BHS Inkwell 2017-2018

Blacksburg High 2017-2018

Inkwell Vol. 15

Table of Contents

3. Letter From the Editor 4. How to Survive - Bethany Werner 5. The Den - Ulysses Forte 6. The Test - Ella Goldschmidt

8. Friends of the Meadow - Emily Barron 14. The End of the World - Erin Hansbrough 15. Seventeen - Grace McGeehee 16. The Student Body, MediumWell - Alice Xu 17. The Ghost - Sebastian Kocz 18. An Ode to the Mountains / Una Oda a las Montañas - Aubrey Albimino 20. The Jeweler - Hannah Stafford 21. The Void - Sebastian Kocz 22. Beautiful Liar - Brittany Bolger

24. Spring is On Her Way - Crista Ramsey 25. Wanderer on the Trail - Jalen Mink 26. Twenty-Eight - Jenna Massey 28. Temperate Broadleaf - Megan Jameson 29. The Butterfly - Josalyn Amodeo 30. The World Without Stories - Rachel Poteet 36. Tomorrow - Ella Warnick 38. Stained Glass - Maggie Lilly 39. Fleeting Moments - Courtney Stosser 40. Love in Five Moments - Bethany Werner 42. Clock Tower - Alice Xu 45. The Desolate Sentinel - Erin Hansbrough 46. If We Could Fly Away - Megan Asbrand 47. A New Day - Genesis Simmons

47. Rainbow - Bethany Werner 48. Tomorrow! - Rachel Poteet 49. Staff Credits

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Letter From the Editor

Welcome to the 2017-2018 edition of Blacksburg High School’s Literary Magazine, courtesy of Mr. Spring’s Creative Writing II class.This magazine is a chance for writers and artisits to have their work featured on a school-wide platform. I am blown away by all of the incredible work, both literary and visual, in this year’s volume. Our theme for this magazine is “Reflecting on Tomorrow,” a theme we hope will inspire readers to think about both tomorrow’s possibilities and the adventures that bring us there. We believe this is a theme that allows for a wide variety of creative interpretations; after all, tomorrow looks different for everyone. The magazine is designed to have the darker and sadder works at the beginning, moving to a more positive outlook at the end in order to give readers a hopeful and inspiring send-off. Both of the perspectives showcased in the magazine are equally valid, but the world likes to focus on the negative, so we chose to emphasize the positive. Special thanks to Mr. Spring for teaching us and dealing with our nonsense, to Ms. Spencer for showing us the ins and outs of indesign, and to Mr. Kaylor for providing us with a plethora of photos. Shoutout to our graduating seniors: Hannah Stafford, Megan Jameson, Brittany Bolger, and Jonah McDowell. Good luck out there, and keep writing! Now, we would like to invite you to stop for a moment. Take a deep breath. Read, laugh, sigh, ponder, and look to tomorrow with hope and curiosity.

With love, -Bethany Werner, Editor

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HowTo Survive By Bethany Werner

1. Make yourself become a mirror. Become a moonlit reflection of them and hide yourself behind silvery skin and smooth glass. 2. Tread lightly, for you are walking on eggshell ice. Make every footstep a prayer for flight and forgiveness. 3. Carve yourself away until you are a shadow. Don’t let them see you. What they see, they can destroy; hide yourself. 4. Stitch yourself shut with the sugar-coated lies they spoon down your raw throat. Try not to scream. 5. Frost your porcelain mask with untruths. Build layer upon layer of falsehood, until even you cannot remember what really lies beneath it, until the sharp china has cemented into your skin. 6. Forget yourself. Forget your dreams, your loves, those crystalline things that make it all worth bearing because if you blink, they will be stolen like breath before a fall, and you will be alone again. 7. Watch. watch the spiderwebbing rage swirl around you and strike the others down, but stay out of it. 8. No, Screw your eyes tightly shut and walk blindly, because if you open them you’ll be petrified. Bite your tongue and ignore the pained gnashing of teeth.

9. Breathe 10. Breathe

Jessica Martin

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By Ulysses Forte The Den

It’s warmer here; Heat flows from a golden muzzle that has yet to murder, Immobile in embrace locked with maternal claws. Breathy breezes whisper across the curve of an ursuline eye, Jostling eldritch sleep into dreams of spring. And who will know What end they meet After spinning around in life’s cycle? The bird brained eyes circling above will surely forget Even if death is, for a moment, reflected in them. For not even the moon’s rays shine Where Madonna and child wait out the avalanche.

It’s cold here; Ice winds howling across the curve of a blue world, Jostling snowbearded firs with white-knuckled hands. A song sparrow shakes, feathered fear on a branch. And prowling through the dead understory: the hungry lynx, Though there’s nothing left to kill. The blizzard holds everything between its teeth. But there is a place below this lichyard Under icy catacombs where small animal bones Sit hollow yellow against the blinding drifts. There is a place Between buried boulders, dormant seedlings, and wishful bulbs, Who guard the future in cream colored tissue. There in that small chamber, a still beating heart In a frost-embalmed corpse.

