2020 Teen Writers Anthology

TEEN WRITERS INSTITUTE ANTHOLOGY JULY 20 - JULY 24, 2020 “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” –​ William Wadsworth

Welcome to our 2020 edition of the Teen Writers Anthology! We are so proud of the work we accomplished this week! We took risks, grew as writers and joined this unique format of a writer’s community. Thank you to all who contributed to this amazing compilation of creative writing. We hope you enjoy every minute.

We honored our golden lines! We personified Qualities! We revised our work!

Author’s Page Bianca Bacon w​ ill be a freshman at Brooklyn Latin next year. She loves track and soccer, as well as art. Her piece was inspired by her interest in historical fiction writing. Jane Canfield​ is a rising Senior at Oakwood Friends School and she found her love for writing when she read Alice in Wonderland in First Grade. She enjoys playing guitar, taking pictures, mario kart, and listening to music. Her piece in the anthology was inspired by the song Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac, one of her favorites. Solana Cantu ​will be a junior at New Paltz High School next year! She made the characters from her story off of a drawing she made two months ago, and then got way too invested during character development. She likes writing, baking and jellyfish. Owen Carso​ is going into the eighth grade at the Delaware Valley Middle School. In the third grade, he wrote short, illustrated stories by hand and gave them out for a small price. Owen enjoys incorporating history, fantasy, and authenticity into his writing. He plays the piano and the clarinet. His piece in the Anthology was inspired by a character who listens to jazz music. Serenity Colon i​ s on her way to the high school in New Paltz, she has been doing this camp for five years now. This camp had gotten her into writing, and she hasn't stopped writing since. She has tried all sorts of writing, fantasy, sci-fi, script, etc. but she has found a liking to drama and horror. Sarah Cunningham i​ s going to be a freshman at New Paltz High School, and has fun writing adventures and interesting characters. Evangeline De Marco​ is going to be an 8th grader at Washingtonville Middle school. She loves to be pulled into the different dimensions the authors created while writing. She also loves baking and drawing. Her piece is inspired by all the different books she’s read and past drafts that she’s written. Arden Delehanty​ will be an eighth grader at Hunter’s Point Community Middle School as of fall 2020. She loves to read, and it was her love of reading that got her into writing. She hopes to one day finish writing (and maybe publish?) a book. Her Anthology piece is inspired by a photograph.

Paola-Marie Eulie​ is going to be an 8th grader in Saint John Vianney School from California. She loves reading, baking, and drawing. She writes because she’s always liked doing it except when she was 4 her writing was a bit crummy. This week was pretty fun except for the fact it was over zoom and she had to wake up at 5:40 in the morning. She loves the shows I Love Lucy, Criminal Minds, Monk, and Charmed (the reboot). She has just started to watch Legacies and is thinking of watching Stranger Things. Her anthology piece is inspired by a song. Jared Heggenstaller​ will be entering ninth grade at the beginning of the next year. He enjoys writing and reading satire, as well as reading pretty much anything else. This is his second year at the Teen Writers Academy. Camden Holland-Shepler​ will be a junior at New Paltz High School. He enjoys playing video games, reading all genres of books (maybe not romance) and playing his guitar as much as he can. He inherited his aptitude for writing from his mom, who is an English Professor at Suny New Paltz. He hopes to continue writing through high school and college and maintain his craft. His piece was inspired by a vintage photograph of three men sitting in what looked like an industrial labor facility of some kind. He decided it was a train yard. Anne Lemek ​is a rising senior at New Paltz High School. Her hobbies include playing soccer, sleeping, and writing snarky characters and poetry. During the camp, there was an activity where she had to write something based on a vintage photograph. She chose a photograph of two boys wearing goggles and colander-like hats. An excerpt from the piece she wrote is what she chose to include in the anthology. Amaya Mackie​ is going to be a Freshman at HSAS. She is a lover of music, reading and Broadway showtunes. She enjoys reading the books T​ he Outsiders​ and A​ ll the Bright Places.​ For this piece she drew inspiration from the song​ Sami b​ y Darren Criss. Jahnvi Mundra w​ ill be a freshman at Arlington High School. One of her hobbies is writing, especially poems. She likes how free you can be with poetry, and how anything or anyone can be turned into a poem. She plays tennis, does Indian classical dance, and plays flute, along with her love for reading and drawing. The inspiration for my poem was from the activity we did, where we had to personify a character trait or quality. Norah Nielson​ is a rising sophomore at New Paltz High School. She enjoys playing soccer and hiking as well as writing and drawing and reading. She also loves to create new characters and storylines. She especially likes writing fantasy, fiction, and sci-fi, but she loves all genres. The inspiration for her piece was two of the stories we wrote earlier this week plus some elements of an adventuring story that she is writing.

Rosie Savelson​ has been on this Earth for 16 years and in that time has seen, heard, done, and learned lots of things. For example she learned how to read and also how to speak. Her piece this week was inspired by a song that she thinks is very good. Rachel Thorne​ is a rising freshman at Beacon High School. She is on the cross-country/ track team and also enjoys reading and music. Her piece was inspired by the book of qualities. Ariel Yarmus i​ s a rising junior at Cornwall Central High School. Writing is one of her greatest passions. She mostly enjoys writing poetry, but she also loves exploring other genres of writing. Besides writing, Ariel enjoys reading, hiking, and petting her bird, Karol. Ariel’s piece is based upon the song “Golden Slumbers” by The Beatles, and she began writing it through an activity during the camp. She thanks all of the wonderful teachers for pushing her this week. Virginia Zengen i​ s a freshman at Upton Lake Christian School. She spends most of her time working on her novel, drawing and writing to help boost it forward. She enjoys rainy days, character design, and english breakfast tea. Her main inspiration for her piece was the song “Turn off The Lights”, an unreleased song by Panic! At the Disco, featuring two of her characters from a personal project of hers. She thanks anyone who took the time to read her story.

Bianca Bacon Behind Bars Behind the metal fence… The young girl sat curled up, her knees tucked to her chest. She shook, fearfully, her hands caked with filth and blood. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders. She had worn the same clothes for countless days, She wasn’t sure how long she had been here or where she was going. But her stomach ached with hunger. She clasped her hands around her stuffed animal, a faded blue bear. She longed to be home in Poland, with her family. Her mother’s soup, the familiar smell of paint from her father’s artwork, and the fresh flowers in the garden. She had never felt so lost or alone. An angry officier was pacing the area, yelling at anyone and everyone. Sophie recognized neighbors, friends. The restaurant owner, the florist, and a boy from school. “Would you like some water?” a kind voice said. It was a woman carrying food and supplies. She nodded. She had tried to say “thank you” but her voice came out raspy. The guards yelled “ Aufstehen!” Meaning, “ get up.” Sophie clutched her stuffed bear and stood up. She hadn’t brought clothes, food, or much of anything. They told the adults to get in a separate line than the children. Her parents were gone. She wasn’t sure where they went or what had happened to them, but they were forced on a train with other parents. They promised her they would find her. That they would return and be together again. They promised her they would come back. She let herself be pushed into a group of strangers and shoved onto a train. The railroad car reeked. A few days later, she arrived at a large field with small bunk houses. She worked endless hours carrying baskets full of goods and food to the soldiers, cleaned their quarters, and more. She was always hungry. A piece of bread and occasional fruit just wasn’t enough. But she didn’t dare complain. She lay in her bed each night praying that soon, one day her parents would come find her. They could go back home again. One particular day, as she was carrying blankets and sheets to the headquarters, a boy ran after her. “Sophie? I can help you.” Sophie had barely spoken to Oliver, the quiet boy in her school. “We can leave in the middle of the night. There’s an opening at the bottom of the fence.” Sophie thought this idea was crazy. She was afraid of getting caught. Besides, where would she go? She had no idea where she was or how to get home. But as day after day passed, she became more and more determined to find her parents. She finally agreed to go with Oliver if he helped her look for her parents. Late that night, there was only one or two guards on watch, they looked tired and didn’t seem alert. Oliver knocked on Sophie’s bunks door. They got all the way to the fence. Oliver went first, and whispered for Sophie to hurry up. That’s when they heard the voice. “Who’s There?” A flashlight was pointed at Sophie. Stunned, she stood in her nightdress, paralyzed in fear. “Where do you think you’re going?” She opened her mouth but nothing came out. The officer yelled something in German into the darkness. She heard footsteps. She clasped her golden necklace. It had a ruby hanging from it. Her one prized possession, it was given to her from her mother. It had been passed

