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< Back Peacock and Peahen by Chloe Mathern The lines of your body blurred with the gentle swirls of the greenery around you, until you were simply an extension of the flowing trees around us. Before the Fall By Sofiya Sharova Sometimes, I still remember the way you disappeared. An abrupt farewell, like the sudden onset of frost. You showed up that day, at six on a Sunday morning, your gasping car idling in my driveway as you knocked on my door—a quiet, waltzing rhythm. I was barely awake when you arrived—barely able to drag myself out of bed, even. It was the first time I had seen you in a month. You said nothing when I opened the door to meet you and said nothing when my eyes widened in shock. You just walked into the cavernous recesses of my house—plucking a backpack from the hook behind the door and striding to the kitchen as if you owned the place—not a single misstep in your footing. Gracefully, you stepped over the piles of laundry, avoiding the overflowing trash can, only to stop in front of my fridge with a pensive look on your face. I winced as you pulled the doors open, expecting you to recoil at the stained emptiness inside... Expecting you to walk away from this mess you walked into. You didn’t click your tongue. You didn't sigh. You took a single, still-golden apple that rattled lonesome in its drawer and slipped it into the bag. “Get dressed,” you told me. I nodded and slipped away to my room. When I came back, pulling the last few knots out of my hair with my fingers, I saw that you were washing the dishes, already cleaned plates carefully stacked in the cabinet, their dull porcelain gleaming in the light of the window you opened. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “It felt right.” We got in your car without much ceremony. I was wearing one of your old flannels, the cloth of it think between my fingers. The passenger seat of your csr was reclined to a comfortable angle, and I was willing to ignore the cold of it's threadbare cotton. The doors clicked shut. You put the key into the ignition as if preparing to wake some ancient beast. Slowly, the engine sputtered to life; its fires having long ago lost their youthful vigor. “Do you trust this thing to get us anywhere?” I asked. You shrugged. “Where are we going, anyway?” You shrugged again. “Anywhere but here.” The highway stretched before us, a last stroke of evening leading into mountains blossoming with the rose-colored light of dawn. I will never forget that moment; the way your eyes seemed so inexplicably drawn to the weavings of snow on those eternal peaks, those faceless giants. Looking back, I wonder if something in your gaze could have foretold your farewell, some crucial detail I missed. But I will never know, and forever I will stare at the mountains, asking them for an answer. “Are you hungry?” You asked. “I have an apple in my bag.” “I’m fine.” “Are you sure? I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat.” “You haven’t been around in a month. A lot can happen in a month,” I scoffed. The wind of the highway rushed outside your stained windows, whirling and twisting like the crashing of far-off tides. Had you ever seen the sea? Will you ever see it now? Or are you bound endlessly to alpine valleys and peaks, an impersonal beauty that eventually called you home? I plucked the apple from your bag, digging my nails into its wrinkled yellow skin. Its smell stained my palms, sweet and fresh. The road slowly slinked into the deep curves of the mountains, losing us in the evergreen vales that swallow the roaring of the car tires in their embrace. You seemed calm, as if the mountain air and morning light helped bring you into focus, your hands steady on the steering wheel as you guided us on ever sharper turns. Your fingers were covered in tiny scars, almost like you had spent ages scraping them against stone, wearing the nails to nothing. I never asked you about them, and now I never will. It’s odd, the way everyday tragedy highlights the small details. Sometimes, I imagine you got those scars from digging grooves in marble, giving cold rock new life, water running over old earth over and over. We pulled into the dusty trailhead lot. We were alone; the tire marks of past cars half-faded. “Where are we?” I asked. “Somewhere. Don’t be worried,” you said. “You drive us to some random stop on the side of a mountain road and expect me not to be worried?" I sputtered. “I would never steer you wrong.” You grabbed our backpacks out of the car, slinging one over your shoulder and proffering the other to me. Your gaze fell on the map alongside the trail's beginning. I took the backpack, grumbling. You headed into the woods without a second glance. I’ll always associate your smiles with the sound of birdsong, and the way light filters through the glittering aspens as if it was smiling along with you. You could've almost been dancing along the trail, leaping and bounding in-between old roots, happy as a child. The lines of your body blurred with the gentle swirls of the greenery around you, until you were simply an extension of the flowing trees around us. In spite of myself, I grinned. “I do believe you’ve forgotten how alluring your smile is,” you joked. “It’s a trick of the light,” I replied. “Some tricks can be nice.” We continued forward; I trusted you to guide us as the trail twisted deeper into the silence of the forest, its greens and blues the color of your inscrutable eyes. We descended into a stand of birches, folded wings of angels enveloping us in a montane elegance. It was like that one childhood story, where the characters are darting back and forth between the skinny trees, human faces disappearing, reappearing on a field of living snow, as distance and shape blurs and there is left only the sounds of laughing voices echoing