Annekke Van Gelder

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The Test By Ella Goldschmidt

Kent Smith

I stared at the characters on the ugly, beige paper in front of me. I squinted and waited until the letters swam together to spell out, What does the word “consternation” mean in line 6-8? I read the question over again. I turned the words around in my head until I felt a dull throbbing behind my eyes. Gently turning the page back, I reread the passage. Professor Dempsey of the Washington National Academy for High Musical Appreciation remarks that much of contemporary Neo-prebaroque music tends to change time every bar, typically alternating from simple duple meter to hemidemisemiquaver. Constructing music in such a manner allows for listeners to savor the adagio measures while introducing an element of consternation to awaken the audience. I pondered the word “consternation” as I glanced at the possible answers: (a) A shade of periwinkle (b) a contemporary Neo-prebaroque instrumental technique (c) equating to the feeling of being impaled aroma of freshly sharpened number two pencils and test packets with the subtle but familiar stink of adolescent sweat and stress.The pain behind my eyes had not subsided and was further aggravated by the chorus of frantically flipping pages and sniffling noses from the corners of the musty classroom. I peered at the round and rosy-cheeked proctor at the head of the room. She smiled cheerily at the grey sky outside. Her eyes gently flitted down to her watch, then she smiled a toothy grin, shiny enough to reflect the paisley pattern of her dress. She announced,“You have 15 minutes left before we begin the next section.” I looked down to see that I had barely completed 15 questions with 30 remaining. I felt a pit of panic develop in my stomach.The pounding pain behind my eyes grew stronger as my mind raced to create a clever plot to complete 30 questions in a quarter of an hour. 14 minutes flashed by. Time always seems to know when to speed up, especially when students are taking important, timed examinations. I only had completed five more problems. I could have attempted to suddenly in occipital lobe (d) The smell of Professor Demsey’s detergent A sigh escaped my mouth as I inhaled the

finish the remainder of the problems at the speed of one problem per second, which would have been improbable, but not impossible. Instead I stared dumbly at the hideous beige paper. I sank into the mindless void of standardized testing until DING! The shrill call of the bell brought me to my senses, though my head ached and my heart pounded. “Alright! Please put down your pencils and close your test booklets. A five minute break will commence NOW!”The crimson-cheeked woman exclaimed almost threateningly. I felt a little “consternation” then, assuming that “consternation” meant “equating to the feeling of being impaled suddenly in the occipital lobe.”The throbbing pain behind my eyes worsened. I couldn’t remove the mental image of the utter beige of the test booklet. It was inconceivably beige- beige beyond my comprehension. I felt queasy and defeated, despite the fact that I only had completed a mere fourth of the disastrous examination. I felt as if a pitchfork had punctured my esophagus. If the devil ever devised a perfect torture, this would be worse than that by tenfold. I stared at my closed booklet, and it stared menacingly back at me.The paisley-clad proctor sniffed the air curtly and gestured to the clock.

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“Part Three, Pen-and-Paper Math, will commence in a minute. Please pull out your test booklets.” I snapped out of my trance to the sudden, horrid realization that I had never completed or seen section two. I had no recollection of the proctor announcing it or of completing it. How could I have been on section three already? I felt an awful sick feeling slide up my gut as I tried to find the missing second section. “Hello, sweetie.” I jumped at the touch of a cold hand on my shoulder. “I noticed that you’ve been looking at that paper for quite a while,” the proctor cooed. “I suggest that you work.” I slowly gazed up at her glistening eyes and wide smile. My throat felt suddenly dry as I smelled the rotting stench of her perfume. “Yes, ma’am,” I croaked. “Good girl. Hurry along; you don’t have much time left,” she replied as she released her grip on my shoulder. I pulled out my pointless number two pencil and prepared my psyche for the oncoming phase. My heart pounded, pumped, and thumped inside my rib cage as the pain clawed, scraped, and howled behind my forehead. I scratched and scribbled my answers as my

brain banged around inside my skull.The problems, at the surface, seemed easy, such as solving for x in 2x+5=15, but these little demons of problems were plotting, planning, and preying on my weaknesses. I reviewed, revised, and revisited the completed problems until I was assured of their perfection. Finally, as I neared the last five functions, I heard the dreaded ding. My heart stopped and my head spun. I felt vaguely sickened, as if some horrific curse had just crept into crevices where my skin connected with the paper. “Alright, please put down your pencils and pull out your calculator! We are now on our final section. You will have 40 minutes to complete 25 problems!” The overly-enthused proctor exclaimed with a glint in her eye which would have made even the most gullible become suspicious. I stared down once more at the ugly beige paper. It laughed at my utter confusion and incompetence. My hurting head felt as if a searing silver spike had suddenly stabbed my skull. I felt defeated and dehydrated and wanted to run far away from this repulsive, putrid place. I gazed at the test booklet once more and promptly passed out.

Mary Gabbard

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Friends of the Meadow By Emily Barron

are almost synchronized, sending tiny puffs of dust swirling through rays of early morning sun. We don't talk, comfortable in silence. I’m too out of breath, and Rufus isn’t particularly talkative in the mornings anyway. We slow to a walk as the trees thin out, and we enter the Meadow.There is a huddle of people up ahead, all dressed in black.The skin behind my ears prickles and my eyes narrow as we near them. “Hello,” I call out.They turn towards us. Several are carrying with them small leather bags or glass jars. A man in boots holds a limp rabbit by the ears, its throat slit open (presumably by the hunting knife hanging at his side). “Hello, friends,” one woman replies.They’re gathered around a bright red “For Sale” sign posted next to the path. “We are the Friends of the Meadow,” says the woman. “We take care of this lovely public Meadow for all to enjoy.” Rufus glances around at the yellow grass and dead shrubs of the Meadow. “Great job you’ve done,” he says. “Thank you,” says the woman, obviously not registering his sarcasm. “We’ve worked so hard. But now the town is trying to sell our beautiful Meadow!” She gestures to the sign next to her. “We must do something to stop this.The Meadow is for all citizens to enjoy.The town cannot just sell it!”Her cheeks are flushed red and her eyes dart back and forth. Her pale hands are curled into shaking fists, and I take a step back instinctively. “Um… good luck,” I say as Rufus pulls me roughly along the path. “Annie, let’s go,” he hisses. “Why are you in such a hurry?” I ask as we jog away, although I am slightly relieved to get away from those strange people and their tiny nature Crusade. “I don’t like them. I bet those are the weirdos that killed Stripes.” I roll my eyes. “Oh my God Rufus, nobody killed your cat. He probably got eaten by something.” “They didn’t just kill him.They sacrificed him.” “Riiiight. Here we go with this again.” Rufus shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ve seen them out in the Meadow at night. I know what they do. Did you see that man back there with the grey beard? He was holding a dead rabbit. Probably preparing for some sort of ritual.”

