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Untitled

By Wynter Cox
I conclude this whole life
is one of those miracles
that never seem to matter
until the minute streams burn
and turn to steam
and I begin to dream
of purple moss and
inescapable meetings.
At night, the cicadas recite
stories about how the Earth
was born and will someday die.
One by one, the moths throw
themselves into the sun
and flit between beacons
of fading starlight
in modest white dress
despite certain death.
They speak with such grace,
such warmth beneath a
stark linen canvas.
In a realized subconscious,
I translate Morse code from
beating wings, hold my breath
where the air is water.
I take notice of the trees’ stillness
and runes carved into branches—
the woodpecker’s inscription.
To awaken is to be
reborn into a world restricted.
I listen for the metal breath
of fingers against bars, magnified
only to my ears.
The woodpecker pulls the
raw flesh of the cherry tree
out from inside itself, as if
it knows how to pinpoint
the sensitive topics
for rabid consumption.
Engravings on river stones
prophesied that I would finally
stray into the lesser miracle
of reality, condemning the
wonders of the night to
be extinguished by the
flame of day.
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The Room in the Attic

Charlotte Knauth

 

She kept ticket stubs and pieces of pottery in a jar under her nightstand, fake forget-me-not flowers in an old chipped glass on top. Bars of soap sat in each drawer so all her shirts smelled of honeysuckle, her socks (she never folded them so it was nearly impossible to find a matching pair) like pumpkin pie, and her jeans like fresh cut lilac. Her furniture was deep brown and decorated with things she couldn’t bear to part with. It was all a part of an old matching set from the sixties, clean cut in a nostalgic way.

Her ceiling took in the curvatures and edges of the roof, as she resided in the attic her parents never used. It had remained empty for quite some time, nothing but a small cardboard box of old blurred photographs and neat brown clay squirrels that she center of the room.

A small window with an old metal frame stared at a walnut tree, tall and looming, outside the house. Its branches brushed against the siding when it rained and she could hear it in her sleep, like a giant running its hands against the walls. Seven small pot plants lined the ledge beneath the window frame, four dead, three alive, and an old Windex bottle filled with water sat on the laminate floor.

A record player rested in the corner of the room, the case a fading pale aqua blue. Brand new records ran across a low shelf extending along the length of the wall. Most of them had never been opened.

There was a bookshelf cut into the wall across from her bed, shelving carved out so novels and poems were nestled inside the foundation of the house, sitting vertically, horizontally, diagonally, and even scattered across the floor, until there was no more empty space to be seen.

The room always smelled like rain, sounded like rain, and left petrichor soaked air on her tongue. The ceiling, a deep fading grayish blue, was doused in hundreds of glow in the dark stars, placed meticulously to accurately map winter’s view of a constellation filled sky.

A mountain of blankets hid her bean bag like a cloak of invisibility. It sat in the corner between her book-filled wall and the closed closet doors that look eerily similar to those from Poltergeist.

But now there are only boxes. Now there’s just her, kicking her feet out from under the blankets in the middle of the night, one last time.

Tomorrow there will be her, taking trips back and forth between the moving van her father rented with boxes stacked up in her hands to fit under her chin. Then there will be empty space in her room in the attic, the attic nobody wanted but her, because it always smelled like rain.

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Dream A Little Dream For Me

Charlie

Daydream with me for a moment…

You’re outside.

Mid-morning sunlight shines on the trees, casting shadows in the grass beside you.

You’re sitting by a brick wall.

Dry grass clippings from last week’s mowing tickle your legs.

A solitary star leaf rests on the grass tips,

Its crumpled and crunched neighbors buried beneath it.

Sea urchin tree seeds poke up from the ground.

Trees.

A maple with wide leaves and porcupine seeds.

One dry, empty branch

Surrounded by green life.

A weeping birch.

Leaves cascade down in waterfalls from upcurving branches.

“La paz es una necesidad.”

Peace is a necessity,

Says a tall wooden pole beaten into the ground.

The bottom is worn from years of rain and weed whacking.

Circular designs wrap around the cube cylinder top.

The looping characters of Arabic and other languages

Carve down the other sides.

Wind rustles leaves.

Grass crunches under classmates’ feet.

Birds twitter from between feathered tree leaves along the brick wall.

Sun warms your arms

As the wall cools your back…

Take a photo of this moment

‘Cause tomorrow’s not promised, and here…

Here

Is beautiful.

