating a month before she said all of this and spewed 17

claims that he did not care about her. He tried to do things, but nothing was ever enough for her, not dates, not quality time, not blatant displays of affection, nothing. I felt for the guy. I mean, she didn’t seem all too amazing to begin with, but at least give the man a chance and lower your impossible standards for a minute or two. So this went on for some more days following that one. Every once in a while, one of them would come up to me and just talk about their current relationships. They actually came to me at the same time at one point, and they both knew already each other through their girlfriends. What a small world. They got along pretty nicely for quite some time, that is, until I learned that both of them were secretly seeing each other’s girlfriends behind their backs. I didn’t want to make matters worse, so I just stayed out of it. I gave them the best advice that I could, but that’s all I really could do. Except for this morning. Surprisingly, neither of them showed up. I didn’t necessarily need them too. Although I didn’t hate the company, it was back to my old routine of solitude. Now, I would tell you how long that routine has been in place, but everything after 1975 is just a blur. There was a war, I was in that war, I had friends die right next to me, in front of me, behind me, in my arms, you name it and my fellow men were dropping like flies. I vaguely remember feeling sad, well of course I was, the amount of people that I was supposed to return home with was dwindling. I couldn’t even tell you what my home used to be, the war was that long. The memories of my entire life before the war melded right with wartimes, until I couldn’t even distinguish the two anymore. It would have been nice to die a hero, but all I did was get left behind after a battle, and left for dead while all of my comrades went home. Did I ever have one of those? A home with a loving expectant family? I’m sure no one was waiting for me, though. They would’ve looked for me, they would have asked, so I must not have anyone. Which is why solitude has been the drug that will kill me more than it heals. Both Richardson and Douglass had asked me about the specifics of my past before the war. They both remarked that I had the looks of a soldier who has been through hell and back, but I didn’t discuss it with anyone. Why would I, I didn’t feel anything anymore. Whoever I used to be died alongside the first of my company who was shot right next to me the first day on the field. Even if I did want to be that person again, I couldn’t remember how. 18

I got myself back to the U.S. by sneaking onto a cargo ship heading to the Gulf of Mexico, and then tried to get my life back together via the government. I told them my name, but they couldn’t search for a file without an address. There used to be someone in my life to remember it for me, so I never bothered to memorize it. But I still wanted to give them everything they asked for, a life story, how I got here, what was my purpose in life, EVERYTHING. But I simply couldn’t remember. So I moved from apartment to apartment, finding part time jobs that they would still give to an oldie like me, trying to find where I belonged, and finally I am settled in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Hot Coffee, Mississippi. What kind of name was that? It sounded familiar, but then again, so did everything else. The older I became, the less things I actually knew for certain, it was all just a guessing game at this point. “Waiter-”, I call out, surprising myself that I actually feel like being the one to initiate the conversation, “Would you happen to have a copy of today’s paper?” If I can’t figure out the past, might as well get caught up with the present. “Um, oh yes, of course,” This man practically jumped at the sound of my voice, “Just leave it at your table when you’re finished.” I think that I accidentally threw him off too much, the last time I heard him stammer that much was the time when he accidentally dropped an entire tray of dinner for a family of five. Unsurprisingly, it was not fun for the whole family. “Here you go, no idea why you’d want it, they never actually publish any happy news.” “Well, lucky for you, I’m not looking for happiness, I’m looking for something to pass the time with, there’s a difference.” He shuffled away, obviously more confused than ever, and I flipped through the pages. It had been awhile since I had formally read anything, and with my two main conversation starters gone, it was the perfect time to start again. I decided to open straight to the middle of the paper, since the beginnings of anything were always the slowest, when suddenly I found myself looking at the obituaries. It was quite morbid to look in here, since one day soon my name may be among them, but then again, maybe it won’t. There would be no one who’d notice that I was gone anyway, I didn’t remember my family, and they hadn’t had the audacity to look for me or check up on me for YEARS. So why would they care now. But then I saw it. My family name. Bunting. 19

In bolded capital letters. With the date of death being exactly a week ago. However, Ira was not the name that preceded it. It was Evelynn. Evelynn Bunting. That name rolled around in my mind like a snowball, getting bigger and bigger until it finally was too big to push anymore.So familiar yet so far away. Strawberry blond hair in ringlets, lightning blue eyes, an electric smile...it all flooded back to me. That, that was ​my​ Evelynn. So I ran. I took the paper and saw the address and ran. The waiter yelled after me to give him back his paper, but at that point, I didn’t care. It couldn’t be true. It was all coming back. SHE was all coming back. My Evelynn, my Evelynn, MY Evelynn, the Evelynn who used to tease me every time I looked at her in pure adoration. The Evelynn who had the ugliest laugh in the world, and yet at the same time it was the most beautiful sound in the world because it came from her. The Evelynn who always broke out into a smile when I kissed her. The Evelynn who loved all of my flaws, and trusted me and loved me unconditionally even when I didn’t deserve it. The Evelynn who married a man right before he left for war because he was so blinded by how much he loved her that he did not even fathom ever needing to let her go. My Evelynn could not be gone, not yet, please God, not yet, please! “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Evelynn Bunting. She was a wonderful teacher and a wonderful friend to all of our community. She will be greatly missed, but her memory will live on in our hear-” I heard the speech ring through the entire funeral home. No no no no it can’t be true, it just CAN’T, I love her too much to let her be away from my side again. “EVELYNN!” I fling open the doors to the room where the ceremony was taking place. I recognized some faces, Richardson, Douglass, each there with a girl on their arm, looking somber. Why were they here? Why was anyone? This was MY wife, MY love, MY l​ ife​. And I needed to be with her, I just had to. I raced to the casket, but I did not see the Evelynn I once knew. No, I saw an angel. An angel who had lived her life hoping that she’d get to be loved again. An angel who never betrayed me, who never even considered marrying another in my absence, one that was more loyal than I deserved. And I know she died not knowing in absolute certainty as to whether I loved her or not, something I’ll never forgive myself for. So, with teary eyes and 20

a defeated heart, I gave her the response of reassurance that she deserved to have and hold onto, by my side, and on her own. “I do.” Omaha By: Aidan Hoff I was standing at the edge of the cliff. I looked down at the shore, riddled with rocks and ghosts. I was standing at the bottom of a crater. I looked up, only to see a blanket of grey. I was standing inside a bunker. I looked up at the ceiling: a metal sheet shredded like paper. I didn’t know. I am standing in the corner. I look ahead of me to read the words “peace won” unlawfully etched into the paint. I don’t know. I will step back out into the chorus of wind and drizzle. Beside me, rebar shall protrude from below, sprawling, twisting, contorting. I will return to the cliff to look down. To see the scars. 21