through generations in her family. Then it hit her. Her necklace. She thought desperately, it must be worth a lot of money. “Wait, please,” Sophie said. She took her necklace off, holding it out to the guard. He looked at it, looked at her, then grabbed it. “Go. Now.” She squeezed under the fence and ran off in the darkness with Oliver. She couldn’t believe she had just given up her necklace. She could only imagine how upset her mother would be. 4 months later, Sophie was home. It had taken ages and the help of many people to get back home. Her town was practically deserted, with the exception of a few neighbors. She opened her door and practically collapsed on the floor. She did it. Somehow, she did it. She was home. “Mother? Father?” She called.yh The house was exactly the way she remembered. Her bedsheets tucked in, the books on the table, and the framed pictures, it was all too familiar. She had clung onto the small sliver of hope that her parents would be home. They would be home, waiting for her, with open arms, ready to envelop her in hugs and smiles. They said they would come back, she thought. They promised. Where are they? She ran over to bakery next door, and asked her neighbors, the old couple if they had seen her parents here. Did they come back? Where were they now? They looked at her sadly, as though she was a delicate flower, a moment away from wilting. “Honey, I’m so sorry. They aren’t coming back.” ‘What do you mean they’re not coming back?” Sophie yelled. “They promised me.” They’re gone.” Jane Canfield The Tale of Rhiannon the Outlaw (inspired by “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac) Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night. She blows through towns on the backs of Harley Davidsons, and you’ll n​ ever​ see her coming. Her long flowing hair dances playfully with the wind as she speeds through the streets with a different stranger each night. She never stays in one place for too long,-- you’d be lucky to even catch a glimpse of her. Throughout the Western mountains, you’ll hear stories of a “witch woman” whose cowboy boots clicking on the pavement can be heard from at least two state lines away. If you listen close enough, three state lines away. No one knows who Rhiannon is or where she came from. Some believe she’s an outlaw, running from authority because she killed a man. Others believe she’s only a myth, and that no one has ever truly seen her, but are too prideful to admit they had lied. Of course, if you knew Rhiannon, and not many did, you would know that she had been running for a very good reason. Growing up, she wasn’t any different from the other girls. She dreamt about having a family, white picket fences, and all the other things they tell little girls to dream about. She had never been one to run. But then again, she wasn’t sure if she had ever had

anything to run from until that night. Rhiannon had been running for so many years, that her life before had begun to feel like someone else’s story from a book she’d never read. Solana Cantu Class of ‘09 It was three days after graduation, and Ellie Voss was doing her eyeliner in her mirror. The lights custom-set around the mirror made her face glow, and Amanda sat up on the bed to watch her reflection. “You know, it’s weird seeing you in the morning with no eyeliner.” “I used to not wear it.” Ellie said in a low voice, leaning so close it seemed like she was about to dive into the mirror. “I started sophomore year. Remember?” “Yes, you were just so inspired by me and my bright colors.” Amanda cheerfully jumped out of bed and began to change for the day, but immediately got a shirt lobbed at her by Ellie. “Go shower before you change. You’re nasty.” After making fun of Ellie a bit for looking at her while she was changing, Amanda obliged and walked down the hallway, towel in hand. The shower had clear doors and stones embedded in the floor, and Amanda stared at her own freckled face reflected in the glass. Ever since graduation, Amanda had basically lived at Ellie’s house. The plan wasn’t spoken aloud, she had just gone there after graduation and never left. Staying multiple nights at Ellie’s wasn’t unheard of, but this time was different as both were painfully aware this was the last summer in Paloma, California the two would spend together. Ellie had been enrolled in a top law college by her parents in California, and Amanda (who no one thought would ever make it to college) had been accepted into what seemed to be a pretty good art school in New York City. Ellie, who was of course happy for her, had initially acted like some kind of sacred promise had been broken. It wasn’t just her; most of their friends had expected the two to stick together somehow, even though the two were on very different paths from the start. Somewhere in the middle of freshman year, they became inseparable. People thought Amanda was a foster kid because she never went to her own house after school. To find one of them, their friends would look for the other. During junior year, some forgettable boyfriend had cheated on Ellie, and Amanda had punched him in the face. It was just logic, sunflowers turn towards the sun, the tides are caused by the moon, and Amanda and Ellie are meant to stay together Amanda was studying the design on her shirt when Ellie opened the door suddenly, causing her to flinch. “Hey ginger, meet me in the car and bring your paints. I have something to show you.” “Listen, I get that you want a good canvas, but do you really have to clean the whole thing?” “E​ llie this is an essential part of the process the final image might be ruined if I don’t clean it thoroughly before I apply paint.​ ” Amanda said all in one breath while vigorously scrubbing the wall of what seemed to be an abandoned house? Store? Either way, it was pretty far out, and it

was perfect for Amanda to practice graffiti on. Ellie, who had been skating behind her, grabbed her skateboard and peered over her shoulder. “You have a plan for this?” Amanda showed her famous gap-toothed grin and handed her the sketchbook. Looking at the sketch, Ellie’s eyes widened. “It’s us. I thought I could make something to commemorate our time here. ‘Class of 2009-’ you know, that whole thing. This color OK for your eyeliner?” Ellie tore her eyes off the sketch of her face and saw the electric blue. “Um, yeah, sure.” Watching Amanda work was like watching some kind of elaborate dance, and she talked throughout, loudly discussing color theory and throwing spray paint cans around. She even got Ellie to paint in broad circular strokes at the bottom of her portrait (“Just add whatever color! I can give you credit!) which Amanda turned into cheerfully blooming flowers. They finished around sunset, when Amanda grabbed a can of black paint and wrote over the neon background- ‘Class of 09- Immortal forever- by Amanda- Eleanor helped.’ “Immortal forever- that’s dramatic.” Ellie said, looking over the final project. Amanda snorted, throwing the cans back in her bag. “We might as well be! Your weird outfits are gonna live on in this school’s memory forever.” “My outfits are tame compared to yours.” “You wore ten inch combat boots to prom!” The two walked back to Ellie’s dad’s car, talking and laughing as they always did. Each of them would leave the town before the year was over. But the mural would remain, long enough for others to see, tourists and teenagers, each wondering who these kids were, one with a gap toothed grin and the other with neon blue eyeliner. Owen Carson The Golden Watch Robert paced the room anxiously as he pondered the day’s events. He recalled the thief’s letter: D​ ear Robert,​ I​ have hacked into your bank account and have taken from it every last penny. If you tell anyone of this matter, I will harm your child, Luke, whom I have captured. Tonight, come to the address listed at the bottom of this page and hand me your golden watch. Then, I will give you back either your child or your wealth. I will destroy the option you deny. Robert pulled his golden watch from his pocket. In Paris, where he’d grown up, his father had gifted him a beautiful golden pocket watch. He examined its ornate designs in awe. This item, he realized, was worth more money that he had in his life’s savings. That was why the thief desired it. Robert sat down atop his wide sofa. His wife, Margaret, would return from work any minute, and he’d have to explain what was going on. However, he did not want to trouble his wife. It was h​ is​ watch the thief desired. He decided he shouldn’t tell her.

Robert’s apartment was vast. It was filled with beautiful vases, exotic carpets, ornate woodwork, and magnificent sculptures. However, all these items were worth nothing compared to the small item in his hands: the watch. Robert decided that he had no choice but to hand over the watch. Then, which stolen item should he ask for in exchange? The money stolen from his bank account, or his son Luke? Of course I should ask for my son Luke! R​ ob thought. But why, then, was there an immoral desire tugging at his soul? Why did he desperately want back the wealth that was rightfully his? Rob threw his hands up in frustration, still continuing to pace his parlor. He glanced out the city window into Manhattan. Somewhere, out there, among the darkness pierced by thousands of lights, was his wealth. And his son. Robert had already called his son Luke countless times that night. Not once did he answer. Normally, Luke always responded; he’d do anything to talk to his parents. Luke was abducted and Robert knew it. Luke was trapped with the thief. If Robert asked for Luke in exchange for the watch, then both the watch a​ nd R​ ob’s life’s savings would belong to the thief. Would the thief truly destroy so much wealth? Or would he keep it for himself like the greedy scoundrel he was? Robert panicked. What would he do without the money needed to rent his apartment? Where would he go? Robert stomped his foot furiously. Time was running out. He wanted to hurl the watch out the window and watch as it plummeted toward the distant ground, smashing into pieces as it struck the sidewalk. He wished the watch had never existed. He wished none of this had ever happened. Robert was exhausted. His brain whirled with fury, frustration, and sorrow as he contemplated his next move. He glanced around the room for the hundredth time, pondering all the effort he’d put in to accumulating so much wealth. He’d spent years working incredibly hard as a lawyer, knowing that one day, he’d benefit from his efforts. Now that he was retired, he could finally spend his seemingly endless fortune. He could go on cruises, go to the beach, buy a yacht--but none of that mattered. If he took back his son Luke, his years of hard work would’ve been for nothing. His prosperity would instantly vanish. Robert, for the first time, realized how fortunate he was. As he wandered through his immense apartment, he examined all of his many belongings, remembering all the money it had cost to acquire them. He paused when he noticed a framed portrait displayed atop a shelf. In the portrait were he, Margaret, and all their children lounging at a Caribbean beach. It was fondly that Robert peered at the photo; every second he gazed at it brought back another sparkling memory. My children have worked so hard to impress me, ​Robert realized. ​It would be such a shame if I lost Luke. ​Luke had dropped out of college only months after admission. He’d moved in with his parents and gotten a job at a local retail store. But his work habits weren’t ideal.