The freezing water around me is dark and murky, so deep that I can’t see the light of the surface. I can’t breathe. I can see faces, blurry and faded. The faces are insubstantial, nothing but smudged drawings from a sketchbook long forgotten somewhere in a dusty attic. Their eyes are dark like blackstrap molasses. It’s so cold. The faces stare down at me, grinning wide as I sink deeper. Too wide. Their teeth are not normal. The water is so cold and heavy… I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t – I’m swimming in blankets, not water, sitting straight up and gasping in the cool air of my bedroom. My eyes are open wide now, my heart jackhammering in my chest with the dream so fresh behind my eyes.The moon, waxing its way to full, sends a cascade of honeysuckle colored light through my window. I sit up and place my palm against the smooth cold glass. In the darkness outside, I can just make out the line of trees and greenery that slowly and steadily encroaches on my backyard. Somewhere in the darkness behind all the trees are the soft, undulating hills of the Meadow. I turn away from the window and go back to bed until the silence of the night is broken by birdsong, and the darkness melts into saffron and mauve. I slip into my clothes and wiggle my sneakers onto my feet. I move slowly, under a soft sleep-haze, even though I know that Rufus will be unhappy with me if I am late to meet him for our morning run. Rufus’s punctuality is his peculiar virtue, the one aspect of his personality that doesn’t fit in with his messy hair, or his penchant for getting lost, or the general chaos inside his skull. He’s been like this since I met him in third grade, organizing himself only by the numbers on the clock. I hurry out to the abandoned barn to meet him so that we can begin our jog before the sticky summer heat takes hold of the day. He is waiting there as usual, leaning against the weathered wooden wall of the barn. “Morning,” I say. He smiles and yawns, then we stretch and set off on the familiar path. As we run, I watch the shadows cast by the trees on either side of us.They flicker over Rufus’s angular face and turn his auburn locks red-orange. Our footsteps

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“He was probably hunting,” I say. “I honestly never thought you would be the type for conspiracy theories, Rufus, but you’ve really proven me wrong.” I force a little laugh. Our conversation gives way to the sounds of our rhythmic footfalls and quick breaths.The path cuts across the Meadow and winds through the forest, eventually leading us back to the abandoned barn where we began. I close my eyes as we come to a stop and my breathing begins to return to normal. “That was a tough run,” I say. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m exhausted.” Rufus frowns, “Is something wrong?” “I’ve been having these nightmares,” I reply. “Really creepy stuff.” Rufus nods. “Same here. It’s probably because of the Meadow.That whole place radiates negative energy, makes it hard to get a good night’s sleep.” “Rufus,” I laugh. “You can’t just blame everything on the Meadow.” “That’s what you think,” he grumbles. I don’t think about the Meadow again until I’m getting ready for bed. It is a little strange how

passionate that lady was about saving the Meadow. I don’t know many people that care so much about a desolate patch of grass in the middle of a forest. I’ve never even seen anyone spend a substantial amount of time in the Meadow anyway. Well, not during the day… I shake the thought from my head. Rufus is, of course, wrong. Fenton is just a stereotypical small town. No one here is stealing cats and using them in ritual sacrifice. I text Rufus goodnight before I turn off the lamp on my bedside table. “Goodnight,” he texts back. “Don't let the sadistic occult practices going on in the Meadow disturb your sleep.” I smile a little bit before closing my eyes. Grass under my bare feet. The air is thick with the sickly-sweet smell of flowers and rot. My f ingers drip, sticky, crimson, and hot. A spider dangles in the air in front of me, its spindly legs clinging on to a thin, silken thread that sways back and forth like a pendulum. I look up at the sky, the color of a deep bruise. The stars dart around like fluorescent minnows in a pool of darkness. I watch them, but they are almost too quick too follow with my eyes. They begin to whirl

Clement Leroux

9

Hannah Tallant

and spiral, a glowing cyclone in the sky. I grow dizzy, fall to my knees and my head spins, but I cannot look away. I call Rufus to tell him about the dream after breakfast. When we meet at the decrepit barn for our morning run, he hands me an issue of the Fenton Daily News, pointing at a short article on the second page. I skim through it. Apparently, yesterday evening, a note was left at City Hall saying, “You are all disgusting little fools”. It was signed “Friends of the Meadow”. “So what?” I say, looking up at Rufus. “That seems like a harmless teenage prank,” “Keep reading,” says Rufus. I cast my eyes back down at the paper and shudder. “The message was written in a dark red ink that has not yet been identified.” Rufus nudges me. “Blood.” “No way it’s blood,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s so many other things it could be.”My mouth is dry. I try not to think about the newspaper when we get to the part of our run that cuts through the Meadow, but I find myself running a bit faster