 

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Icarus

By: Rachel McLean

 

A scream

A cry

A shout for help

 

An endless descent

An isolated fall

 

Crystal wings

Shining brilliantly

 

Skin of ebony

A bronze hand stretches out

Reaching for help that never comes

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Je ne sais quoi

In the town of Hodder, Maryland the most popular local show is a cooking show staring celebrity chef Kane Hart. But he holds a dark secret, he is a cannibal. He has captured and eaten almost a dozen people but has not been caught yet. Two of the biggest fans of his show are two friends Tom and Quinn. One day Kane announces that he is doing a meet and greet at a local restaurant. Quinn goes to meet him but Tom stays home due to an overprotective mother fearing something will happen to him since there’s an unidentified serial killer on the loose. Quinn gets abducted by Kane, taken to his house and eaten. When Tom learns about her disappearance he gets his friend Maya and they conceive a plan find evidence that Kane killed Quinn. They go to is next meet and greet and they both get abducted. Once they are tied up in Kane’s house they manage to escape and grab as much unused meat they can find to prove that Kane is a murderer. Kane chases after them to prevent them from escaping and is greatly wounded by Maya sticking a meat cleaver in his shoulder. They both manage to escape and run to the police to prove the heinous acts that Kane committed are true.

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Reflection

By: Brenna Barrett

Every day, I woke up and looked at her and she sat there looking back at me. The stark whiteness that washed over her face did not reflect over me. It distorted her features, broke her face into fragments, and wiped clean the color of her skin. Yet, she was me, and I was her. Our movements and speech patterns were alike but opposite. To draw the curtains and to block out the light only hid the whiteness that washed over her face. And then suddenly it was me, staring at myself. But, I didn’t recognize the person anymore for the whiteness, the light, seemed like the only thing that separated me from the person I had become. The light from the window, I knew, was not the only thing that differed me from my reflection.

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Departure

Wyn Cox

 

I conclude this whole life

is one of those miracles

that never seem to matter

until the minute streams burn

and turn to steam

and I begin to dream

of purple moss and

inescapable meetings.

 

At night, the cicadas recite

stories about how the Earth

was born and will someday die.

One by one, the moths throw

themselves into the sun

and flit between beacons

of fading starlight

in modest white dress

despite certain death.

They speak with such grace,

such warmth beneath a

stark linen canvas.

 

In a realized subconscious,

I translate Morse code from

beating wings, hold my breath

where the air is water and glistens.

I take notice of the trees’ stillness

and runes carved into branches—

the woodpecker’s inscription.

 

To awaken is to be

reborn into a world restricted.

I listen for the metal breath

of fingers against bars, magnified

only to my ears.

The woodpecker pulls the

raw flesh of the cherry tree

out from inside itself, as if

it knows how to pinpoint

the sensitive topics

for rabid consumption.

 

Engravings on river stones

prophesied that I would finally

stray into the lesser miracle

of reality, condemning the

wonders of the night to

be extinguished by the

flame of day.

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Carance

Isa Romero

The sweet scent of strawberries and oranges envelops me like a warm hug. A light ache forms in my head as my body is lifted off the hard-concrete floor. I feel whimsical and almost childlike but am frightened by the magnified sound of a door slamming shut. I jump slightly and the arms keeping me airborne tighten their grip. I tremble and whimper until I am finally released from the devil’s clutch.

My body is gently situated onto something that feels like a bed and I try to calm myself down a little. I focus my attention on the pressure of someone’s hand resting gently on my shoulder and slowly but surely, my breathing and the rate of my heart slow down to a steady, constant beat. Minutes pass and somehow, I have managed to curl myself into a small ball. The hand removes itself from my shoulder and the individual has a seat next to my still sensitive body. The door to the room opens with a creak and closes with a loud bang. Each step taken by the person entering the room is magnified tenfold. I whimper and cover my ears with my hands, and the loud, clomping footsteps turn into quiet, distant tip-toes.

The headache worsens, and it is evident that without some sort of medicine things are only going to continue to decline from here. Cold hands remove my hands from my head and hold them steady by my side. My mind flashes back to a time when someone held me in such a way. It felt like torture then, and it feels like torture now. I wriggle and lash out at the person holding me down to try and free myself but to no avail. The hands never release, and I tire quickly. Cautiously, I give in and the grip on my wrists loosen slightly. I feel as if I can finally breathe again.

A needle is stuck into the skin of my neck, and the liquid inside injected into my body. It’s discomforting but helps to relieve my headache and delirious state. Finally, my wrists are released, and my vision clears.

In front of me sit two people. One is Kathleen Turner, my best friend, and royal nurse. Her ginger hair is swept up neatly into a white cap. Only her side swiped bangs that rest beautifully along the edge of her face, framing it perfectly, escape. Green eyes the shade that of which is best represented by emeralds focus on her bag of medical tools. The light-blue, sleeveless shift dress that fits her body quite well flows around her gracefully. Her legs are bent into a mermaid pose when she sits on the bed and her petite, white, one-inch heels are gingerly taken off so as not to ruin the comforter. One of her hands checks my pulse through my wrist, while the other scribbles down her observations on a clipboard in a doctor’s messy handwriting.