Three times since he’d moved in, he’d been fired from his job. It was only most recently that he finally moved out. Luke will never be as successful as me, R​ obert thought angrily. He’d put so much time into raising that boy, so much effort. Luke didn’t possess the work ethic Robert had. Luke didn’t plan decades ahead like Robert did. Luke lived “in the moment,” and Robert hated him for it. Perhaps his demise wouldn’t be such a tragedy. “No!” Robert yelled, scared of his own thoughts. What had the thief done to his mind? Why must the thief pose him with so hard a question? Robert recalled the hours he’d spent at Luke’s side helping the boy with homework. “I look forward to the day when you’ll be admitted into law school,” he’d told his son. Luke had gazed up at his father, his eyes dismal. Robert had never bothered to ponder what ​Luke wanted. Now, looking back, it seemed that Luke had been pleading for understanding. “I won’t let you down, father,” Luke had replied quietly each time. What had those words meant? I​ won’t let you down.​ Was Luke promising that he’d follow in his father’s footsteps? Why hadn’t he said so, then? Was Luke perhaps suggesting that, even if his future looked different from Robert’s past, that he would nevertheless make Robert proud? Robert recalled the last time he and Luke had spoken over the phone. “Aren’t you proud of me, father?” Luke had asked. Robert hadn’t replied. “Of course I’m proud of you,” he should’ve said. Although Luke’s future was uncertain, Robert had no reason to be disappointed. Robert recalled his earlier thoughts concerning the years of hard work he’d put into accumulating so much wealth. He then considered the years of hard work he’d put into raising his son Luke. Luke had grown up to be a charismatic, generous, loyal young man. Robert couldn’t be more proud. Robert sighed and glanced one more time at the watch that had caused him so much pain. This watch would cost him either his wealth or his son. He took a deep breath and approached the door, having finally decided which option he’d choose. He remembered the thief’s words: ​I’ll destroy the option you deny. Robert stepped outside and peered at his belongings for a long time, his eyes stopping once more on the portrait of him, Margaret, and his children. He took a deep breath and closed the door behind him.

Serenity Colon *Will be submitted at a later date Sarah Cunningham The Time Runner Talia was ​not​ supposed to be stuck behind a stupid wall in 1891. When she was told that she would be a time traveler, she didn’t think that she would be listening in to a meaningless conversation between two men, one thin and one muscular, at a noisy London tavern from behind a crack in the wall. ​Geez, I can’t even hear you people through your accents. S​ he thought. Pulling a small notepad from her dress pockets, she tried to jot down what she could hear from the suspects’ conversation. “I have… from Southampton.” “Bloody hell Micheal, I told … get the stronger one.” “... didn’t have it, idiot.” “... get … self.” “... with you.” Rats skittered around Thalia’s boots as the men started to leave. Thalia scooted sideways until she made it to the alleyway, where oil lamps cast deep shadows on the faces of passersbys in the night. She took a deep breath of not-so-dusty air that wasn’t available in the wall before glancing over at the two men about to leave in a carriage “Hello, sirs.” She approached them, “Do either of you know where I can find a decent hotel around here? One with no vermin, please?” “Sorry, can’t help you. Busy.” The first man said, gruffly in a typical Manchester accent. Thalia frowned. “George, don’t be rude.” The second man said with a more scholarly voice, “Pardon my friend here, he’s had too much to drink, I’d say. My name is Michel Scott.” “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scott, I’m Eliane Moore.” Thalia shook Micheal’s hand. “Do you know where I can find a non-infested hotel?” Micheal looked over at George with a pleading look. “Fine.” George said. “Of course we’ll help you, would you like a ride to the Fox and Anchor?” Thalia wasn’t sure that she could trust these men, but she needed to talk to them for information. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

Thalia stepped into the carriage and sat on the wooden seats that would have certainly given her splinters, if it weren’t for her numerous petticoats. “How far is this hotel, anyways?” Thalia asked nervously. Ignoring her question Micheal asked, “So, you’re an American then?” “Yep, I've got the accent to go with it.” She took this moment to mention, “And I’m also a journalist. I’m doing a piece on the average English man.” “Really?” “Would you care to answer some questions for me?” “Well, why not?” Thalia readied her pen like a scorpion about to strike paper. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Scott?” “I’m a- a transporter of goods.” Thalia raised a bushy eyebrow, “Tell me more about these goods.” “Well I do all sorts of chemicals and laboratory equipment-” Micheal was abruptly stopped by a whack in the back of the head from George. “Shut up, stupid.” Thalia’s eyes widened, these were definitely the people who would lead her to the person in the center of her mission if she played her cards right.” “So, what company do you work for?” She pried. “Look, Yankee,” George sat forward, with the top of his head almost scraping the ceiling of the carriage, “I know that you think that we don’t know that you know who we are. But guess what, the game is up. We know you're one of those agency-time-traveling scum.” “What? Woah, just because I’m from America,” Thalia lied, “Doesn’t mean that I’m, what did you say? A time traveler? That’s ridiculous.” “Oh yeah? Where in America are you from?” “Quebec?” “That’s in Canada. My brother lives there, so I know.” George crossed his arms and tucked his chin up in pride. Micheal looked at him, impressed. “Oh well, you got me-” Thalia whipped out her tranquilizer pills and stuffed them in George’s mouth. She jabbed him in his Jian Jing pressure point, causing his body to spasm and swallow the sleeping “aid”. George collapsed on the floor, snoring. Thalia heard the telltale sound of a blade being pulled from its sheath. Spinning around with her weight half on her feet and half on the wooden bench, she saw Micheal with a short knife shining as brightly as his insanely lit eyes. “Well, you look a bit crazy, don’t you?” Thalia mumbled. “Just crazy about killing you, time traveler!” He yelled. Thalia took out her own knife, and Micheal charged. Thalia side-stepped to the left, and Micheal busted his knee on the bench. He yelped, and she stabbed him in his skinny thigh.

She glanced out the window, and was shocked to see that the carriage was not in a metropolitan area anymore. She knocked heavily on the wall facing where the driver sat, and the carriage slowed to a halt. Thalia jumped out, and very ungracefully, tripped over her skirt. “Ow.” She said, here face and hands in the dirt. She looked up at the driver,who was now standing right in front of her. Right in Thalia’s face was a small handgun. She took in a shaky breath of fear as she stared down the barrel. “I think it’s time that you meet the boss.” He whacked her head with the butt of the gun, and she passed out on the dirt road. Evangeline De Marco The Crack in the Wall The crack in the wall was always there. Before we were born before my parents were born no one knows why it’s there or what may be in it. One night one of my brothers Damien dared us to go into the crack and because of my small frame I was picked. I told them I didn’t want to but they didn’t listen, so as Damien pushed me towards the wall my anxiety was creeping up. As I put my head in I saw a new world, one of Fairy tales. I gasped, and cool air entered my lungs. There was a tower, seventy feet high, covered in flowering vines and encircled with fairies. The voice of a young maiden called with harmony from the top of the tower, where the round roof scraped against the dazzling blue sky. I fell back on our linoleum floor, now seeming drab and plain. My eyes shone with Life and Excitement. \"Damien!\" “Damien it was amazing! A huge tower! And fairies! And…” “Oh come on Zoe, quit messing around.” Damien put his head in the hole - the same hole I just looked through. “There’s just dust and some cobwebs.” He scoffed at me. “What? No! There was this whole different world I swear!” I stuck my head in and was blown away again at the beautiful world I saw. I felt like I was dreaming. I had to be dreaming. I had to know if this was a dream, I took a step forward. But when I turned around, the hole - and Damien - was gone. “Damien-” I yelled. I looked around for him but saw nothing but a large field filled with flowers, “Where am I?” I panicked and began to run down the hill, but it was just fields until I saw smoke. “ A chimney.” I mumbled quickly sprinting towards the town, instead of finding any normal person, it was a fairy. They all had different styles of wings; and colors. They all quickly stared at me, they began to talk. “Who is that girl.”

“How is she here.” “Is it Lucy?” Lucy was my mother, she had disappeared years ago, “How do you know my mother.” And so one one of the fae stepped forward “she was here many years ago” WHAT?!​ I thought my eyes were widening “but she disappeared from home years ago. So if she isn’t home and she isn’t here where is she ” “We don’t know she left around 12 or 11 years ago” Another one said “we don’t know where she is but our queen may. We can take you there” “Yes please thank you. ”I replied gratefully as we started walking towards what seemed to be the center of the city. As we got closer to the markets I saw more faeries with beautiful wings of all different colors and the clothes were all made of what seemed to be a sheer iridescent fabric that looked beautiful in the sun. As we walked down the street the fae seemed to all stop what they were doing and looked at me. Whispers started to flood the square as we made our way down a pathway. I looked up and I saw a bewitching palace. All I wanted to do was run in there and walk across the crystal floors, run my hand across the gentle fabric of the drapes and gaze down from the exquisite spires all different designs and colors but all sparkling in the sun. I shook myself out of it and the faerie-I never got her name- led me down a hallway that led to a room so grand kings in the otherworld would beg for a chance just to gaze upon it. Everything seemingly gold but if you look close there are other shimmering colors that seemed to add to the magic. And upon a magnificent throne was a faerie so beautiful her wings not iridescent but bold sharp colors all blending together. As we enter the faerie kneels and says “your Majesty, we found a girl that looks like Lucy did when she first got here. ” This made the queen’s sharp calculating eyes land on me. “Very well return to your post.” She said with a regal air that said ’no one can disobey me’ “Thank you your majesty.” the faerie girl said and quickly got up to run out. The fae queen got up and circled me “So. You're the girl who is causing a commotion in my kingdom.” “I’m sorry your Majesty I didn’t mean to. I was playing around with my brothers and got trapped here” I said trying to remedy the situation. The queen didn’t say anything, just continued to look at me, I started to get nervous. She was really intimidating. I mean she was a queen while I was just a teenage girl. “I will help you get home just as I helped Lucy” She finally said after what seemed like hours under her piercing gaze. Well then I’m not really sure I want your help after all my mom never got home, I​ thought