than usual until we reach the forest once more. After our run, I find myself unable to stop thinking about the Meadow as I return home and go through my daily chores. Could Fenton really harbor something so sinister, lurking beneath a surface tension built of monotony and dead grass? I’ve always thought that I live in the most boring place in America, a pocket of people who all collectively decided to settle for the blandest way of living life. I worry that if I stay here for long enough, I’ll become like all of them, blending into my dull surroundings like everyone else - a herd of chameleons.The midday heat drifting in from the open kitchen windows is beginning to turn my thoughts into daydreams of leaving this place to travel the country when my phone interrupts, buzzing harshly. “Hi, Rufus,” I answer. “What’s up?” “Frogs,” he replies. “Frogs everywhere. You have to see this.” This sounds a lot like one of Rufus’s stupid jokes. His favorite hobby has been playing tricks on me ever since we were in elementary school. “What the heck are you talking about?”

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“Just meet me at the plaza downtown. You’ll see. It’s crazy, I promise.”His voice has an edge of nervous excitement, the kind that always bubbles up when tensions are rising and puzzle pieces are falling together around the corners. “Fine,” I say, standing up. “I’ll ask my mom if I can borrow the car.” I notice what Rufus was talking about before I even reach the empty farmer’s market. It takes me an extra few minutes to get there because I keep swerving to avoid the frogs that hop around in the street. Finally, I decide to park the car a few blocks away and just walk the rest of the way to the plaza. Rufus is there, waiting for me. He gestures around wordlessly at the frogs. “So why did I have to come see this?” I ask. “Come on,” says Rufus. “You don’t find this “It’s a little weird,” I admit, stepping carefully I shake my head. “No way, Rufus. I know what you’re thinking.This has nothing to do with the Meadow. It’s probably… frog migration season or something.” “Come here,” says Rufus, walking to the middle of the plaza. I follow him there and look down at the ground.There are dozens of dead frogs arranged to form the letters “F-O-M”. “Fom? What’s that mean?” I ask. “Is it a misspelling of frog or something?” Rufus rolls his eyes, “F-O-M,” he says. “Friends of the Meadow.” I have to admit, it sounds slightly plausible. “No way,” I say, shaking my head. “There is no way Fenton is home to some sort of meadow cult. I refuse to believe it.” “You seriously think the Meadow is a normal place? How come every single plant there is dead?” “Maybe the soil is extra acidic or something,” I say. “What about the three-eyed coyotes that live there? Can you explain that?” “Genetic mutation,” I reply. “What about the levitating goat that Old Lady Edna found there last year?” “That’s just a rumor,” I protest. “And Old Lady Edna is senile.There is nothing strange going on in the Meadow, Rufus!” strange?” over a particularly large frog. “Doesn’t this seem unnatural? Maybe even paranormal?”

Rufus grins. “Want me to prove you wrong?” “No, not really.” “Meet me at the abandoned barn at “Fine,” I say, stepping backwards. My foot comes down on something squishy that makes a strangled croak and a watery crunch. I look down, lifting my foot up very slowly to reveal a mangled frog with twitching legs sticking out at odd angles. Blood is seeping out from underneath of it, staining the pavement. One of its eyes stares vacantly up at me. “Gross,” says Rufus, not sounding particularly grossed out. I wrap my arms around my torso, clutching my stomach. “Let’s get out of here.” After dinner, I try to take a nap before I have to leave to meet Rufus, but every time I doze off, I fall into a nightmare. I am attacked by frogs trying to avenge their stepped-upon brother.Then I am running in place, trying desperately to get away from a burning City Hall, but unable to move from the spot I’m in. Next I am face to face with an angry lady holding a knife in one hand and a dead rabbit in the other, screaming “Leave our Meadow alone!”Three- eyed coyotes and levitating goats prowl through my dreams, staring at me with dull, ravenous eyes. Finally, my alarm clock blinks 11:45. I unlock the front door and slip outside, flinching at even the tiniest noises I make. If my parents find out what I’m doing, I’m dead. I flick on my flashlight and make my way to the old barn. Rufus emerges from the darkness, holding a flashlight of his own. “Follow me,” he says quietly, beckoning me towards our running path. “Am I going to regret this?” I ask, already following him into the woods. He doesn’t reply.The path looks so different now, illuminated by our weak flashlights rather than the faded-rose morning sun. It’s eerily familiar. Once we get close to the Meadow, Rufus veers off of the path and turns his flashlight off. He glances back at me, motioning for me to do the same. I nod, reluctantly switching it off.The trees are thinner here, so the moon illuminates the ground beneath us enough for us to walk without tripping. We creep up to the edge of the Meadow and Rufus motions for me to crouch down with him. “They’ll be here soon,” he whispers. We wait and wait. And wait. And wait.The air grows even colder. My left leg begins to cramp. midnight.”