The End Epilogue, O​ mega Rising​, By Connor Hurst The color red was omnipresent Omega’s life. The ruby of Ember’s scales and hair, the crimson markings that covered his body, the fire and blood. So much blood and fire. How many had been consumed by his scarlet flames, how many had been cut down by his sword? He had lost count long ago of those he had slain. Some souls stayed with him though. Alpha, the traitor that had been engulfed by his inferno. The soldier that never gave up, he had granted him a merciful death. And Kronos, the titan he had slain so many times. How many times did he kill Kronos, how long did it take to break the titan’s will? 2,070,263 times, that number he would always remember. That was the number of times Kronos had reset the timeline, the number of times Omega had avenged all those he had killed, the number of times he had been the last one standing. He alone was aware of Kronos’ medling, he alone remembered the horrors of the war. It was better that way, for no one knew the pain that they had all suffered. They would never know that among them walked a man who had fought for an eternity so they could live peacefully. Now, as he looked at the Ember and their red haired daughter curled up next to him, he knew that it had all been worth all of the fighting to reach this future, their future. 22

The Split That Glued Itself Together. By Gabby Knight They held my hands as we walked down the sidewalk. She played disney music and we dressed as princesses. He tickled me until my face got as red as a tomato. They kissed me good night and tucked me in to bed. She read me books. He took me to the library. We played at the park for hours. She would catch me when I slid down the big green slide. He would push me on the swing so high, I thought I could touch the sky. We brought ice cream and walked by the lake. Then everything turned upside down. Like a pineapple upside-down cake. Except my upside-down was not delicious. They split up, they broke-up. They divorced. It was a struggle at first. Not seeing them together. Having to go to their SEPARATE houses. Then I saw how lucky I was. I now had two families. A second mother who treats me as her own. A second father who raises me to be the extraordinary woman I was meant to be. A baby brother who reminds me that your imagination is important. An older sister who reminds me to always focus on school. An older brother who helps me make my way through high school. Another older brother who taught me to dance like nobody's watching. And my last older brother who shows me that service for our country and helping people is important. And two sisters who remind me that laughter is the best medicine. The last two are my mom and dad, or the she and he. My mom taught me that I have to be strong and if things go wrong, still keep my head up. My dad always wants me be the best me and to work my hardest. I consider myself fortunate to have two families. I know it's strange but the best thing that happened in my life was the divorce.     23

Liberation By: Martine Louis Not everyone seeks me those who do have longed for me day after day, year after year, generations after generations. reformed, outspoken, forceful I like to be heard. I am the breath of fresh air, necessary for one to breathe. I am the light at the end of the tunnel. They cry to me. Prayers and wishes are sent my way I am only one person. don’t you hear me? I have been on your side. here all along cheering you on Waiting for the perfect timing. I look to others in dismay. Pity for those who have suffered and endured, over the centuries. some will not. comprehend pains and burdens carried. They dream to me. They wish. for them all the to be set free, not only today, but centuries ago. I hope. I hope, there will be no need for me. This man once dreamed, a dream that his four little children would not be judged by their skin color, 24

but by the content of their character. Till this day I am working on it. I am the whisper in the cell of those wrongly convicted. He over there. Oppression The oppressed shouted “give me liberty, or give me death”(PH) they would rather die than not have me. Oppression, does not want you to have me. He is keeping you from your freedoms, opportunity, hiding you from the world. He can never move forward, for he holds grudges on everyone. Life of a free man? foreign. movements I am the start of marches. through their soul. Riots, many wept. spirit of never ending misery. tears joy deprived of me Injustice rolls as a continuous cycle 25

My Boy By James McGill Entropy and gravity are the two main systems of order in the universe, having shaped all of human history, as well as cultures of planets so far undiscovered. Entropy is the gradual decline into disorder, the perpetual absence of true predictability. It is the bane of stock traders, the mold in which trees grow into, the parent to all children, and the rate at which notes fade from a six string guitar as the vibrations fly across the room. Gravity makes things fall. The boy caught the ball in his right hand, eyes widening in surprise at his accuracy, before sending it careening through the air down the empty hallway again. It echoed off of the tile floor as it bounced, seeming to gain speed as it went. Modern physics, it seemed, did not frequent this realm. I watched him as he waited, tousled blonde hair forming an unfortunate mullet on his head, hands at the ready on his sides. His cheeks were stained with freckles and, looking closely, I could see he had my father’s red-tinged nose. I frowned. The ball disappeared into the darkness down the corridor, the absence of light obscuring where it had been, where it would bounce back to. He turned towards me. “You saw that, right?” he said, slightly out of breath. “You saw that catch. That thing was going like 200 miles an hour.” “It’s a dream,” I reminded him. “Don’t know if I would still count that as impressive.” He smiled and, suddenly, stretched out two fingers behind his back. The ball caught itself between them, its blinding speed halted by his. Laughing, he threw it playfully in the air and looked again daringly at me as it landed back in his palm, eyes cocky and obviously pleased with himself. “Dream,” I said again, rolling my eyes and letting myself laugh a bit. He cocked an eyebrow. “Okay then, you get yourself a ball and do it. It takes more…” he paused and tried to think of the word. He snapped his fingers twice, smiling as he remembered. “Finesse! It takes more finesse than you think.” I smirked and gently let my eyes shut, attempting to feel serene. Reality undid itself in my mind as I cleared my head and, reaching my hand in my pocket, envisioned the firm rubber of a ball filling it. It was red- no, pink- with a thin line in the middle showing where the two sides had been joined. The soft, skin temperature toy stretched the fabric of my jeans and, taking it out, I felt the pop of the sudden settling of fabric against my leg. I looked down. My hand remained empty. 26