Arden Delehanty Traveled: Lady Kensington bustled along the path strewn with fallen leaves, gazing upon the barren brown trees with distaste. The time between fall and winter was utterly boring. She couldn’t see nor sniff the array of flowers that bloomed in the spring or pick blackberries for her little cousins in the summertime. Now, all of this huffing and puffing about the seasons was rather unladylike, and she had tired herself out. In the most proper way that she could, she leaned against the cobblestone wall. Except the wall wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Well not nothing; something. This had happened before, happened to her. But she didn’t know this yet. - -- She stumbled backwards, and with nothing to support her, she tumbled down a hill towards a stream and blacked out. When she awoke, she lay in a soft bed of seagrass. Not she. Her little self. You see, this was not then-present-day Lady Kensington, no. This was Anastasia Kensington, seven year old Lady Kensington. Her thin blonde hair, now dark and wet, billowed about her like jellyfish tentacles. She wore a white smock dress with green and lilac flower detailing around the bodice and short puff sleeves. She was barefoot, and her green eyes shone in the light refracting through the water as she woke up. She began to float, letting the water carry her downstream and the sun hit the freckles dotting her nose as she regained her senses and thoughts. Her pale hands clenched and unclenched, and her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. She watched as a happy family of otters zipped through the pale blue water as if in a race. As she looked towards the shore, she saw blackberry bushes that she knew she had picked from, but she had no recollection of ever seeing them. ‘Most peculiar.’ she thought. But it was the words “Most peculiar,” that she heard. Her gaze left the shore she had been looking at and instead shifted the shore opposite of it. There stood an old woman. Her hair was shades of silver, white, and grey, going in all kinds of wild directions, and a blue jay perched right in the center with its speckled eggs. Her skin was rich and wrinkled, and chunky jade green spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose. Her body was swathed in beautiful fabrics in a vast array of colors, and she carried an empty basket made of woven reeds. Then everything stopped. Almost everything. The birds froze mid flight, the fish stopped swimming, the flowers and the tree branches stopped swaying in the breeze, the water paused it’s flowing. “Come along now dearie! There are things to do, and time will not obey me forever!” the woman said, beckoning to her and beginning to wander off towards the seemingly boundless forest. “Wait! Who are you?” Anastasia said, finding that she too could move. She wade to the banks and ran to catch up with the mystifying woman, who was surprisingly fast. The woman seemed not to hear.

Time resumed again as the woman picked herbs and berries that Anastasia had never seen before from the nature that surrounded her, which seemed to bend at her will. Roots moved in order for her to not trip. Branches reached straight upwards when she passed so not to hit her. She followed the woman for what appeared to be hours, passing brightly colored doors in wide trees of all species and some just floating in thin air. Finally, the woman stopped. “I am Althea, Keeper of the Realms. I came here today for you, dear Tasia. It appears to be that you have Traveled. Traveled in a way that mortals almost never do. You have Traveled not only through Time, but through Realms, causing slight disturbance, including in yourself. You have done this before. Your memories may be jumbled! It is most peculiar. Even I do not know how to help you. It is up to you. Goodbye, dear child. Stay safe!” And with that, she vanished, leaving only footprints in the springy moss and a faint but distinct scent for Tasia to realise that this was ​not​ a dream. Paola-Marie Eulie Magic Case Files: Secret Agent Madeline Hellfire Case No.1 Night in New York City was cold and the streets were filled with sketchy people. But on this Thursday at 1:23 in the morning you could see in the shadows a young woman in a supposed hurry as she briskly weaved in between people, eager to get to this one destination. It was a restaurant, a french restaurant the doorways lined with flower pots and a big sign in neon lights and bubble letters. The fancy ushers opened the door for her and she sat at a table near the window. She wasn’t waiting for anyone and when the waitress came over she ordered coffee and a chocolate mousse. The girl’s black hair was wet, indicating she had been walking in the rain for quite some time. Her wet hair was pressed against her light brown skin making her fiery orange eyes glow brighter. She began enjoying her chocolate mousse when the musicians began playing a jazz song. She hates it but that’s the least of her worries. The woman keeps glancing behind her, expecting to find a monster or a demon. But nothing is there and when she decides it’s safe she snaps her fingers. A file appears with stacks of papers and photos of people who had been brutally murdered. These people weren’t murdered by humans because if they were The Magic Council wouldn’t be asking her to help with the case. The witch sighed as she closely read every bit and scrawled her name on the last page on the dotted line, accepting the mission handed to her by the council. Madeline C. Hellfire Then Madeline incinerated the file, her decision done and one second later Madeline was gone. *******************************************

Jared Heggenstaller Layers Amelia reached down and placed the box at the bottom of the closet. It was an act that took care and time, one that she would never rush. However, today she could not afford to complete the ritual. She had a class in fifteen minutes, and it would take twelve to drive to school. Her small house was in the rearview mirror as she drove away from it, her foot pressing down on the gas pedal. There was a delicate balance between speed and safety, one that fluttered on a razors edge. Being late for class would dock points from her overall score, something she could not afford to happen. She pulled into her designated parking space, and raced off to class. A few furtive glances down the hallway revealed no passerby, so she continued her run down it. Amelia stopped a few paces before reaching the doorway to class, and took a movement to compose herself and check her watch. She wasn’t late. The door to the classroom was made of a dark brown wood. She had always wondered why it was different compared to all the other rooms. Professor Hayes sat at his desk at the front of the room. His papers lay in a disordered pile before him, and a model of a human skull perched on the side. He would always joke that it was a student that had failed his tests. The room was about half empty when Amelia entered. The class was inexplicably early in the morning, and was rarely taken on purpose. Amelia preferred it to later classes. The quiet atmosphere made it easier to work in peace. She took a seat near the edge of the room, adjacent to a window. It was just light enough to brighten the desk, but not enough to scald her eyes. As she sat down, Hayes tapped his pen against the desk. The professor was reached over to the black board and began drawing in chalk. He hummed quietly as he did this, not even bothering to officially start class. When he stepped aside, a fine model drawing of a brain lay on the board. “Now,” Hayes began, “Can someone tell me what this is?” He tapped the chalk on the front section of the drawing. Amelia raised her hand. “That’s the frontal lobe.” The professor nodded slightly, and spoke again. “The frontal lobe of the brain is very important to function. It controls speech, planning, behaviour and even our emotions.” He continued to lecture in a flat drone, with each sentence punctuated with the scratching of pens. “Injuries to the frontal lobe can cause paralysis, loss of interest in activities, difficulty speaking…’ The professor's voice rang strangely against her ears mimicking words she had spoken only a few short years ago. It had been in a doctors office. A routine checkup, one that had occurred every year. Her mother's hand had been dry and papery, and her voice whispered. The doctors had first asked about the headaches, and then other things. Amelia remembered her voice, how she had talked about the difficulty speaking, the strange inability to move.

The doctors had decided on a CT scan. That had been followed up with a biopsy, which Amelia had found terrifying. The very idea of a needle in her mother's brain repelled her. Yet the doctors assured that the process was safe, and the alternative to not knowing what was in her mother's skull was worse. The diagnosis fell like a hammer. Her mother had handled it with the dignity and grace of someone who is certain that they will die; however, she did not die quickly. The cancer burrowed through her like some sort of demonic tree, its roots reaching into her body and poisoning it. Chemotherapy and radiation only seemed to make her sicker, to the point at which she refused to go to treatments. In eight months Amelia watched her mother transform from the person she had known her whole life to an urn of ashes on the mantle. She quit her job, and aided her mother around the clock, moving back into her childhood home. Medical bills were luckily covered by insurance. Amelia’s father had sold insurance, before he left them for another country. However, he had given them a plan that would protect them their whole lives. Amelia found it ironic that he had helped them more after he left than when he had been there. Amelia’s inheritance had been small, but it had been enough. Enough for the first semester at medical school, a small, unprestigious one, but a school nonetheless. She had started out wanting to do cancer research, but now wasn’t as sure. Her grades were better than average, but she believed that was only because of sheer determination and willpower; as well as many hours spent studying late at night. And now that left her here, in anatomy class. Camden Holland-Shepler Untitled Story Their boots clattered against the steel rebar, rhythmic and along with the tune. A cigarette hung from each of their mouths, charred ash dropping to the mundane earth, hardly seen at all. They all had their own slight smile, whether expressed as an actual grin, or a quiet peace. Frankie sat to the right, Stew to the left and Tom in the middle. They were all on break, a midday peace from the grueling work they each faced. All three friends wore similar tattered work clothes. Frankie stuck out from the bunch, wearing a blue conductor’s hat. Tom’s always telling him: “Frankie, you’re not a god damn conductor, why you always wearing that thing?” And he’d always respond with: “Maybe someday I will.” Or, “Shut up Tom.” If it was the latter Tom would turn away and silently smile. Sometimes he would remark on Frankie’s questionable strategy to be consistently mistook for a conductor until someone just gave him the job. Frankie was a kind person and a good friend, but he was always filled with these wishy-washy things called ‘hopes and dreams.’ Tom wasn’t about to go and tell him off or