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“Ugh,” I say. “Can we leave already? I don’t think this made-up cult of yours is coming.” “I can’t believe they’re not here,” he says. “I’ve seen them up here before, wearing black robes and holding torches and chanting.” “That sounds like something straight out of a low-budget horror movie,” I say, standing up. “Maybe it was just a dream you had.” I walk out into the Meadow, stretching out my legs. “Are you calling my imagination low-budget? Wati! Annie, don't go out there,” he warns. “They could be here any minute, it’s not safe.” I walk a little farther, still trying to uncramp my left leg. Up ahead of me, I see something dark on the ground, approximately in the Meadow’s center. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing. Rufus stands up, craning his neck to see. He steps cautiously out from under the shelter of the trees and jogs over to me. “I don’t know,” he says. We make our way over to the object, which turns out to be a circle of large, square-ish stones with a pile of ash in the middle. “Huh,” says Rufus, bending down to examine the stones. “They look heavy.”He tries to pick one up, but only succeeds in flipping it over. “Whoa,” he says. “What is it?” I ask, moving closer to see what he’s looking at. “Whoa,” I echo as I look down at the place where the stone used to be. Someone had dug a hole underneath the stone and placed several objects inside of it. Rufus picks them up, turning on his flashlight so that we can see them better. He spreads them out on the ground so that we can see them: a faded black and white photograph, a small velvet pouch, a rabbit’s foot, and a handful of dried daisies. “Hey,” I say, pointing at the photograph. “That looks just like the lady that we talked to the other day on our run, the one who was so angry about the town’s decision to sell the Meadow.” “Look,” says Rufus, flipping it over. “There’s a year written on the back… 1854! This thing is ancient.” “I guess it’s her grandmother or something,” I say. “But it looks exactly like her,” Rufus says. “What’s in the little bag?” I ask. Rufus opens the velvet pouch. “Teeth,” he says. I look closer. “Oh my gosh, are those human?” Rufus shines the flashlight on them. “I think

“That is so gross,” I say, turning away. Rufus nods in agreement, putting the bag down. He flips over another rock. “There’s stuff under this one too,” he says. These objects are different: a small vial of clear liquid, a bird skull, a metal figurine of a pig, and another old photograph. “This one looks just like Joe the butcher,” says Rufus, pointing to the photo. I can’t help but agree.The man in the photo is identical to the local butcher. We flip over the photo. 1852 is written on the back in faded ink. We begin flipping over more rocks, unearthing more macabre objects and old photographs. Each photo contains an unsettlingly familiar face. “That’s Martha!” I exclaim, pointing to a photo of a woman with a sharp jawline and curly hair. “She goes to book club with my mom.” “I wonder if your mom knows her reading buddy is almost 200 years old,” Rufus snickers as he looks at the date on the back of the photograph. “No way,” I say. “Martha just turned 47.” “I’m sure that’s what she wants you to think,” he replies. “I bet this is why they want the Meadow so badly.They’re probably using it as a place to perform some kind of ritual that keeps them alive. No one ever pokes around here, so it’s perfect.They thought no one would ever find out.” “I guess it’s possible…” I say. “I’m not really sure what to believe.” “Hello, friends,” says someone behind us in a silky voice. We whirl around simultaneously to see a group of people standing behind us.They are dressed in black, flowing garments, and their faces are illuminated by flickering torchlight. “What are you doing out here in the Meadow so late?” asks the woman at the front of the group. Rufus and I back away. It’s as if the photographs that we unearthed came to life and are standing in front of us, all wearing too-tight smiles on their too- youthful faces. “Should we run?” I whisper, looking at Rufus. He doesn’t need to reply. I can read his eyes like Magic 8-Balls: signs point to yes. We take off, bolting through the Meadow, not looking back to see if we are being followed.Thorns scratch mercilessly at my bare ankles as we reach the forest, not bothering to find the path. It’s too dark to avoid running into things; we left our flashlights back at the stone circle. We fumble through the inky black maze of plants and soil, twigs catching on my clothing and leaves

so.”

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tangling into my hair. We exit the forest close to the abandoned barn, and stand still for a moment, listening for the sound of feet pounding behind us. All we can hear is our own heavy breathing mixed with the sounds of the forest behind us settling down after we so clumsily disrupted the sleepy quiet. “This is the worst thing that’s happened to me since my parents named me after their dead dog,” Rufus groans. “I hate this weird-ass town.” Rufus walks me home to make sure I’m okay, but I don’t stop shaking until I’m in bed under a mound of blankets, with the curtains yanked closed and the door locked tight. I close my eyes and try to rest, but… is that the sound of muffled chanting in the distance? No, I tell myself, it must be the rustle of leaves.

We don’t return to the Meadow the next morning, or the next. Weeks pass, and Fenton is plagued.The sunset colored leaves have begun to fall from the trees and the air has grown cold by the time the mayor announces that the town has decided not to sell the Meadow after all. “We have encountered some opposition from… certain people in recent months about this decision,” he said in an interview with the local newspaper, “We have decided that it’s best to leave the Meadow as a public place for everyone to enjoy.”He also announced that the three-eyed coyotes are particularly numerous this year, and families with young children should stay away from the Meadow and the forest around it. “Thank God we’re graduating this year,” says Rufus when I tell him the news. “We seriously have to get out of this town.”

Mary Gabbard

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End of theWorld By Erin Hansbrough

It’s the end of our world. The sun sets one last golden time. It’s the over of days, The final of ways, we sing Before the night falls And the deep calls us into Its soundless embrace. I sob Empty eggshell tears That crack and shatter the stillness. I scream at the far hills And promise to miss this Tree lined, creek winding wonderland. My heart breaks, rips apart As all the fire-wisp creatures Blink out like burnt up stars. The darkness sweeps in, And the sudden, forceful wind. The dusty, rust-like radiation static Plays on the only radio station left.

I watch time run out in tumbling grains of sand And life fades away as the green lands crumble Into black, into the end of the world.