My eyebrows furrowed as my mouth went slightly agape. This never happened in any of my dreams before. “Hm,” the boy said. I could hear the smugness in his voice. “I guess it isn’t your dream after all. So much for that.” He produced another ball from his pocket and tossed it to me underhanded. Catching it with both hands, I looked around, the hallway around me seeming only to escape the stretch of infinity through blinding darkness that stood a couple yards behind and ahead of us. The industrial grade fluorescent lights that adorned the pitch-black ceiling seemed to bounce endlessly around the white marble floors, decorating the walls with shimmering waves of brightness. Brightness that suddenly ended. “Wondering what’s past there?” He came over to where I was standing, just before the wall of black nothingness that segmented the place. “You think there’s a past?” I paused. “I’m pretty sure this is where it ends, right?” He shook his head and, winding his arm back, threw the ball once more. It echoed down, noise growing dimmer and dimmer before it stopped and, throwing his arm out, the boy caught it without hesitation as it rocketed back. “Has to be pretty far, too.” He glanced around, blue eyes seeming gray as the brightness of the place was reflected through them, and leaned towards me. “I think that, at the end over there, that someone is throwing them back.” My heart dropped as I gripped my rubber ball and instinctively stepped back from the imperceptible wall. The boy chuckled. “You know, for a figment of my imagination, you’re pretty timid.” “You’re annoying, you know that?” I caught my breath; I was so tired of having nightmares. “Besides, that’s not true, what you said about someone throwing it back.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Why not?” “Because that’s just how motion works here, I think.” Pretending to not still be shaking, I turned around and faced the other way, ball in hand, arm poised, ready to throw. “If it comes back, then nobody’s here.” “Or,” he suggested with a grin, “It could just mean there’s two people with us.” I groaned and threw the ball and woke up. “I dreamed about the boy again, mom.” My mother buzzed busily through the kitchen, going from drawer to drawer with the sort of gentle grace normally reserved for dancers. Grabbing the eggs in one hand, she batted her dark hair out of the way and reached for the pan. “Oooh, that’s great Kristi. Is he cute?” 27

I winced a little. For some reason, thinking of the dream boy in that kind of way felt wrong. “I don’t know, mom. I see him more as a friend, you know? I don’t really think of him as a potential partner. Couldn’t really tell you why.” Mom suddenly froze mid-egg-crack and turned to face me. One look at her blue eyes and I knew I was in for another unwanted lecture session. I steeled myself. “Are you making imaginary friends?” She walked hurriedly over and felt for a fever on my forehead. “Mom, no!” “Should we go and see Dr. Lawler again? He told me that if anything else came up-” “No mom!” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She scurried back to the oven, flipping over the now brown eggs in the pan. Silence followed that exchange, the hum of the oven and the blare of ‘Judge Judy’ in the background substituting conversation. I didn’t really have a problem with that. I looked around the kitchen, at the dull black and white tile floors, and couldn’t help but long for the shimmering beauty of the surroundings in my dream. The outside held nothing but dead trees, a tepid blanket of snow atop them. Gorgeous, sure, but familiar, and a reminder. A reminder that they were hiding from the world. And a reminder that I was okay with that. “At least you have a positive male influence in your life,” her mom joked. “Okay then,” I sighed, more than willing to drop this conversation. “I tried, honey.” Her mom scraped the eggs onto a plate and placed it in front of me. They were runny and rubbery all at the same time, with edges browned and crumbling. I looked up at my mother’s face, her seashore eyes twinkling with steady worry and affection, the same countenance I saw in the mirror every morning, with matching dark hair to boot. “Thank you, mom.” “So you’re homeschooled? That explains a lot.” The boy hung upside-down off of the light fixture above us, his long blonde mane swinging How he got up there was beyond me, but I wasn’t going to enable him by asking. “Yep,” I said curtly. “Don’t really have a problem with it. I’m surrounded by nature and, for 16 hours of the day, I don’t have to deal with stupid people my age.” I gave him a withering look on that one. He looked incredulous. “You get a full eight hours?” His head dangled freely, lulled by the soft gravity of the hall. His face was as pale as ever, his dark blue eyes teasing only the edges of his irises as dilated pupils dominated most of 28

his gaze. I frowned. Pale as ever? He was hanging upside down- blood should be rushing to his head. Sure enough, as the thought entered my mind, his face reddened and he scrunched his eyebrows. He attempted to lift his head higher; however, his legs slipped from the dangling light and he crashed down to the floor with a muffled thud. My eyes widened in surprise. “Oh my god!” I spoke suddenly, “I’m so sorry! I really didn’t want that to happen…” My voice trailed off as I looked at the boy, his stare meeting me back with a mixture of surprise and fear. A moment passed between us. It was like we were meeting again for the first time, evaluating each other and ruminating on whatever relationship could blossom. Maybe my mother was right: if I was really starting to freak myself out over dream boy, maybe a visit to Dr. Lawler wouldn’t hurt. “Maybe it is your dream.” My train of thought dissipated from my mind, “What?” “Maybe it is your dream.” He repeated. “I know it is.” I furrowed my brow. “Wake up.” He told me. I crossed my arms. My feelings of worry morphed somewhere between a feeling of anger and annoyance. “You wake up!” “Please, I want to see something.” The tone of his voice cracked, and he started to sound more like he was pleading rather than commanding. “Please,” he repeated again, “I just need to see.” I scratched the back of my neck and bit my lip. “I don’t think I can just command myself to wake up.” I squinched my eyes closed and pinched my skin. Nothing, not even a hint of pain. I tried to imagine myself falling, a tactic that had never failed to bring my nightmares to a close. I opened my eyes to see his face still staring at me expectantly. “The ball never came back.” I blinked. “What?” He quickly sprang up to his feet and grabbed my arm roughly with his thin hand, the spot right above the elbow, nearing the shoulder. A jolt of a familiar feeling long gone passed through my mind like a bullet. I shook it out of my thoughts. “Watch this,” he quietly asked of me. We were facing the side of the hallway where I last threw my ball, the darkness starting to seem less neutral and more sinister as he wound his arm back and threw the ball as hard as he could. 29