throw water in his face, but he never shared his optimism. Maybe he should. Here Frankie was sitting to his right, always to his right, daydreaming about the middle class and cloth napkins. Sometimes they’d all be silent in their thoughts and feelings, only speaking when somebody came by needing an extra hand. But sometimes Frankie would go on and on about what was on his mind, barely pausing to take a breath (Tom and Stew would often laugh amongst themselves about the man that didn’t breathe). His eyes glittered in these moments and he seemed to project himself far away from this dirty, grimy, train yard where dreams came to die. Maybe they didn’t die. Maybe Frankie just adopted them. For these three scrappy, unlikely allies, the train yard provided a comfort unbecoming of its visual and nasal features. Discolored tracks ran somewhat parallel with a few others merging or disconnecting. Calling it a busy scene didn’t do justice to the area’s activity. It was more like... a headache that you could see. Trains roared through the central maze of track consistently throughout the day, leaving mere feet between each one. Workers stood perfectly balanced between each car; as if they were standing on an unmovable concrete slab rather than a rickety, swaying platform. The whole place smelled of hard work and grit. It also reeked like a mountain of hair engulfed in flames. A large sturdy building could be seen 40 or 50 feet off the main tracks and the station itself held a large platform, bustling with activity. The crowd contained little diversity, mostly made up of laborers coming and going. The occasional suit sat cross legged on the cleanest bench available, its occupant reading a newspaper or staring out ahead. A manager’s office was located at the second and top floor of the building and had a large glass pane window with thin metal bars overlooking the yard. A pudgy man in his late fifties rose from his cushioned chair and trudged over to it and rested both of his hands on the glass, smudging it with sweat and a bit of ink. He scanned the scene before him as he often did around noon and made little check marks on his mental list. Unfortunately, the list was limited by his subpar intelligence and he often referenced a master schedule kept in the top right drawer of his cedar desk. Towards the end of his review he found something that made his face scrunch up in annoyance. He retreated to his desk, plopped down once again and made a phone call. “Charlie, tell those bums over there to get back to work!” the manager huffed in a loud anger. “Their lunch break’s been over for almost 10 minutes!” “What bums sir?” Charlie replied. The manager emphatically pointed with his free hand. “The bums over there!” He began to return the phone to its cradle when he heard a meek utterance from its speaker. He raised the phone to his ear again and spoke with enough malice to stop anyone dead in their tracks. “What?” “Um...” Charlie cleared his throat. “I don't know what over there is.”

Anne Lemek Margaret and The Bellson Boys The Bellson boys were odd children. This was not surprising. The Bellson boys were scatterbrained children. This was not surprising. The Bellson boys were the smartest kids in the neighborhood. This was not surprising. The Bellson boys were sitting at Margaret’s kitchen table. This was surprising. You see, the Bellson boys were part of the Bellson family: a large family full of oddities of the absent-minded professor type who lived in the small house at the end of Townsplit Road. Margaret’s mother had said every single adult in the household was incredibly smart (each had at least two doctoral degrees, whatever that meant), and Margaret’s father said every single adult in the household was extraordinarily stupid (they had wasted their money going to college for ten years instead of buying a house big enough to fit all of them). It makes sense that the Bellson boys, the youngest sons out of six children, would take after their relatives. None of this explained, though, why they were sitting at Margaret’s kitchen table. Sure, she’d gone to school with them since kindergarten, and she’d known them for at least seven years (her family moved to Townsplit when she was three), but that doesn’t mean they’d ever been to her house before. And besides that, Margaret was up early, and they were already at her kitchen table. Who in their right mind gets up before seven? More importantly, who in their right mind gets up enough before seven that they can get all dressed up in some weird science-y getup and still have enough time to walk down the entire street to sit at the table of a person who never talks to them? Oddities, like her mother says, the both of them. Neither of them were eating anything, despite the fact that her mother had made a whole breakfast, as she normally did on Sundays. All other days she left for work too early and Margaret had to eat oatmeal. But on Sundays, she had no work, and they didn’t have to go to Mass until nine, so she always made eggs and bacon and pancakes. There was a table full of food, and the Bellson boys were just sitting there, staring at Margaret all creepy-like with their blacked-out goggles and bowties. She considered turning around and going back upstairs, but her mother’s breakfast food was too good. There wasn’t a single creepy Bellson child that could stop her from eating it. Breakfast passed normally, taking up an hour as it usually did. The next half an hour was spent washing the dishes, and the next twenty minutes was spent hurrying to get ready for church. Luckily, Carson was not a particularly large town, and it was mostly Catholic at that. The Wagners didn’t have to drive very far. Margaret checked the pockets of her dress for the rock she had found the night before. It was a good thing her mother laid her clothes out the night before, otherwise she might have put the rock in the wrong dress. She couldn’t go to church without a rock. The last time that happened the house next door caught on fire.

She went back downstairs. The Bellson boys were still there, just sitting at the kitchen table. They’d helped clear the table after breakfast, despite not eating or saying anything, and then just sat right back down. Oddities was a good word, in Margaret’s opinion. Had a nice sound. It was unfortunate that it was wasted on people like the Bellson boys. Amaya Mackie The Windows to the Soul She had often dreamed of off places, places that swept her away from day to day life. Not that her day to day life wasn’t great, it was just lacking something. She didn’t know what though. Everyone knew her face, and her name but not the real her, in her real life. She would laugh it off, but her loneliness draped over her like a shawl. All she wanted was for someone to try to get to know her on a deeper level and for someone to look past the surface. Art really called to her, it was a way to get her thoughts to the paper. She put her all into each pencil stroke, until they came together and they formed a bigger picture. On the piece she was currently working on, the eyes were either too big, too small, too skinny or something of the sort. “Having trouble with the eyes?” She jumped up, suddenly very alert and turned around to see a boy in a grey hoodie behind her. “Sorry for scaring you.” he added on sheepishly. “You’re good, and yes I am, actually.” She stared at him inquisitively, did she know him? A grin stretched across his face and his eyes sparkled “Just forget about the eyes then. If you think it’ll look better without the eyes then just don’t add it.” “Wouldn’t that ruin the point of the drawing then?” “If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.” “I’m sorry, who are you?” she figured if she was going to talk to this kid she may as well get some of her questions answered. “Miles May, I’m in your homeroom.” He pushed up his glasses, with a mock-offended look. She wracked her brain. Miles May, did she know a Miles May? Clearly, she was supposed to. Then it came to her. “Oh hey wait, you’re the kid who played Seymour in last year's production of L​ ittle Shop!​” “So you do remember me!” He said enthusiastically. “Well, you’re very-” She hesitated to look for a good word,“energetic.” This wasn’t false, he was very bubbly and bouncy. He was humming a song, and was bopping his head along to it so his dark curls were bouncing up and down. “So I’ve been told.” He laughed “Ooh, I love your hair by the way” He was probably referring to the color, which was a faded teal at the ends. It had been darker a few months ago when she initially colored it but it still looked pretty cool right now.

“Thanks. Wait, I don’t think I introduced myself to you. I’m-” “Cristina Sebastian, yeah I know.” “Oh, right.” “Anyway, back to your art piece. Why do you need the eyes?” “Without the eyes, it’s just an eyeless face and it doesn’t look complete.” Did this kid seriously not get it? “But you don’t like the eyes and you like the way it looks right now. I mean they always say ​‘Be intentional’ o​ r whatever. It can be your intention to not include the eyes because the eyes are the windows to the souls and nobody really understands her and how she’s feeling.” Without even meaning to he kind of hit the nail right on the head of how she felt. “I mean, I guess it makes sense since it’s supposed to be me, and I feel that way sometimes.” She didn’t even know why she was confiding in him, it had just been so long since she had gotten to talk about her emotions. “Yeah, I thought it was you but I didn’t want to just assume in case it wasn’t. More importantly, we all feel like that sometimes. I think. Even me, but if you ever need a friend or anything I’ll be here for you.” He offered a smile at her. “You mean it?” She asked “Yeah, I do.” He suddenly jumped up “Oh my god! I just had the best idea ever. You should totally come and sit with me and my friends tomorrow. They would absolutely love you.” “Oh, uh sure.” She was kind astounded by his enthusiasm “Cool, give me your phone.” “Why?” “To give you my number so we can keep in touch. Sorry for being unclear.” He said with a laugh “Okay, here” She handed it over and he handed it back after a few minutes. “Well, I’m going to go home.” he said “school ended an hour ago”. “Yeah, I should probably do the same.” They both headed out, each their separate ways. On the car ride home her phone kept buzzing from notifications. When she finally got home she went to check them. From [Miles is the best]: Hiiiiii She scoffed at the name he put into her contacts. From [Miles is the best]: Can you meet us at Starbucks for lunch tomorrow? From [Miles is the best]: If you want to ofc :) To [Miles is the best]: I will, thank you! To [Miles is the best]: Oh, and I ended up drawing the eyes and I drew them perfectly if I do say so myself. From [Miles is the best]: Yay! See you tomorrow! From [Miles is the best]: I have a feeling we’re going to be like best friends. I’ll be here if you need me! Ttyl. His text message echoed in her head “B​ est friends. Best friends. Best friends.”a​ nd for the first time in a while, she was content with life.