Claire Jenkins

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Seventeen By Grace McGeehee

Seventeen Lives Lost Today. The headline echoes through empty hallways and classrooms, across abandoned football fields. It punctures our hope-filled, youthful hearts with sharp fragments of fear, but it calls us to action. Seventeen is youth and life and a gift. It is a dream that becomes a memory, and it is precious and fragile. Seventeen is not loss and a nightmare and broken dreams that shatter on the floor. Although we know that we cannot put those pieces back together, We have our own dream that we can stop it from happening again. It is not my dream or your dream or their dream. It is our dream that we can only find together. So let us dance under the lights of youthfulness without fear. Let us be seventeen, let us be sixteen, let us be fifteen, let us be young. Because this generation, we will take action. We are taking action. And our dream is that we won’t have to do it alone.

Sage Gaia Boyer

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The Student Body, MediumWell

By Alice Xu

It takes a long time to roast a goose Even when it is young and fat In one way that is all too good The choicest pieces become The cleverest thinkers among us Over there I hear some aspirants for the frying pan The geese look good Cooked with meat and fat One still carries his textbooks with him Mutters propositions in physics The least you can get are five minutes rest Dreams of examinations and During a bombardment She was the least composed of all. She simply Dissolved into fat and water Such frail bones We are youth A bit bloody at one corner, but that can be cut off What would you do? “Clear out of this!” “Get drunk!” The rum is passed out. It made them stupid.

“Sit down!” They say of course there must be discipline Our schoolmaster, a stern little man Plucks and cleans the whole of the class Takes out a pocket-knife and reaches over “Ha! You’ve nothing To trouble about – You lack the studious mind!” “You want to become A labourer? or a workman - a peasant? It lasts longer, and there’s no getting out of it either.” I am very much afraid. Everyone wants to be treated well. So we press on one another – we must look out for our own bread. Enough to eat is just as valuable as our lives That is the reason we are so greedy for it. The goose is dead. We intend to roast it at once.

Claire Jenkins

Hannah Stafford

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The Ghost By Sebastian Kocz

I saw a ghost in the house this year, His mouth was thin and eyes were clear. He stared at me always but only asked me one thing: “Where are you going for college?”

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The mountains Bring me The serenity Of photos painted With the wind and the clouds. I love to roam Between the turns and the turns Of your face. When I look up, I see the freckles Of your constellations; I can follow them with my fingers. I see a woman, A happy family, A phoenix Beating his strong wings. My feet press On the cold earth Creating another piece Of a map that Has not yet been drawn. I love to lose myself In your tracks and caverns: Your silence is the sweetest music I have ever heard; Your beauty Must never be exploited; Your rocks, trees, and leaves Must be left how they are. I hope that your treasures Continue to be precious; An Ode to the Mountains By Aubrey Albimino

I hope that your value Continues to be sacred; I hope that my grandchildren Can know you and love you Like I have loved you.

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Una Oda a las Montañas

Las montañas Me traes La serenidad De las fotos pintadas Con el viento y las nubes. Me encanta vagar Entre los giros y los giros De tu cara. Cuando miro arriba, Veo las pecas De tus constelaciones; Puedo rastrearlos con mis dedos. Veo una mujer, Una familia feliz, Un fénix Batiendo sus poderosas alas. Mis pies precionan En la tierra fría Creando una otra pieza De un mapa que aún No ha sido dibujado. Me encanta perderme En tus senderos y cavernas: Tu silencio es la música más dulce Que he oído jamás; Tu belleza Nunca debe ser explotada; Tus rocas, árboles, y hojas Deben dejarse como están.

Espero que tus tesoros Sigan siendo preciosos; Espero que tu valor Siga siendo sagrado; Espero que mis nietos Te conozcan y te amen Como he amado.

Photo by Katie Highfield

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The Jewler By Hannah Stafford

For you, I will piece together pleasantries, spill entire narratives of nothing but ‘Hello’s’ and ‘How do you do’s?’ Hollow, but we are still young, and the vacancies are easy enough to ignore Sometimes I wonder if the ink inside my pen knows that I lie to myself as often as I lie to you Maybe that’s why all our conversations sound more like a script, recited by an actor who has yet to memorize their lines

Why the words I put on paper warble and whine, tangling my letters into incomprehensible scribbles, The ink doesn’t like it when I braid the truth into a maze that better fits around the people I adore It’s harder to manipulate the black and the white when your pen knows what colors they stand for

For you, I may lie Behind locked jaws I am a Jeweler of parables, but my necklaces are not what they seem I use teeth in place of beads, sinew where there is usually string, I can’t help that these thoughts turn my breath noxious, the enamel on my teeth rotten No matter how often I floss the guilt still makes my gums bleed. I’m sorry I don’t worship honesty as strictly as you do At least my stories are welcomed with open arms.

Rania Abdalla

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Allyson Bateman

The Void

By Sebastian Kocz

I remember the first time I opened my eyes while praying in a church service. I had expected to see holy energies coursing through the air, bouncing off the walls of the sanctuary, or something else equally as sensational. Why else would everyone tell you to close your eyes, if not to keep you from knowing the secrets that lay behind the monologues that everyone folds their hands to? So one day, squished in a pew with the rest of my close-eyed and silent family, I decided that I was going to discover what the they were covering up. I opened my eyes. And the entire world was sucked up through my pupils, leaving a void. I stood there, alone in the dark. After looking to make sure no one else was around, I indulged myself in a quiet chuckle.