A second passed. Then, a long scream began to emit from around me. It was loud, anguished, made up of two voices. It was like an amalgamation of terror and regret was thrumming through the hall, causing the lights to shake and the glimmers on the walls to dance wildly, rapidly. I covered my ears as the screeching noise got louder; the boy simply stared into the void with abject horror. I woke up with a jerk off of my bed, tears streaming down my face. One of the voices had been my own. The noise still rang in my ears. Dr. Lawler was in the living room, I saw, as I went downstairs. The dappled sunlight shone in through the semi-closed blinds in bright rays, contrasting his dark skin with the white fabric of the pillow and seeming to drive home the fact I was losing my mind. He didn’t seem to hear my feet tread down the worn carpets of the stairs, he kept his eyes straight. I snuck down a bit further and saw what he was looking at; standing in the corner of my room, as far away from him as she could go without leaving sight range, was my mother. Her hands were clasped tightly around her mouth, as if she was afraid something would spill out. She stood still, her back facing me, obscuring her face. Even without seeing it, I could tell what her expression was. I had seen it an innumerable number of times, enough times that I could picture every single detail. I had seen it when he threw dinner plates on the floor, her pupils shrinking back into her head, adrenaline fueling her manic, wild panic. I had seen it when he dragged me out into the rainy streets of Boston by my arm, away from her, from my home. She cried then, wildly, without abandon. I saw it when he ripped the phone out of her hands, when he gave her a look of pure hatred as he realized it was too late, as the blue and red lights illuminating the windows of our apartments showed me that the tears had stopped, that she had none more left to give. She was crying now though. I froze as I saw tears drop from her rose-colored face to the floor. Doctor Lawler had noticed me by this point, and was slowly getting up, slowly walking closer to me. I didn’t care enough to move- I was engrossed with my mother. Another tear fell, off the tip of her nose, past her torso, aside from the Doctor, and onto- wait, no, through the floor. It fell and fell, reality warping around it as my knees buckled from under me and I began to fall with it, dropping down and closing my eyes and eventually waking up on the beautiful, iridescent tile floor I had grown so familiar with. The boy looked down at me apprehensively. “That was quick.” I sat up, head cloudy and mind filling with questions. Why was my mother crying like that? Why did I think I already knew the answer? Instead, I asked “How can you tell?” He shrugged, but his deliberate movement indicated more uncertainty than he let on. “I stay here when you leave. I’ve been here since the first time we saw one another.” 30

“The first time!” My mind whirred like a car accelerating uphill, processing this new data alongside the old. “That was last Sunday!” He bit his lip. “It was?” he muttered, more to himself than to me. A silence came between us. The darkness on both sides of us seemed to be closer, now. I saw that where there had once been lights and marble was now emptiness, the dark abyss seeming close to enveloping the entire area we stood. I tried to situate myself away from the side the scream came from but, frankly, I couldn’t tell which way was which anymore. “Who are you?” I finally said, suddenly remembering something I had heard long ago. “I read that you subconsciously remember every face you come across and your brain uses them in your dreams. I don’t think I’ve ever seen yours before.” He seemed to deliberate the question. “That’s bull,” he decided. “Besides, you wouldn’t automatically remember me for sure. For all you know, we could have just passed in a crowd like when you were two.” Despite myself, I giggled, yet I waited for him to answer the question. “Come on,” I prompted, “What’s your name?” He laughed. “I don’t know.” “Stop it!” “I’m serious,” he persisted, and I knew he was telling the truth. “I thought it was the fact that I was in a dream, and that I would remember it eventually, but I never have. Then you came along and proved to me you were…” he searched for the right word, “real.” “It didn’t happen to occur to you that this wasn’t normal?” He briskly combed his hair out of his face and looked around. “I don’t know! Time is weird in dreams.” He produced a ball. “I’ve been here long enough that I learned to do stuff like this though, and to start looking forward to our nightly talks.” Strangely, my mind had gone blank. I had begun to lean against the blank wall at this point, one foot bent and resting slightly higher than the other one on the ground. I couldn’t think about the outside world, nor the world in the dream. I could only think upon one possibility: “You’ve been asleep for over a week. This isn’t good.” Eyes widening, I realized that I hadn’t prefaced that with an ‘if you ARE real.’ My mind had started to accept he was. I idly began to think if schizophrenics went through similar thought processes. This time, he didn’t laugh, smile, or shrug. He looked at me, almost angry. “I know it’s not good. But after what happened last night, I’ve been remembering bits and pieces.” He turned his body towards one end of the hallway and pointed. “Down there is one of them,” he said. “That place is important to me. I came back here to have you see it,” he turned his head slightly so our eyes met, “...if you would like to, of course.” And with that, he faced forwards and walked towards it, leaving me alone against the wall. The dark enveloped his body as he passed it without hesitation. It seemed to coil like a 31

million snakes around his body, or, the thought sickening me, worms- digging away at rotting flesh, through his being. I stayed where I was, my feet rigid at the base of my body. I didn’t know if I wanted to. My house seemed almost alien to me when I woke up, finding myself on the downstairs couch. My mother nervously swiped left and right on her phone next to my feet, and Doctor Lawler concocted something sweet, no doubt too sweet for my mother, in the kitchen. The warm breeze from outside wafted through the windows, and I thought that maybe, if I just lay still, that nothing bad could happen to me. I felt a soft hand on my shin, fingers softened through the blanket yet still retaining their warmth. “Let’s talk, Kristi,” she quietly whispered. I forgot I always snored lightly when I was asleep. The feeling of apathy remained with me as I heard the news, no doubt my body’s way of making sure I didn’t completely lose my mind. I wonder if the sudden calm I felt in my dream was the cause of it, or if maybe I had completely lost my sense of self entirely, never to be found again. My mother held my hand tight as she said her perfectly rehearsed lines. “The prison won’t release any more details.” She stopped, breathing, holding in emotion. Her eyes were still red from earlier, and they looked tired. I sipped my tea Lawler had given me- chai. I silently cursed him for no doubt creating negative emotional connections with my favorite flavor. “They said it was an ongoing investigation as to how he was able to do it,” she continued, “And that telling us even now was a slight breach of protocol.” Her hands shook as she spoke, threatening the tea that was precariously in the cup. I watched with worry as the liquid got close to the edge. Her face suddenly broke, practiced features going limp, and she hastily put her tea down as she leaned into both hands and sobbed. “I put him in there so he would leave us alone!” She said, “I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want that to happen. I’m so sorry.” She recalled where she was and quickly got up to leave the room. “I’m sorry honey,” she mourned, “You shouldn’t see me like this.” I got up and jumped climbed over the short couch, blocking her path to the kitchen and embracing her in a tight hug. “It’s okay mom. I’m here.” It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. I saw the doctor peeking around the corner of the doorway, and I forced myself to cry, burying my eyes in my mother’s satin sleeve. That night, I awoke again as soon as I closed my eyes. The hallway had but one light remaining, and I gazed upwards in horror as the darkness to both my left and right began to eat away at the fixture. The room remained rigid, and me with it, enough so that I could watch the 32