Next to her is the Crown Prince of Carance, Thomas Brande. His blond hair falls lightly in his face and makes him look as elegant as he sounds. Blue eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea watch me with concern. Like most days, he wears a white, button-down dress shirt and black khaki pants. A navy-blue blazer rests on an armchair near the center of the room with a pair of black dress shoes sitting underneath. He lowers his hands warily into his lap, afraid that I will faint or start to fight again.

I am disoriented, but a quick scan of my surroundings gives me a better idea of my location. A large closet is open wide and filled to the brim with all types of clothing and shoes. The hand-carved, wooden dresser matches the state of the closet with clothes about to spill out of its drawers and sits right next to it. Next to the bed is a nightstand with only a lamp, small flashlight, and The Lost Years by T.A. Barron resting neatly on top. The center of the room has two chairs with ornate backings and red velvet cushions for seats. They surround a small coffee table that has a potted Anemone flower, two glass cups, and a pitcher of water on top.

Prince Thomas and Kathleen stay quiet and let me come to my own conclusions.

Having been in his room only once, I do not recognize it immediately. The door is always locked for reasons unbeknownst to everyone except its owner and the best friend. The only way to be allowed in is if someone with a key unlocks the door and opens it for you. Of course, you could always enter the unconventional way; through the windows.

Stories about the prince escaping his punishment of chamber confinement by climbing out the windows had spread rapidly throughout the kingdom over the past years, but it has yet to be proven true. Now, when confined to his room, the prince has guards standing outside both the windows and door to watch him constantly. No escape for the young and reckless prince.

Personally, I have never thought of breaking into his bedroom. Only the shallowest of women ever do; my own sister and mother included. They all find the prince to be extremely handsome and have unrealistic dreams of marrying him and becoming queen. However, I have never seen him as anything more than my boss and a prat. Pampered the entirety of his existence and never having to work for anything a day in his life. Everything comes free to him and he has no right to complain about how much his life sucks when he has everyone else doing all the work for him.

I feel exhausted and about to burst into tears. Nothing like this has ever happened during work hours. Only afterward when I am about to fall asleep. And even then, Kathleen is there to aid me before it gets this bad.

When I try to sit up and explain myself to the prince, he pushes me back down as gently as you would place a glass statue. I cannot even imagine what he must think of me now. This sickly girl that is weak and fragile. Unable to do anything without breaking into tears or fainting. How on Earth did she get a job as a maid in my castle?

“I-I,” I stutter. How do you explain something to someone who probably won’t even understand a single word you say?

“It’s all right, Lilah,” says Kathleen. “I already explained everything to His Royal Highness. You need not say anything. In fact, I would rather you get some sleep instead of speaking. Okay?”

I nod. “Can you help me to my room, Kathleen? My legs are too weak to walk without some sort of assistance.” I reach my arm out to have Kathleen help me up. She places it delicately on my stomach and a confused look washes over my face.

“If it is all right with you, Ms. Darling,” the prince starts. “Tonight, you will be resting in my bed. Ms. Turner has already approved of the situation and I will have Elliot cancel all my plans for this evening so that I may stay with you. Now, is there anything that I can get you?”

“Wha—? I, uh, I would prefer to sleep in my room. All my stuff is there, and… And where would you sleep, my Lord?”

“I will be sleeping on the floor. But, I can see how flustered you are about this and I assure you everything is well in order. You need not worry about a thing. Just let me know if there is anything you need, and I would be more than happy to retrieve it for you.”

“Thank you, my Lord. But I do not require anything except rest,” I say. I mutter a barely audible ‘apparently’ while glaring at Kathleen. A flush creeps up her neck and I see right through her striking façade. This is about more than getting rest after an episode. She is trying to make me see the good in the prince. One thing I will not allow is myself to be taken advantage of while in my ill state.

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Opened Shell

by Zayne Ali

You could tell your friends,

but you don’t.

Instead you turn to the adults you’re so used to.

 

How would your friends act if they knew?

Would they scorn you?

Think you’re too vulnerable?

You don’t know.

You don’t want to know.

 

Why are you afraid of judgement?

These are your friends for gosh sakes!

They’ve been through the same stresses and challenges you have!

 

But you still don’t say.

Fear weighs on your heart.

Avoiding the topic is like a slow, careful dance.

 

But one day, the clouds were too much.

You just needed someone to talk to.

Someone who understood.

Someone who cared.

A peer that been through this dark storm like you.

 

This person appeared,

just like an angel.

The two of you had a heart-to-heart talk.

 

“It was like talking to a mirror,”

you think to yourself.

“Someone who’s an introvert with depression too.”

 

You hugged together,

cried together.

You built a friendship that could never be broken.

 

Though depression might seem like a challenge,

don’t think it makes you any weaker!

It makes you stronger,

as a matter of fact.

Don’t let anything or anybody tell you otherwise.