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22 Hannah Tallant

Beautiful Liar By Brittany Bolger She sits on the edge of the bed, Listening to the world turn. Plump lips cradle a cigarette, supported by a pair of pale fingers. 1:56AM blinks on the clock in blue, breaking the room’s carbon darkness. The form next to her extends an arm, and calloused fingers trace her shoulder blades. “Look at how beautiful you are.”He smiles. She exhales a ring of smoke and watches it float above her head like a halo. “Lie to me again,” she whispers. “I love you,” he says.

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Spring is On Her Way By Crista Ramsey

I step outside and start walking.The cool misty air brushes my face as I move along the trail and my toes become damp with morning dew. I look out into the field to my right where horses graze on the crisp green grass. Beyond that, the fog settles on the mountains. I continue walking towards the woods; the once bare branches have begun to bud, newborn leaves making their way into the world. In the treetops a robin sings its cheerful tune. Upon closer inspection of the trees, I see a small fly cleaning its feet on the smallest branches of a rickety dead pine. I look down at my feet and see tiny mounds of dirt as ants have reformed their hills in newly thawed ground.The tiny insects are deep in the ground now, but as the day warms up, they’ll surely greet the sun and bask in his warmth. The shadow of a Carolina Wren passes over the ground as she lands on a branch, a piece of hay clasped in her beak. She proceeds to weave the hay into the remains of her old nest, a refuge for her later offspring. The crunching of dead leaves sounds behind me, and I turn around to see my friend heading towards me. “There you are! Let’s go,” my friend says. I nod, and walk back inside with the knowledge that spring is finally on her way.

Luke Redifer

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Colby Hinckley

Wanderer On The Trail By Jalen Mink

As the homebound crow flies in March, so does the wanderer set foot to path in February. Gray clouds resting long in the West will be painted by the sunrises on the buttes. If this sight does fail the traveler, then let them be given anew the scent of their fellow. If smell should pass also, then let the warm embraces of a companion be enough. If touch should too take flight, then may the breath of another’s exhalation taste ever richer. If taste is stolen and all’s gone but hearing, then may the music of the ages be played along their trail. If at last no sense is left to the wanderer, then may they find solace in the knowledge of being with another. There is no better sense than that.

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Twenty-Eight By Jenna Massey

sliding to fill every empty area in her torso as the pod tumbles downward. She regrets ever taking this job, ever joining the agency, ever studying aerospace and what might lie beyond Earth’s atmosphere. She regrets double, no, triple checking every component of the landing mechanisms. There is too much blood rushing to her head to focus, and spots dance menacingly in her turning vision. Ernest. Halley’s hands itch to wrap around a bottle that isn’t there; one last drink before the ocean drinks her would be enough to calm her nerves, but of course there isn’t a drop of liquor up here, and alcohol hasn’t passed her lips since- Ernest died two years back, bleeding out in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla. It was a stupid, shameful way to go; both Ernest and the car’s driver had been too drunk to consider the dangers of driving themselves anywhere, and to make a short story shorter, the car had careened off the side of the highway into a rocky ravine. The police told Halley that he died painlessly on impact, but isn’t that what they tell every grieving, wife, mother, and sister? It was Halley who had to tell his family (“Yes, he was drinking. No, he wasn’t the driver.”), Halley who had to plan the funeral, and Halley who dropped the last rose on his casket. It was Halley who paid his bills and closed his accounts, Halley who visited his grave nearly every day to tell him stories and what the weather was like and who had won the latest

The countdown to crashtime is soft, a barely audible chime, and the consistency of it echos mockingly through the control room. It’s a metronome without an accompanying melody, a heartbeat without a source, and Halley wants more than anything for it to shut up. Slamming her fists against the center console of the ship, she wails and realizes that there isn’t sufficient time to even try to reverse the fall. In fact, as the spacecraft hurtles toward the unforgiving surface of the Pacific, it’s clear that there’s barely enough time for Halley to think. But she manages to think about Ernest. Halley was supposed to land tomorrow. After 586 days in space, she was going to land, and then she was going to see Ernest. She would have ducked into the car that waited patiently at the landing base, avoiding the flash of cameras and the cries of reporters from various scientific journals. She would have drummed her hands against the armrests of the seat, not noticing a single thing about life back on Earth until she reached him. Ernest. Halley hadn’t visited him in so long, longer even than the time she spent orbiting miles above the planet, and she was ready to tell him everything. He had always listened carefully to every word she said, and she loved him for it. Halley realized darkly that Ernest was an even better listener now that he didn’t say anything back, but he would want to hear all about her voyage. She was supposed to talk to him tomorrow. Halley vomits, her stomach

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football game. It didn’t take long for everything to overwhelm her, and that’s when she took the job. Space was both the farthest away and closest she could put herself in regards to Ernest. They had met nine years before, when Halley was a wide-eyed intern at the agency and Ernest was finishing his third year as lead researcher. Within a month of their first encounter, they were dating; on an unrelated note, Halley was officially hired six weeks later. Ernest was more than happy to complete his work on the ground, but Halley craved more, and maybe that’s what made them a nearly perfect match. Ernest proposed on their two year anniversary, and as Halley often joked whenever she recalled their romance, “the rest was history”. She missed him. Ernest. The outside of the pod has superheated, and Halley’s tumbling view of the world below and the sky above is engulfed in flames. The mechanized voice of the countdown program is warbled with heat and system failure, but if it isn’t wrong, Halley has twenty-eight seconds until impact. Twenty- eight seconds to decide whether to go out loudly or with pressed lips, whether to watch

her world end or find comfort in the darkness of squeezed eyelids. Twenty-eight seconds to determine whether to pray (Heaven is looking pretty good right now). Twenty-eight seconds to notice that the clock she has synced to Command Base is still functional, reading 11:59:43 pm. There are less than twenty seconds before the days change. The sensation of every organ being thrust to her throat fades, and although she is plummeting closer and closer to the Pacific, Halley has never felt more still. It is 11:59 pm, and she sighs with relief and a twisted sort of gratitude over the knowledge that- She is going to see Ernest tomorrow.