void surround and cover everything in my sight. The spot I was standing was the only bastion of light left, and soon it would be gone. I would be slowly covered, tendrils of shadow piercing their way through me and encompassing my being. My apathy had grown tired at this point, and my emotions had come back into play at full swing. Though at this point, there was only one I was conscious of: fear. Raw, biting fear- the kind animals have when surrounded, or the kind one feels during sleep paralysis as the demon edges closer to the side of your bed. I felt the edge of blackness brush my shirt, a cold slice into me. Jerking away, my right torso entered the darkness on the opposite side of me, and I felt as if my body had been submerged in water, with the liquid going through skin and permeating my insides as well. Closing my eyes, more instinct than woman at this point, I ran headfirst into the darkness. Which way, I do not know. All I do know is that I went straight and remained sprinting straight. Sprinting and running until I opened my eyes and found I was somewhere entirely different. Despite it being unreal, I caught my breath, my hands dropping to my knees and my lungs aching with every waking inhalation. The floor below me was a lush carpet of grass, the ceiling sky and cloud. My eyes adjusted to the light that shone from above, and I instinctively covered my shoulders as the brisk air caught me on the sleeve. Uncontrollably, I began to shake, and a feeling of dread soon came over me as I felt the presence of a massive structure behind me. I looked up. Trees dotted the horizon. Turning, the familiar flatness of a parking lot teased at my peripheral vision, and I could even make out the license plates through the chain link fence. I continued turning, and the pit in my stomach dropped even further as I realized that I knew the building that stood before me- a building of repeated rows of rectangular, emotionless structure. Pure, calculated utility clashed with the surrounding forest, and the trees around the facility seemed put there on purpose, as if poking fun at the horrible neutrality of the place. A motion at the top of the building caught my eye, and I glanced up and gasped, violently covering my mouth with my hands, My father was running along the edge, security guards with their hands on their tasers following close behind. He looked disheveled, beard scraggly and shirt torn, and I could swear I saw hints of blood tease at his hands, even from the field outside the compound where I stood. His blonde hair streaked behind him, having gone uncut for years, as he weaved through security, laughing like a madman all the way. He lost his footing as he neared the right edge of the main cell block, and I watched in horror as his body fell five stories downward. I watched as his ragdoll figure flew past window after window, and hung suspended in the air right before it hit the ground. I blinked, and the boy appeared before me. The boy with blonde hair. The boy with blue eyes. “I remember it now, Kristi.” I moved my mouth, but no words came out. I grasped violently for sense, for reason, for logical words to say in this situation. This man had tormented my family for years. This man had deprived me of childhood, of wholeness. 33

“I’m sorry Kristi.” The words stung as they reached my ears. The scene played out like a bad movie behind him, the running, the dodging, the falling. The sound of his scream as his foot slipped off the edge of the building. “Kristi.” I looked up at my father. His eyes were regretful, full of wishful memories and long forgotten jokes, of movies and drives and love and death. They were full of humor and humanity and beauty, the caverns of his shimmering blue irises pulling dipping and turning. Behind him, I saw him fall once more, hitting the ground as he began to run again, experiencing wildly the life which he had taken from himself. “I’m sorry Kristi,” he began. “I don’t know how I’m able to talk to you like this.” “Yeah,” I said, finding my voice. “It’s very weird.” He laughed, then I did too, and we both began to laugh and cry, the scene of death and hope playing behind him on repeat. For a moment, he ceased to be my enemy, he was my father. We talked for hours, sharing hopes and dreams, laughs and jokes and tears and memories. He ceased to be my father too, in this time. He became me. I remembered the times he grabbed my arm when I was a small child. They were gentle, guiding and optimistic. Here, he wasn’t pulling at me, but rather teaching me, keeping me on my feet. We hugged one another, the boy and I, and I looked back on the last week as a reintroduction to a man, one that would stay in my mind and showcase his true self to me. A second chance at his life- a second chance at my own. He told me what he was thinking as he fell, that he wanted every moment of my life to be as exhilarating as these ones were. He wanted to make sure he didn’t hold me back from that. As his words filled my brain, I realized he really did love me, had to have, for his last moments to be filled with such thoughts. I thought perhaps I was ready to do the same. That morning, I knew that would be the last time I saw my father. It was a bittersweet feeling, knowing that nothing else could taint the new picture that had been painted. I would miss him, sure, but I was okay. I stepped off of my bed and onto the carpeting below me. I heard my mother shuffle through the kitchen downstairs and, one foot after another, I made my way towards her. The trees outside the house had begun to paint themselves a beautiful shade of pink as spring encroached itself in the very air. Kristi’s mother gazed out the window as she stood pressed against the corner of the kitchen, polished fingernail slowly twirling the cord of the house phone around and around. Kristi had gone out for the day, leaving her on her own in the house for the first time she could remember since she broke the big news. “She’s doing well then?” Lawler asked her, bringing her back to reality. 34

“Yeah…” Kristi’s mother began, “I actually think she’s doing uncommonly well for this type of thing.” She worriedly looked at the time on the kitchen oven. “I don’t know if she comprehends it all. Do you know what she asked me this morning? “What?” “She asked me what I thought was going through dad’s head when he fell off the roof.” Silence overtook the phone lines as the statement hit. “That is bad,” Lawler tried. Kristi’s mother shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “She’s filling in gaps to conceptualize it, Lawler. That’s more than bad, that’s delusional.” “Well, it could be a healthy delusion.” Lawler said. “After all, what’s the difference really between him hanging himself- sorry- and jumping.” He paused for a beat. “We only found out last week, after all.”   Kristi’s mother bit her lip and watched as a water droplet fell from her drain pipe into the earth.   35