Jahnvi Mundra Kindness She’s a flower Within everyone Waiting to bloom In hard times. Her vibrant colors give Light, Understanding, And trust. But Sometimes she doesn’t bloom And she wilts, Loses her colors to a dull grey Because she loses that strength To give. And in that dark little time, She might just think of herself. She becomes blind to the other wilted flowers, And soon it’s a chain reaction Of selfishness Sadness Hate. And it may seem impossible For things to be alright. Kindness, Now fading into an echo. But there are always more flowers out there Wanting to give Willing to help.

Norah Nielson The Crown Gem of Etheria I walk through the crowded city streets, pulling my hood tighter around my face to cover my pointy elven ears. I hurry past people and accidentally knock into someone in my rush. A kind looking girl around my age bends over and offers me a hand. I take it and she pulls me up, for someone so short, she sure is strong. She has short bright pink hair, ice blue eyes and tanned skin with lots of freckles. “Sorry about that,” she says as I dust myself off. ”oh, no worries, it was my fault,” I tell her then glance at the sun lowering in the sky. “Er, I’d best be off, but I really am sorry!” With that I rush off. Later that night when I reach home, I realize that the gemstone I carry with me in my amulet is gone. I think back to today and what I’ve done. Made a deal with the assassins guild, gave a design to be made into a crown for the upcoming elven ball, bumped into the pink haired girl… ugh, pixies. She had to have been, they’re known for their jewel toned hair colours and love of shiny objects, maybe she was even part of a thieves guild. Tossing my cloak on the chair, I groan and throw myself on my bed, my mother will kill me if I don’t have it considering it bears the family crest. I roll over and sigh, throwing an arm over my face. My beloved pet Lionessa, Lea, pads into the room and lays down next to me. I bury my face in her soft fur and sigh yet again. “Oh, Lea, what am I going to do?” I ask in a tired voice. “Stupid pixies, ruining everything!” The Lionessa purrs softly and nudges me with her head. I look up at her and smile. I raised her since she was a cub. I found her at the edge of the Dark Wood that surrounds the Northern and Eastern sides of the Elven domain. She was battling a Death Bird and I used my carving knife to help her, she’s been by my side ever since. “I’d best go get it back, shouldn’t I?” I wonder aloud. “Cover for me, will you?” Lea nods her head and I lock the door before hurrying over to the window, about a few hundred feet to fall if I mess up. Slowly, I swing one leg out the window and feel around with my toe till my foot hooks on a vine. I do the same with my other leg and then glance down at the ground. I take a deep breath and begin to climb. Step by step I make it down to only about twenty feet when I miss a step , I slowly fall to the ground. Well, it feels slow, but it probably isn’t. I twist over in midair and find the ground rising to meet me. I hit the ground with a thud and let out a groan. I push myself off the ground carefully, checking for injuries before setting off through the trees. I don’t even pause as I run through the trees, making my way to the main road that will lead me to the human city. I run for what feels like hours and feel myself starting to slow as my breath gets more ragged. The sun has almost disappeared by the time I reach the inner city. I make my way through the streets which are less crowded now, and avoid as many alleyways as possible. Unlike the Elven cities and peoples, humans are less… refined. They don’t mind hurting each other, or stealing. Elves prosper from our combined wisdom and we build off of each other. Humans like to tear themselves apart; they lie, steal, cheat, kill, anything to better their own position and wealth. I wander deeper into the city, heading in the general direction of the thieves guild. The few people still on the street send odd glances in my direction and I remember that I no longer have my hood on. I try to cover my ears with my long,

silvery-white hair, but to no avail. Instead, I drop my head to look at the ground, trying to ignore the stares. Most elves don’t come to the human citadel much less royal ones. “Excuse me?” someone calls out and I turn to see the pink haired girl from earlier behind me. “May I ask what brings a royal Elf to our humble domain?” ‘She must not recognize me!’ I think to myself. “I am the Crown Princess Fay Terra of Etheria. I wish for you to return the gem from my amulet!” She smirks and holds out the silver set moonstone and replies casually, “oh is this what you're looking for?” “Exactly what I’m looking for, thief,” I hiss, lunging for the amulet, my eyes flashing from their general emerald color to a silver. “It’s mine by right, besides, it’s of no use to you.” “Contrary,” she says as she sidesteps me. “It’s good for many things, blackmail for one, and it would fetch a nice price, especially being an ancient elven relic and all that.” I whirl around, drawing a knife from my pocket, “you wouldn’t dare, your weak pixie magic is no match for an elf, much less one of royal blood.” “Half pixie actually,” she says before grinning darkly. “And half mermaid or rather… Siren.” That makes me pause, mermaids are rather powerful in their own right, but Sirens are another level, they use dark magic and eat the souls of their victims, “what do you want for it?” “A couple hundred gold pieces would be nice,” she laughs. I sigh in defeat, “on my honor as a Royal Elf of Etheria.” She nods in victory and follows me back to the castle and it’s near dawn by the time we reach the center of Etheria. She smiles as we step through the great doors at the base of the tree. “It's beautiful here,” she smiles, looking at the ornate carvings on the walls. “Of course it is,” I huff as we wind our way up the steps into the entrance hall. Instead of going through the next set of great doors I pull the pixie through the servants stairs, walking down till the small entrance that the servants use to clean the dungeons. I open the metal door and we step through. I check the perimeter of the stone chamber before using my magic to shift a few rocks allowing us to pass without a key to the vault. Not that a key would work anyways, there was no door, the only way to get in was by moving the enchanted rocks with the magic of the royal family. She looks at the rock wall suspiciously before following me. Once inside she takes a brown leather pouch from her vault and scoops countless coins into it. Eventually she places the pouch back on her belt and we exit. We climb the steps up to the great hall and walk back down the main steps. “My gem?” I ask as we exit the doors. She nods which surprises me, I thought it would be more of a fight. She hands me the moonstone and turns to leave. I place the moonstone back in my amulet when I realise something, I never got her name. I run up to her and tap her shoulder. “Wait, what's your name?” “Pyra, of the Royal Wood Thieves Guild,” she tells me. I nod maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “You should join us for the elven ball,” I tell her and she nods. “I’ll be there,” she says with a smile.

Rosie Savelson Carry Me Out (by mitski) My defining trait is restlessness. My brain has grooves it falls into when I’m idle… it echoes, chants, says I want out, this bitter place, this hateful cell, someone please take me away… CARRY ME OUT… I cut my hair when I get bored of my face. I am bored of my face all the time. People bore me. My pretentious friends, shallow parents. Everyone says true meaning lies in other people but I’ve yet to find other people with true meaning. Or maybe I’m just a socially inept loner with a god complex. (I think all the time. I talk all the time. The two barely ever correlate). I know I’m the type to be an atheist but I believe in God, or at least magic. I build fairy houses and light candles in my dark room and pray to the waxing shadows on the walls. I thank trees for air. At night I open my window, let the stale air curl out and the cool air swirl in, settle on my notebooks and flowers like dust. I lean my top half out and look past the tall black pines, ink spills along the blue cloth of night, at the stars-- whole body fills with anguish-- clear mind floods with the usual pleas, the usual desperation, the usual empty nameless want that hollows out my stomach with a dull persistent ache-- i want out, this bitter place this hateful cell, someone please TAKE ME AWAY, CARRY ME OUT no one ever comes (but I can't lose hope there is a higher power there is someone who will whisk me away to some strange land where I will finally belong) I talk out loud when I’m by myself and hope someone is listening. And I write the same way I talk, I have journals full of nonsense like “magic is real, death is not my bangs are too high up my hands are too spindly, too mannish I’m judgemental I can’t help it I would like to know devotion adults scare me I hate being alone with them even my parents I like little kids though they’re funny and they don’t care (I wish I didn’t care)”. I know none of it matters but I still tuck my shirt into my skirt and post on instagram and go to parties and smile when people look at me. I’m a traitor to myself. On nights like that I take Dad’s car and drive up to the swimming hole and bathe naked in the frigid water to try and cleanse myself, let their stares, their warm breath slide off me. I prick my finger and let the blood curl into the black water so my scent sticks; climb out, dry off, shiver below the bare expanse of night and search for solace in fake constellations. Then I plant a flower and water it with my blood (when I come back later it has bloomed red) (this means it has been consistently watered by blood) (someone is helping me) (I think I could love them)