Hannah Tallant

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Temperate Broadleaf

By Megan Jameson

The trees call to me, A stationary paradise Calmly waiting for a friend To stay in its company The green is thick Compact with the sounds Of a thousand cicadas

Completing their lives’ work Each hiss adds onto another Creating an impossible atmosphere Of nostalgia and regret Unable to turn away I let the woods consume me Slowly eating away at what little is left of My unrested soul and tired self I am no longer part of reality My eyes are knots in the trunk of an oak Tender arms fall into branches A painted toenail now part of the soil Tangled hair transforming to golden leaves There is none of me left A hollow conscience decaying unattended My fate now sealed in the sticky sap Of a forest gone dry

Chaney Dupont

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The Butterfly By Josalyn Amodeo

The silk wings of the butterfly flutter As the newly made caterpillar roams the open skies. She started as a mere kernel of life, But slowly grew and grew until Her shimmering wings filled the sun-warmed air. Every day is smooth sailing, Every passing thought a breeze. The vulnerable butterfly is safe in the drafts of the wind And when she lands, every movement Is bound with adrenaline of any unknown danger. This young butterfly ages and grows Each day she becomes bigger and stronger. Each day she dances with another, Tangling in the stars and across the moon. They say goodbye each time the sun breaks across the horizon. Her midnight waltz doesn’t leave her drained, But instead breathes life into her fragile body. Her stained glass wings carry her along the summer air

As she searches lazily for honey-dew nectar Along the brightly blooming flower buds. Her jet black body floats along open drafts As she sways to the chickadee’s song. In her small beating heart, she knows that here, In the embrace of nature, She can be beautiful and free.

Whitney Welbaum

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TheWorldWithout Stories By Rachel Poteet

have an assigned living place? Perhaps that was the nature of the Unnecessary. She hasn’t pried further. She is going to graduate school with honors from the district governor. She will make the Republic proud. You’re strong. You could work with the Censors, even. You have a powerful mind, powerful enough to stay clean. There she is. She found out about the alleyway from the boy who gave her the story on the transport three years ago.That boy was reassigned last month. She doesn’t know where to. For a thousand years and more men labored under the yoke of Unnecessary Knowledge, of the Story. This is all you need know. This is all you ever need know. Of all the criminals in our society, no one is more evil than a storyteller. She swallows a lump of fear.The greatest evil known. Wholeheartedly she wills herself to return, to go back and forget, but her feet do not move. She walks to the maw of the Story Alley, looking for a door. It’s locked, and at its feet sits a woman, aged, her fingers ringed with scars. She opens a black eye. “Password.” “Vanity of vanities,” she says uncertainly. The woman makes no move to open the door.The girl wasn’t told what to do beyond the odd password. People used to have so many things they didn’t need. That’s why stories are evil. Stories eat up the other space in your brain. They make you forget. They make you think and do things you don’t Need. “So, what do you want?” “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” She feels a prickle on the back of her neck. “Are you new?” “Yes, yes.” “Well, I can’t show you downstairs.That’s what they call Schedule B stuff.”The old woman laughs without teeth. “All you’re going to get is me. For a while. So, what do you want?” “That doesn’t matter,” she stammers. “What do you mean?” “Wh-why are you asking me what I want?” “Ah…”The old woman grumbles. “I forget. They tell you that wants are half as evil as stories. Well. I’m not in the business of unravelling that sort of thing. I’ll just decide what I want, and then give you that, eh?”

She steps into the alleyway.The day is cold, a breeze skittering across the gray street, blowing a dry leaf into a broken drain in the middle of the bleached-out asphalt. She hugs her coat tighter. Her school papers are stuffed into a bag slung over her shoulder.The cold, which holds her bare, chapped hand, bites past the skin of her chest into her ballooning lungs. Once, when she was on the transport bus to the school, one of the other children gave her one. She was terrified to hear it, but she told herself she would have found out anyway what Unnecessary meant. Her mother and father wouldn’t tell her. Whenever she asked, they looked at the open transmitter and swallowed deeply. When that boy said he was going to give her a story, she put a hand on the metal seat of the transport and shut her eyes up tight.The boy leaned in close and whispered in her ear, his hot breath against her face. Once there was a woman who had three brothers. She went into the grocery store. She gave a token for a loaf of bread. On her way home she met a man who had not been assigned a place to live. She gave him some bread. She went home. Utterly Unnecessary. A story. The boy sat back, looking satisfied. She sat in school the whole day, quiet, thinking of the boy’s story. A story of day-to-day events not Necessary to hear. Schedule E stories, of course, are commonplace. After she came home and told her mother that the boy on the bus had given her a story, her mother explained as much as she dared, all while glaring at the transmitter. A Schedule E is when her parents would exchange harmless things about their day at the factory, or when she tells them about her lessons at school. Harmless things, says the pamphlet, harmless, and necessary for family bonding, things that pertain to the hearer, but only as much as they need to hear to understand. Anything beyond that is a story. An infraction. A horror with the power to warp the mind and tear families apart. She wondered, when she was away from the gaze of the transmitter, why the story said that the woman had three brothers. Why did that man not

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