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The memories of the only girl Jessica McGuire She was planned 1 of 3 But had a special title that no one else could claim The only Girl Her earliest memories is of her first room After she shared one with her little brother. Climbing into his crib refusing to stay in her bed Scaring her mother half to death A crib may seem like a prison to some kids But she liked that feeling of being protected for the outside world Then came the yellow room the color of happiness, at least one of many So bright that it looked like a yellow starburst was painted on the walls. Why she was allowed to pick that color-is mystery She played with all kinds of toys from Barbie dolls To Spiderman, her favorite superhero. Attempted to wear his costume one Halloween but Too afraid to put on the mask, making everything blurry and scary During the winter, on a snow day Looking out the window and seeing fresh white powder Covering every inch of grass, eager to grab her sled and have fun For hours on end. Now, for the most part all grown up And college bound, She grabs a shovel instead of a sled. A smart phone is her new “toy”. The yellow walls are gone, now a pale lavender. However, these unique childhood memories will never fade, They have shaped her into the young women she in today And new memories are made everyday, to add on to her collection. 37

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Dr. Lee By: Alexandra Raposo lone·li·ness; /ˈlōnlēnəs/ n​ oun​;​ s​ adness because one has no friends or company. Dr. Leau N. Lee is a doctor of musical arts. She resides in suite 106 at 432 Park Avenue on the upper west side, a 51 floored gothic revival tenement, overlooking Central Park, Midtown, Downtown, the Hudson River, and the rest of the planet. In her eclectic penthouse (with 10-foot ceilings, hardwood, wall to wall crown molding, and three fireplaces), she surrounds herself with a hefty collection of fine art and antiques. Her favorite piece, which she acquired during her first tour of Vienna in 1972, is an exact replica of Gustav Klimt’s ​The Kiss.​ It supposedly reminds her of Violetta and Giorgio from ​La Traviata-​ - she debuted as Violetta when she was just 19 (the Met’s youngest soprano) so it’s quite sentimental. It’s hung up in the poetry library above a small stone fireplace, centered between two gilded sconces. She never goes in there, however; it’s only good for entertaining, she says. Dr. Lee was once a robust and colorful woman, though she is almost gaunt these days. Ironically, she eats very, very plentifully. Her appetite is unmatched; she is perpetually craving something​ though it seems that nothing can abate her insatiable hunger. When the dissatisfaction becomes almost deafening, she tries to distract herself with more wholesome pastimes like looking through photo albums or rewatching A​ Streetcar Named Desire​. But most of the time, the desperate longing remains ravenous. She has simply accepted that her stomach is a vast and bottomless pit that has condemned her to gluttony. In the mornings (and the afternoons) (usually the evenings, too), Dr. Lee sits on her terrace. It’s where she takes all her meals, but when she isn’t eating, she sips black coffee from the Siamese tea set given to her by the late King of Thailand and looks below. She watches the pedestrians. She sees a young woman hastily crossing the street, a mother pushing her baby in his carriage, a delivery boy zipping through the streets on his bicycle, an old couple hailing a cab, schoolgirls chasing each other up and down the sidewalk, a man shouting into his telephone, another jogging with sweat drippi-- suddenly a car’s brakes are slammed, its tires shriek against the pavement, and the horn blares a strident C-sharp. The honk sustains, crescendos, and pours into the hearts of all who hear, then hits the rafters as the orchestra begins to play. The car horn is a diva standing on the stage in the Teatro Alla Scala; she is met with a standing ovation. 39

First Stop - Shore Drive  By: Jeanne Rose  All roads lead to home… When I think of all the roads I traveled and all the important  places in my life, I look at the way they are all connected I am reminded that all roads  lead to home. And I realize that the definition of home comes from all the places that  were my home. And for me, all of those places are in one place: Cornwall.  When I was born I lived on the corner of Shore Drive and Chestnut Street in Beaver Dam  Lake. I have no recollection of that time except that I know it so well as Grandma’s house  and later, as my first adult home. It was my mother’s childhood home as well, and I later  found out, it was the house my grandfather built for my Grandmother, the red brick  house on the hill overlooking the cove of Beaver Dam Lake, looking out across to  Seaman’s Beach where Grandma spent her childhood summers and where she and my  grandfather met. He built this red brick house as a promise; it was where they intended  to grow a family. The door opened to a big living room with a picture window and a larger  upstairs with bedrooms for future children. The dining room was intended to host large  Thanksgiving dinners and the knotty pine cabinets in the kitchen welcomed all who  entered.   My grandfather died when my mother was 7 and her only sister was 5, so future children  became a forgotten wish. In order to continue to live in the house my grandfather built,  my grandmother had the stairs going up to those unfinished bedrooms converted to the  outside entryway and the upstairs became an apartment for future tenants and necessary  income for my widowed grandmother to be able to provide for her young girls. With the  rent from tenants and her work as a secretary, she put herself through night school to  become a guidance counselor. She ensured her girls could continue living in the house  her husband built.   Those stairs are a testament to the resiliency of my Grandmother to turn lemons into  lemonade. Funny, all three of my mother’s daughters were born up in that apartment and  my own son started his life’s journey in that home. Many other babies were born and  lived in that little attic of an apartment over the years. Grandma kept count of all of them  and was so proud of that. She considered each of them one of her own. She lived in her  own home until the day she died. Dreams do come true in ways we can’t expect or  imagine.                    40

Bloomer   By: Lizzy Walklet      As she grows older, she thinks about her future, but also considers her past.  Who her past has made her and who she wants to be. Did the long, blissful summer  nights by the firepit with her friends make her a better person? Did the midnight  concerts where stars plastered the sky and the music so loud that she could feel it  in her heart open her eyes to something more? Or did the feeling of warm sand  between her toes and the glow of the sun on her skin change her perspective. She  does not know. She knows how she felt in those moments and she knows each  experience was apart of her growing up. Living, Learning, and Growing as a person.  She craves the adventure of life and all that comes with it. The laughs, the loves, and  the heartbreak. Anything and everything. She rushed the moments that didn’t seem  that important. Later in life her hard work pays off and she achieves success but  her future self will look back on the memories as a bloomer with a warm feeling in  her heart. An ache of self- awareness, because as much as she wants to move on  into her new life she will always recall those days as the good ones. She will try to  connect with her old friends as an attempt to relight the spark that was put out  inside her but is forced to accept reality. That point in her life is now simply a  memory, never attainable again. Everyone is only a bloomer once in their life, make  the days count.    41