Rachel Thorne Optimistic Pessimism Pessimism is notorious for her appearance of loathing the world. Her opposition to the fearfully cheerful optimism causes the world to shut her out. Always an outcast. Always alone. She watched from the shadows as the other schoolchildren played with joyous faces and happy purposes. All the while harboring Her dangerous truths. Her disastrous truths. But hidden behind her half-empty glasses and emanate rain storms lies A greater purpose. A larger purpose. hidden even to her as she can’t be hopeful enough to assume it’s existence. For if a glass is half empty it will be conserved. If rainstorms are eminent umbrellas are brought, plans changed. She blocks futures invisible to everyone but her, Grim futures. Evil Futures. Her dreadfully graceful fingers fix things silently in the dark, before slinking back into the unliked portions of your mind, never asking for the recognition she desperately deserves, As she is unable to believe that she has done anything but Doom you. Optimism is the admired beauty of all. An irresistible magnet of everyone looking to heal their souls or grow a new one. She glows with golden light and her nature is one unable to be disliked. She floats over everything, never letting her delicate feet reach the ground. Everything she touches turns to a gold that never stops gleaming But the gold is infected, doused in pure naivety. An illness that once befallen can never be cured but by blackness and hard truths. Yet she isn’t to blame,

she has no idea of this disastrous plague she is responsible for as she is aware of nothing but the goodness of the world and the goodness of its inhabitants. In a life where she can only see blessings and happiness, she is idealized as perfect and believes as much. Although her haughty ways are displayed untraditionally, as she is in a suffocating world. And had no choice but to believe her existence is a wonderful one, that every word uttered from her fair lips is good and true Optimism is condemned to only see goodness and light and thus can be nothing but in a pure state of content, a horrible in-between world of nothingness, a vacuum of gray. Though she would never reveal it Not to herself. Not to anyone. Her actions destroy all those around, and will Doom you. Ariel Yarmus ​Ralphie I was not quite one month old when my family brought me home 11 years ago. I remember the day so vividly-- longing for nothing more than a new home. My fur was so soft, golden-brown, and I was so small. I saw the world clearly; so plainly that when the Goodwins arrived, before they even had the time to reach the gate, I squeezed my little body, the size of Mr. Goodwin’s shoe, through the hole that my siblings and I dug under the white fence about a week ago. I jumped into the Goodwin’s arms with such ease. I knew then that they were mine, and that I was theirs. My first few years at home, I did everything with my kid, Robin, who was seven years old when I first found her. We played, ate, and slept together. At first I didn’t understand why she would never respond to me when I barked at her from a different room, but I soon realized that Robin’s ears do not work like other people ears do. This difference allowed for me to know Robin better than anybody else did. As we grew up together, I was Robin’s ears, and Robin was my voice. I shielded her from danger, and slept with one eye open each night just to make sure that nothing would happen. I learned pretty early on that my humans do not understand me when I say something to them, so like how Robin does strange things with her hands to tell her parents stuff, I decided to come up with my own language to show her what I needed with my body. Once she caught onto this, she

could tell her parents what I needed at any time! The sheer love that I felt for Robin was unconditional, and I’ve always hoped that she felt the same way. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One afternoon when Robin was 12, and I was five, we were home alone in her bedroom, walls of bright pink, and the most soft, dense, welcoming mossy-green rug, where she would stare at some big stack of paper with lots of scribbles on it for hours. I heard the most loud, awful sound coming from a little white machine that was higher up. Continuously beeping, louder and louder, and more frequently, I pressed my head against the carpet to block my ears from the piercing sound.There was a miserably putrid smell filling the house that did not smell usual in any way. Something was very different--not a good type of different--and I had to get Robin out of the house. I tugged at her pant leg as hard as I could until I could get her up, and at last, she noticed what was going on. Together we ran out the front door, passing through the kitchen and the foyer. The smell was especially strong in the foyer, and as we passed the kitchen, I noticed some red and orange stuff dancing and spreading so rapidly. It looked like the place where Robin cooked puffy white food when we went camping a few months ago. If the stuff changed the shape and color of the puffy white food so quickly, then it was probably doing the same to our house. Robin and I stood across the road from our house and she pulled out her talking machine. A few moments later, some people in giant red car-like things arrived, the sound much more loud and forceful than the one inside the house. They unraveled long snakes filled with water. If I had known that snakes were that helpful, I wouldn’t have fought with so many in the grass. Anyways, the people brought the snakes into the house, which somehow got rid of the problem. Robin’s parents pulled up, and worry masked the usual delight on their faces. When they saw that I had saved Robin, they gave me the most immense and wonderful cuddles. The red and orange stuff only burnt a little bit of the food room, the counters much less clean and white, but other than that, everything was ok. If I hadn’t forced my kid outside, something bad might have happened. I am here to do nothing more than keep Robin safe and happy. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Robin has always been there for me, and I will be there for her. But I am older now, and so is she. I am so big now, the furniture that once towered over me now so easy to hop onto. My fur is matted, rather than smooth and supple. Robin has also grown. At this point she must be the size of those tall, brown objects with green hair that I like to pee on.The color of her hair is always randomly changing from the color of the sky to the color of the grass. My fur changed, so her hair did too, and I guess that is a part of growing up.