eternally in pearly cathedrals of branches. And what if all of those angels suddenly took flight? Would the beauty be lessened if it was only bare earth and the homely green of the mountains? “Are we almost there?” “Maybe,” you called back. I smiled. I’ll never hear that singsong cadence of your voice again, nor the way it echoes in cathedrals built by murmuring birch branches. And I can live with that, I promise you. But why did you have to leave? I looked behind me for a second. A single second, you understand? One second, and suddenly, the bright hue of your backpack is lost amid the snow-white trees, its hopeful blue faded completely into the sylvan tapestry surrounding us. I was completely alone. I quickened my pace and listened to the answering reassurance of your footsteps. The trail we followed came to the crest of a hill, overlooking a gently curving meadow. A single, narrow path led from the top of the hill to a concrete platform, cracked by the leisurely dance of tracing roots—the single sapling growing on it waves its fragile yellow leaves in a slight breeze. The platform overlooked the green sea below it; the last remnant of some forgotten civilization that had since been conquered by the grass and aspen. And I ran to that platform, calling your name— —As the wind picks up, and all around I heard the sound of that far-away tide, the ocean which neither of us will ever see— —Crashing over me in invisible waves as my voice is lost amid its voiceless melody, s the sound of your name is thrown to the glimmering crowd of the aspens below me— But still I am left alone. I looked far off, into the distance, where the eternal peaks stood wreathed in otherworldly clouds, their contant snow gleaming like the promises of youth– and there you were! I saw the hopeful blue of your backpack there, in the unspoiled meadow, almost calling me forward. I leapt off the platform. For a second, it felt as if I knew how to fly; great wings would sprout from my back, and I would soar into the sky above with everyday angels made from birches. And then you were gone again. Like a light going out, you disappeared. Why couldn’t you have looked back? Just once? I fell to the ground and my chest slammed into the dirt. My lungs collapsed and I forgot how to breath. My tears were swallowed in the grooves dug by my fingers, exposing waiting roots. They were thirsty. They drank deep. When I awoke with the smell of the flowers’ mortality in my nose, I realized that your car keys were clenched in my hand, digging into its soft flesh. I knew the way back. Rather, my feet did, but they could not follow your dancing rhythm. They stuttered and stumbled over the stone and overgrown roots of the path, but eventually the woods spit me out into the dust of the parking lot. The sun was setting, dying the sky shades of crimson and lavender, bleeding and sighing all at once. I hated driving in the mountains at night. I still do. Part of me wanted to run back in after you and get lost searching for you in the endless alpine peaks and valleys. I almost did. But what point would there be in that? I washed the dishes this morning. I opened the window over the kitchen sink to let in the song of the birds. Watched as the light, glimmering off the fallowing aspen trees, spilled gold over my dusty countertop. About the Author... Sofiya Sharova is a junior at Denver School of the Arts. She enjoys using visual art and writing to explore the relationship between humanity and nature, on top of being a circus acrobat in her free time. About the Artist... Chloe Mathern is a Senior Visual Artist at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. Her ideal mediums are painting and drawing. Previous Next

The Roaring Himalayas Rehan Sheikh Born in the laps of Uttarakhand, I was always in awe of the beauty of the mountains and the forests but could never gain courage to go to explore it. From the windows of my house I have enjoyed the breathtaking view of the Himalayas several times but recently I was having an urge to walk through the mountains and capture its beauty from the inner core of my heart. Uttarakhand has a total geographic area of 53,483 km², of which 86% is mountainous and 65% is covered by forest .Most of the northern parts of the state are part of Greater Himalaya ranges, covered by the high Himalayan peaks and glaciers, while the lower foothills were densely forested .The unique Himalayan ecosystem plays host to many animals (including bharal, snow leopards, leopards and tigers), plants and rare herbs. Two of India’s great rivers, the Ganges and the Yamuna take birth in the glaciers of Uttarakhand, and are fed by myriad lakes, glacial melts and streams. Uttarakhand lies on the southern slope of the Himalaya range, and the climate and vegetation vary greatly with elevation, from glaciers at the highest elevations to tropical forests at the lower elevations. The highest elevations are covered by ice and bare rock. Nanda Devi is the highest land point of Uttarakhand with the altitude of 7,816 metres above sea level. Sharda Sagar Reservoir is the lowest land point of Uttarakhand with the altitude of 190 metres. Western Himalayan alpine shrub and meadows occur between 3,000 and 5,000 metres, tundra and alpine meadows cover the highest elevations, Rhododendron-dominated shrublands cover the lower elevations. Western Himalayan subalpine conifer forests lie just below the tree line; at 3,000 to 2,600 metres elevation they transition to western Himalayan broadleaf forests, which lie in a belt from 2,600 to 1,500 metres elevation. Below 1,500 metres elevation lie the Himalayan subtropical pine forests. That day as I could see the snow-capped mountain peak from the roof of my house suddenly I was in a trance and strange stuffs started creeping in and out of my head. Civilisation changes, climate changes, weather