18 Years By: Jessica Wu Picture her in that nasty hospital room, crying, wailing with her ugly pink face, smushed in like a fat slab of raw hamburger meat. Dad scampers around uselessly with the camera he’s filled with new film just for the occasion. The flash goes off: “Baby’s first poo!” The pink face unsmushes, grows into her skin. At nine months she is walking and falling and walking and falling until she is running and maybe still falling. It’s okay. She just gets back up. At nine times five months she is standing in front of the closed bathroom door that screams of half-adoration and half-exhaustion, counting loudly and boastfully to her mother, “...z​ iu-shi-ba, ziu-shi-ziu, yi-bai!” Yi-bai. ​One hundred. One hundred times two minutes of utter silence everyday, prefaced by a nice bout of crying and wailing, just so we don’t forget where it all started. Those are the younger years, silent agony broken perhaps only by the safety net of home. Together, her and her brother have four moon craters, two each, one on either side of their grinning mouths. The Moon, the Sun, and the Earth, all in one little bubble. Bubbles are elusive, fleeting things. Summers are made for blowing bubbles from wands that never seem to work, drawing chalk tracks for her and her neighbor’s Ripstik races, and listening to Fireflies by Owl City after catching real fireflies in the evening. Her goodnight lullaby is the gentle rubbing of her thumb against the soft, embroidered corners of her grandmother’s pillowcase, matched by bedtime stories, which are her hungry eyes worsening with every scan across a dimly-lit Harry Potter page. One day that pillowcase disappears, and despite how much she searches for it, so very desperately, she cannot take a thirteen-hour flight back to China to find what has been lost. Like many things, she comes to learn, it will remain gone forever. And then she is growing up, spiraling upwards and upwards. There are first crushes, and first periods, and first friendship heartbreaks. She is a 5th grade pageant queen, waving her spidery piano fingers elegantly at the crowd. She is a ballet dancer, but not a ballerina for how unelegantly she trips across the studio floor. Piano turns into violin, which turns into singing, and winters are filled with lots of drama club rehearsals. Fall comes around every year, and there are first days of school, soon to be followed by first tennis seasons, first trips to 2 Alice’s, first drives, first kisses, first regrets. Hard work doesn’t always beat talent, it turns out, and all that music seems to fade out, replaced by the looming pressure of life-after-childhood. “You want to be a doctor, right?” they tell her. She doesn’t tell them that. Now she is seventeen, a dancing queen, but neither still dancing or queening. Seventeen is special. Seventeen is first trip to Europe, first college applications, first projects, first rejections, first acceptance, first love. She is the nerd running around with ten notebooks and folders in her hands and pushing up her glasses every five seconds, and she’s proud of it. She still likes numbers. She is the girl who gets things done, and realizes that music was never it, anyway. She is on her way to eighteen and then she is there. Childhood is an optical illusion, so close and so distant all at once. There are a million more firsts to be had. 42

The Struggles of Pablo Pollock By: Kobe Zagon Pablo Pollock moved to New York at just the young age of nineteen years old. Leaving his comfortable and planned-out life in Spain behind, Pablo uprooted everything, including his college education, to experience a world of unknowns. Channeling his free spirit, Pablo said goodbye to his middle-class family and boarded flight 253 for a 2 o’clock landing in JFK airport. As a mediocre student, Pablo felt like he was one step away from jumping into the endless loop- one step closer to being just like his father. There was nothing wrong with that, as Pablo would point out to himself everytime he questioned his path from his dorm room, but that just wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want the comfortable family life his father enjoyed, or the steady job that his father struggled through. Instead, he looked to avoid all of this and packed it all up and left, taking the one thing that was always committed to his dreams, sometimes even more than himself- his paintbrush. As an artist, Pablo had little time or little desire for physical activity. Thus, he was a short, slender kid. Many mistook his innocent-looking face for that of a 14 year old’s, but Pablo was far from it. Despite his average grades, Pablo had the maturity and intelligence of a 55 year old scientist. His thick brown hair was never made and seemed to always be looking for somewhere to go, and nothing was ever able to keep it down and in place. Pablo was a good painter- never a great one- but had the imagination of a hundred Steve Jobs. His mind was always moving, always wondering about how things worked or moved or talked. He was always painting, his hands constantly moving with or without his paintbrush, perhaps because he was afraid of what he would see if he ever stopped. He was alone- thousands of miles away from home, no family to gawk at his paintings, no friends to keep him from losing himself in his own imagination, and little money to feed his passion. The lack of money took a toll on him. Coming from a middle-class family, Pablo never found himself fearing running out of paints or unable to buy the more elaborate colors, but now, it was different. For now, he was stuck with just the general colors- blue, green, red, yellow, green, and purple- and his own imagination to craft those colors into the sights of the city skyline or the visions of his dreams. But with these select few colors, Pablo got bored quickly. He had moved to New York to get away from the looping lifestyle his father indulged in, but found himself falling into his own loop, painting the same pictures with the same colors each day. Because of this, Pablo always traveled throughout the city, finding new spots of inspiration and new areas to map out the personality of, with his paintbrush. He must have gone to every noteworthy spot in the city except for one, a place he vowed to never get trapped in again- that place being Times Square. He can’t seem to explain why he can’t bring himself to walk the most vibrant part of the city to someone that isn’t himself, but nevertheless, there is just something about the place, Pablo can’t put into words or colors. It is odd, that for someone who is trying to find inspiration in a city with a ton of it, Pablo can’t venture off to the center of the city that never sleeps. Actually that may be it! It never sleeps, and Pablo can feel that pressure. He can feel the time ticking away. With every car that passes and every image that is displayed on a brightly lit screen, he can feel the sky collapsing on him, the narrow street and the buildings suffocating him on either side. His home an ocean away, there is no escape from the constricting skyscrapers. Pablo came for freedom, for opportunity, but feels rather controlled by the need for money and connections to make it anywhere. He is barely making rent, and time is finite for 43