Robin has also changed in other ways besides her appearance. When we were younger, Robin and I would chase each other around the yard, and wrestle in the living room. Now, all that she does is stare at a screen and read and type the scribbly stuff that she used to stare at in her bedroom. I used to be able to jump so high into Robin's arms, and squirm as she held me too tightly. Presently, I am always tired, and my legs hurt a lot when I stand up and walk. I usually just spend most of my time in the living room on my bed resting, and looking at the picture of Robin holding me when she was seven or eight, and when I was just a shoe-sized puppy. The picture makes me feel warm and happy, like that puppy is still somewhere inside of me. And maybe that little kid is still somewhere inside of Robin. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I am always home, and Robin never is anymore. Sometimes she leaves me for months, and I do not know why. But still, she came home for the day when there is always a big turkey, and she sneaks a leg to me under the table. As long as I get my turkey I guess it’s sort of alright, though I’d rather have more time with my kid. This year, when she came home for that day, it was much more special than it had ever been in the past. As soon as she stepped through the front door wearing her blue shoes that are my favorite to gnaw on, I jumped up, standing tall like her, and resting my paws on her shoulders as she embraced me so warmly. I did not leave her side for the remainder of that day, from her and her dad screaming about some people throwing around a ball on the television to helping her mom prepare the most gorgeous, stunning, glimmering turkey that I had ever seen in my entire life. The only bad part was that the next morning, she went away again, and I was left to sulk miserably on my bed until she came back. Luckily, it was not as long as the last time before Robin came back again. We greeted each other with our same ritualistic hug, and again, I did not leave her side. Plus, she was home for two weeks this time! She came home just in time for the whole family to bring one of those giant, evil, spiky trees into the house, which is something that they do every year for some absurd reason that I do not think I would ever be able to comprehend. Robin opens beautiful shiny boxes, and I get excited with her, although I am not all too sure why we get excited. But, I get to chew on the tissue paper, so there is most certainly a bonus there. The family eats another turkey which means that I get another leg. Two week went by much sooner than they should have, and Robin was out the door before we even had time to build more snow creatures, eat the snow together, and ride down a hill on her wooden go-down-hill-machine. I begged and pleaded to go with her, but her parents held me back by my collar as they waved goodbye from outside the house. All that I could do at that point was rest again, waiting for my beloved kid to return.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Robin isn’t home right now--she hasn’t been home since those two weeks, and I still do not know why. I did once hear her parents say something about school, but when she used to go to school, she would leave in the morning and come home in the afternoon. Why does she sleep there now? I want to see her again--see if we can snuggle up together in her bed like how we used to. But I do not have her here to tell that to her parents. Who is listening for her, and who is keeping her safe when I'm not there? I just do not understand why so much has changed. My legs are in so much pain, and my paws just went numb a short while ago. I once saw my world so clearly. Now, everything around me is foggy, though I can still look at my picture of Robin and me beside my bed which is calming. I close my eyes, and I rest with the image in my head, the last of my joy protruding slowly, slowly, from my heart. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- R​ obin When I was six years old, I got really sick. I do not remember everything that happened, but I do know that one morning, I woke up in a hospital bed, sweat covering my brown, curly hair, and sticking to the mint green hospital gown that I was wearing. I was tired, my vision blurry, and my utter, childlike gaiety melting from my soul. I quickly realized that something was very different; I could no longer hear. I was so used to hearing the sound of my parents talking to me from across the room, my favorite Disney movies on the television, crickets and peeper frogs chirping outside of my window at night, and this was terrifying. I stayed in the hospital recovering from spinal meningitis for seven weeks before I got to go back home. It was hard at first, and I do not think that I ever did get used to being deaf. I could still talk to my parents, but when they tried to say something to me, I got nothing. Silence. And silence is deafening, especially after six years of being able to hear everything perfectly fine. My parents tried to communicate with me through writing, but keep in mind, I was six, my writing like a giant, more meager version of chicken scratch. I was just learning to read Dr. Suess books, and I couldn’t understand everything that they wrote to me. After many arguments having to do with the writing, we settled on going to a place twice a week where we all learned sign language. It took a while to become fluent, but now we use it all the time, wherever we go. It is so cool; a secret language that only we know. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before I turned seven, my parents asked me what I wanted for my birthday. Because I could no longer hear, it was so hard for me to make friends, and play with other kids. Kindergarten was a nightmare, friends coming and going by the second because it was so difficult to communicate with them. I wanted nothing more than a dog to keep me company. So, on my seventh birthday, my family got into the car, and my wish had been granted. We pulled into the parking lot of the animal shelter, and even before I was entirely out of the van, one small puppy ran towards me and leapt into my arms. I did not need to look at any of the other puppies to know that this one was mine. Ralphie. I named my dog Ralphie after my favorite character in the ​Magic School Bus ​books. I knew from the moment I felt his soft, golden fur, and looked into his big brown eyes that he was going to be my best--and only at the time--friend. Ralphie and I were a team. He was my watchdog, and he never once failed to keep me safe. We had such a special bond when I was young, and when he was a puppy. We did everything together, even once I started going to school. He would be there every morning when I woke up, and every afternoon when I got home from school. When I started high school, I finally made some more human friends, and I could drive, so I wasn’t at home as often. I still had my best friend at night and in the mornings, and it was great. Ralphie always filled the void in my heart that was lacking love and companionship. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Now, I am eighteen, and I am a freshman at Gallaudet University in Washington DC--four hours away from my large, grand brick house lined with trees and wildflowers of pink, blue, and yellow, in a small, quiet neighborhood in Ridgewood, New Jersey. I wanted so badly to bring Ralphie to school with me, but it just wasn’t practical. I come home to visit every now and then on the weekends, and I got to come back for thanksgiving and christmas, but it still was not enough. I saw Ralphie’s faces of despair each time I left home, his eyes drooping, and his snout pressed against his doggy bed of the color blue that matched his personality. I felt so guilty for leaving him, the guilt weighing heavily upon me like steel. But, I had to get back to school. Each day, I wonder what he is doing; if he is still playing with his same favorite rubber purple chicken, if he still begs for a walk at exactly 8:30 each night, and if he maybe wonders about me. At night, I sleep in my dorm, and something always feels missing. Ralphie is not there, and my arms are so empty. Winter break just ended a few weeks ago, and I do not plan to go home until April for spring break.Three more months without Ralphie feels like an eternity. But, I will distract myself with my classes, and my friends until then. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is February, and I just got a text from my parents this morning that Ralphie isn’t doing well. They said that he woke up with his legs unable to lift him any longer, and that he hardly eats. His breathing is not steady. I skipped my afternoon classes to drive home and see my dog. He is eleven years old, but I did not expect that he would age so poorly, and so soon. Just a few weeks ago during christmas, I had noticed that he was slowing down, but nothing seemed all too concerning. I doubt that anyone expects their dog to get sick until it does. I got home, but it was too late. I walked through my white front door, not even taking off my navy blue converse--Ralphie’s favorite to chew on--and I saw my parents sitting on the couch beside my motionless dog. Their faces were bright red, stained with tears, and I knew that Ralphie was not able to wait for me before he took his last heaving breath. I could not believe that my best, and first friend had left me. It was not his fault, it was mine. I was the one who left him first. Angry at myself and engulfed in sadness, I stuffed my hands in my jean pockets .I left the house without saying a word, and walked in the same circle around my neighborhood repeatedly for at least an hour. I hesitated before walking through the front door, the image of my parents in the corner, looking down at Ralphie, and then up at me replaying over and over again in my head. I did not want to face seeing that again, but I couldn’t be afraid to be in my house forever, so I wrapped my cold, clammy hand around the perfectly round, polished gold door knob, leaving a smudge after I opened the door and let go. My parents were still in the same spot, their faces now pale, their tears dry, and Ralphie was still asleep in the same place; on his bed beside the white couch stained with his pee from when he was a puppy, and did not know any better. I ran to him, and pressed my face against his stomach--still soft, still warm, and still familiar. I rubbed his back with my hand, feeling the bare patch from when he accidentally wrestled with my favorite sparkly pink pencil, and needed stitches. When I finally sat up, I looked at his face, still, and so beautiful. He died with his eyes open. His big, brown eyes, my first favorite feature about him were glassy, and I could see my reflection in them. I looked into his eyes, and I could see the tiny golden puppy that was once so nimble and sprightly, and that leapt into my arms with such ease. With my eyes, I traced his to where he had been looking before he passed. I realized that just a few feet in front of him, a little to the left, a picture of the two of us was his last memory. In a black frame was a picture of the two of us on the day that I got him. I was wearing my favorite pink tie-dyed t-shirt and long blue skirt, and he was in my arms--so small, so new. He was looking at us as he died. Ralphie was thinking of me. I was angry. Angry at myself for not looking at my phone as soon as my parents sent the text. Angry at myself for leaving him for college in the first place. Angry at myself for not realizing that this dog was the most compassionate, and ardent soul to walk upon this earth. I do not know what I did to deserve him, and why I never saw that just as I missed him, he missed me too. I buried Ralphie with that picture beside him so that he can always have our memory. As I walked away from his grave, I made sure to keep the strongest of memories with Ralphie alive in my head. I went into my house, printed a copy of the picture, framed it, and placed it on my

bedside table. Each night, I lay in my bed staring into the image--into my own, and Ralphie’s youthfulness and innocence--and I fall asleep. Virginia Zengen Happiness Brandon Broderick opened his eyes ever so slightly. The dance music was still blaringly loud and the club was still full of people. He groaned and rubbed his eyes before sitting up and grabbing his drink and taking another sip. The emotional strains that were in his chest weakened their bite, but they were still there nonetheless. He felt like a gunshot victim after the meds kicked in-- He could still feel the bullet but it didn’t ​hurt​- It was just...uncomfortable. He laid back against the couch and relaxed his tense muscles for a couple of seconds, hoping that the alcohol would finally kick in. “Looks like you could use something a bit stronger.” Brandon practically jumped out of his seat when he heard the man’s voice, spilling his drink all over himself. This prompted a full, rich laugh from the stranger. “Wh-What the hell, Man?” Brandon turned around, anger flaring in his eyes, but his expression almost immediately softened. This man was attractive. ​REALLY​ attractive. He was tall, about 6’2, which practically TOWERED over Brandon and his mere 5 feet and four inches. He smiled back at him with practically perfect white teeth, his napoleon blue eyes looked him up and down, seductively and intensely, from behind the thin square frames of his glasses. He brushed aside his long, red and somewhat graying hair out of his face. “You sure are a messy boy.” He sat down next to Brandon, placing down one of the two drinks in his hand onto the table. His voice was thick and deep, he had a tone about it that made Brandon’s face flare up red. He blinked and glared at the bottle. He could have sworn that the man was empty handed just a second ago. “Here,” The stranger slid one of them towards him. Brandon, not taking his eyes off the man, noticed out of the corner of his eye the green hue of the bottle he slid towards himself.

“I don’t like beer.” he mumbled, quietly, feeling his hairs prick on the back of his neck. There was no way this dude was into him--romantically. He’s heard of men like this, and he wasn’t interested in being drugged. He’s been clean for “Who said anything about beer?” The man smiled and motioned to his glass. Brandon hesitantly glanced over at the drink. Sure enough, It was champagne. “My name is Bishop.” He held out his hand. “And you are...Brandon, correct?” Brandon took his hand into his own and glanced around nervously. “How do you know my name?” “I heard you and the bartender talking earlier.” Bishop flashed him yet another charismatic smile. “If you don’t mind me being so coy--” The man smiled. “You are one of the most...a​ lluring.​ ..people, out of all that I've met.” Brandon scoffed, painful, PAINFUL memories of that night in Charlestown flooded back to him. “‘Person’? Not...‘guy’?” He fixed his tux jacket as he prepared to stand up, anger and bitter sadness boiled in his gut. “I’ve learned my lesson about people like you--You’re one of those-” He flicked his fingers around. “I can’t think of the word at the moment--but like, you’re into everyone-” He stood up and turned to face him. “Been there, done that, People like you just make people like me more screwed up than we already are, so thanks, but no thanks.” Brandon turned on his heels and boldly walked away. He decided that he had enough to drink for the night--he’d rather mope in his room about his unrequited love than have this bimbo try to get with him-- He was about halfway to the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Brandon, listen-” He could feel the man’s hands trail from the top of his shoulders down to the sides, a gentle flick of hair being pressed against his cheek. “I’ll cut through the cute stuff--” He could feel Bishop’s body press against the back of his as he leaned in closer. “I know what it is you want...And I can give it to you--” His voice was silvery and low. “What is it that I want?” Brandon felt both terrified, but also interested. This man certainly seemed to be otherworldly...there was no way that he had two drinks in his hand earlier, and one of them j​ ust s​ o happened to be his favorite. “Power...Money...status...all the women you could ever want-” Brandon could feel Bishop’s hand brush against his cheek. “Or in your case...all the ​men​ you could ever want--” His hands pulled Brandon closer...and he didn’t resist. “I could give you the deepest, darkest desire in your soul-”

Brandon’s breathing grew shallow, he could feel the tension between them but he couldn’t tell what kind it was- “And what would that be?” Was all he seemed to be able to sputter out. The stranger’s lips just barely brushed against his ear as he uttered the phrase--the phrase that caused a shock that ran from his earlobe to the tips of his toes. A phrase that would resonate throughout each and every action Brandon would be taking for the next five years of his life. “Happiness.”