Pablo to make it big or atleast make a liveable earning. To be honest, Pablo is afraid, scared of returning home as a failure and having to face his father as just that. He was afraid of collapsing. To avoid the panic that would inevitably consume him if he faced this reality, Pablo threw himself into his work. When the brush hit his pad, time always seemed to stand still- as if the cars stop moving and the lights shut of. He was finally free, and able to explore every nook and cranny of his every-changing and dynamic mind and his perpetual dreams. For a moment, everything stops- even Times Square- and its just Pablo and his colors, the weight of the world lifted from his fragile shoulders. But time couldn’t be halted forever and the world carried on. Pablo lived in New York for two years before his father came to see his progress or his failures, and for two years Pablo lived a lie that he sold to his father each month, in a monthly phone call. But after all this time and all this energy spent in creating a life that Pablo always wanted, his father would finally discover the truth of his son’s crumbling journey. The day happened to be the two year anniversary of Pablo’s first day in the city, the 17th of March, and Pablo’s father’s flight was slated to land at four o’clock, touching down in the same airport where pablo first stepped in New York. Pablo, like any good son looking to “butter-up” his father for the unfortunate news, came to the airport an hour early with a coffee in hand and a slice of New York style pizza, awaiting his father’s mouth. Pablo had taken a taxi there, hoping that on the way back, his father would hesitate before yelling and arguing in front of a stranger, but Pablo wouldn’t have to worry about any of that. His father never arrived. For three hours, Pablo sat, bracing for the fury of his father, while allowing his imagination to run wild with the different possibilities and the different paths the conversation with his father could have taken. He must’ve gone through a hundred or so different reactions and responses his father could have had, that he never realized his father was never there. Once again, Pablo had lost himself in his own imagination. Instead, all Pablo received was a tightly sealed letter in the mail two months later, offering Pablo a choice which would lead him to two completely different lives. The words explained the utter disappointment of his family, and how Pablo’s “extended visit to America” had taken a toll on his father. With the absence of his son, Pablo’s father felt a void in his life and had fallen ill. From a hospital bed, Pablo’s father yearned for his son, but if he went back home, there would be no return to America. If you had given this choice to Pablo two weeks earlier, without a second thought, Pablo would have been on the very next flight back, but two months had passed and the tables had finally turned for Pablo. His only good friend in New York, an aspiring rap artist Omari West, had finally hit it big, and his first album was being considered a “classic” record. At the head of West’s album, shined Pablo’s painting of the New York City skyline, featuring eccentric and distinctive colors patterns, and the music business took notice. For two months, Pablo’s phone continued to ring, and at the other end awaited artists ranging from local acts to super-stars, who were willing to pay a hefty price for Pablo to design their cover art. Pablo had seemed to have found his calling, something where his above-average art skills but incredible imagination and passion could actually make money. With his dreams finally coming close within reach, Pablo found it hard to walk away from everything he ever wanted, and at the end of the following month, he realized he just couldn’t. Finishing his letter of response to his family, Pablo couldn’t hold back tears. As he read back his words, he couldn’t help to feel the resemblance of his writing to a goodbye letter, and 44

this reality crushed him. When he left two years earlier, he had never thought that that would be the last time he would see his family and especially his father. Despite wanting something that was different, his father was always his true inspiration and Pablo wanted nothing more than to make him proud. But still, Pablo couldn’t walk away from the life he was just starting to build, and thus, the letter was sent. Five years later, Pablo is an accomplished artist, with a family of his own and a wealth that was his own creation. He has everything he had ever wanted- the money, the family, and all the paint colors he could have ever asked for, but something was still missing. As he falls asleep each night, many of which in another city after a meeting with another musician, Pablo can still feel the buildings suffocating him and the time ticking away. He never returned to Spain, afraid of his own home and his own family, and the situation he left them in- scared to face the life he left behind. Most importantly, he never heard from his father again. Pablo now faced a new question- Was this all worth it? Did he make the right decision? I, Pablo Pollock, firmly state: No, he did not. Nothing is more important than family. 45

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Love, Loss, and Longing An Assortment of Poetry written by Emma Zwickel Love’s Waltz Emma Zwickel Love prances through, Forests haunted with malicious creatures, And dark, angry skies, As if she is dancing with sunshine, Instead of gray, stormy clouds. The nighttime consumes her, Initiating her pulse, Lifting and Levitating her spirit, In erratic patterns, And enlightening paths. Love prefers the night, Not for its isolating nature, But for the quiet that, Sparks dreams too bold, To take place at noon. But when dawn comes, Her dynamic character retreats, Back to an abandoned alleyway, Where she recovers from the war, Within her soul. Sometimes Love spends afternoons crying, Because it is never easy to grasp, Unrequited feelings, That may never unbruise the skin, And will undoubtedly leave a scar. But love is pure and naive, 47

Like a demure toddler, she stumbles, Between night and day, And though unexplainable emotions, Keep her occupied, The light in her eyes never escapes. Bruised By Emma Zwickel We are but shadows of our old selves, Cocoons wrapped up in hazardous waste, Whirlwinds of anxiety and depression, Throbbing bruises of raging hate. Swingsets and monkey bars have been long forgotten, Replaced by tears and endless bouts of sleep. Childhood is a concept meant to last only a while. Who know that life was so discreet? Secrets are the products of held in feelings, Of youths embedded in lies and mistakes. Now, one small slip, one wrong turn, Could cause sullen gray clouds to precipitate. When did the weather take such a turn? When did the walls holding us in place begin to burn? It starts with opening the doors, Allowing ourselves to discover we’ve been tricked, Screaming at the adults who’ve deceived us, And being left with only one shoe that fits. We wish to go back in time, To be reintroduced to the colorful world we once knew. But then we’d be lying to ourselves like those before us did, So instead of black and white, we paint the world black and blue. 48

Gravity’s Pull By Emma Zwickel Beneath the strings that bind me to reality, Beyond the walls that block out the summer sun, Is desire. A yearn for a chemistry not found in textbooks, A wish for that impossible fairytale ending, A longing for something long forbidden. Every crevice of my body, Every glimpse inside the inner workings of my mind, Is fastened to you. You are not yet tangible, Attainable or real, Yet, I feel you in every breath I take, And see you in every dream I dare dream. Please come to life, Please hold me close to your chest, As if I am a treasured belonging begging to be rediscovered. Let life not be so laborious, Let eternal torment exit from existence, Let gravity glide you into my arms. Beneath the strings that bind me to reality, Beyond the walls that block out the summer sun, Is the Universe. Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus. So many of the planets revolve around you. Please tell me that in your eyes, The Earth revolves around me. 49