changes but the mountain stand still and can we even guess how many incidents they have witnessed. The mountain withstands all the natural calamities and stands strong through ages. The Himalaya has witnessed numerous intriguing and interesting events ranging from the rich exchange of art, science and culture between civilisations of Europe and Asia to threatening wars and disputes that intimidated India. The rugged terrain and the harsh climatic conditions did not discourage travellers such as Fa Hein and Hiuen Tsang from entering India through the snowbound Himalayan mountain range. The day when Alexander, the Great Macedonian Emperor, came to conquer this country through the Khyber Pass in the Himalaya, the Himalayas still was there and today when I was looking at the peak it is still there. While Atisha, the great Buddhist monk carried the word of Buddha to parts of Tibet and China and to all those places lying on the Silk Route, Adi Sankara moved through the Himalayan Passes establishing the doctrines of our Sanathana Dharma. Return to Piece Selection

Becoming One Amelia Elder I lay in the grass Every time I go to leave My skin aches for the grass The tingling feeling That reminds me Everything will be okay The sun coating my skin With fresh, thick, steamy pools of heat Causing a sudden redness plastering my forehead Circus music Ringing my ears Spinning my head around And I can see everything The World, Space, darkness, light The world seems great But I'd rather hide from it Preferring to lay in the grass The grass that protects me Hiding my heart, Keeping me safe from all pain Make sure it doesn’t get hurt Then I feel a sucking motion. Does my heart want to go out there? Explore things? Find love? Be in my chest, thumping hardly? I'm pulled towards the ground Trying to break free But the grass pulls me down Within five seconds I'm in the Earth, Space, the Universe I've become one, with my heart The empty void inside of me is filled My heart is not only protected by me But by the Universe I have become one, finally, Again. Return to Piece Selection

The Curious Murder of Lilliane Baldwin Hannah G. Klenck Scene One Narrator: October 18th. The investigation begins. October 23rd. The autopsy is complete. October 29th. The investigation begins. The case of Lilliane Baldwin is an odd one, to say the least. In the beginning of the investigation, there were over 53 suspects, and after almost 5 months, the police, along with several private detectives, narrowed it down to three very much valid, and very much possible, murderers. (As the narrator says their names, the characters walk on stage.) Jason King, Madelyne King, and Eloise Morton. The lover, the lover’s wife, and the ex-friend with debt. (The narrator sighs.) And then, of course, there was Emilia Wells. Emilia wasn’t a suspect, no, just the opposite. She was the main investigator on her half-sister's case. She was out for vengeance, and perhaps that’s why she did what she did. She hosted... (Long dramatic pause) A dinner party. Set up for the sole purpose of solving the murder, Ms. Wells’ dinner had been planned since the police department narrowed it down to 12 defendants. It was a long time coming, to say the absolute least. So, on March 3rd , she invited Madelyne, Jason, and Eloise to her ginormous mansion left to her by Lilliane, and she solved her sister’s case. This is an exact recount of that night. (End Scene.) Scene 2 Narrator: No one knew about March 3rd prior to the party except for, of course, Emilia and those she was investigating that night. The suspects for the Lilliane Baldwin case were kept mostly in the dark about the case. Most didn’t even know the full scope of the case, or the total amount of people accused. So, on that faithful night, Eloise Morton didn’t know she was the first to arrive. (Eloise timidly enters from stage left, slightly hunched over. Emilia enters from stage right) Eloise: Hullo, Emilia. I-I came early as to not cause a bad impression, but now I see that I am the only one here. (This line is said choppily and awkwardly.) Emilia: Oh, Eloise, how silly. (Emilia smiles tightly. Eloise’s face lifts briefly.) Emilia: Nothing you can do can erase the permanent mark you’ve left on me. (Emilia stops smiling. Eloise’s face falls suddenly. She slowly slinks past Emilia and sits. Emilia is watching like a hawk the entire time. We miss a beat.) Narrator: Perhaps if Eloise was fully informed, she wouldn’t have been such a social disaster. Then again, being a suspect for your best friend’s death is stressful. (Jason King enters stage left. Jason walks loosely, smoking a cigar, acting very carefree.) Although, there is no explanation for Mr. King’s behavior. (Some say he was just rude, others blame it on the positively monstrous amounts of cocaine he did. It was a different time.) Though it isn’t very easily understood why he didn’t even cry when he heard Lilliane was dead. (Madelyne enters from stage left, head high, lips pursed, heels clicking.) Then there was his wife, Madelyne King, the movie star. In her prime, she was the picture of elegance and beauty. Such a shame that Jason couldn’t see what the rest of the world saw. We’ll never truly know how much his ignorance hurt her. And we don’t have time to figure it out. Emilia has a murder to solve. (Jason and Madelyne sit. Emilia smiles forcibly.) Emilia: Now that we are all present, we can finally begin. Sit. (This line starts out very sweet and calm, but becomes firm by the end. All sit except Emilia and Narrator.) All of you know why you are here, I trust no one needs this to be explained to them. (Emilia glares at Jason.) One of you is going to jail tonight. You know who you are, and you will be caught. (Madelyne glances around the room. Jason scoffs. Eloise looks down at her feet.) Dinner will be served in approximately thirty minutes. Feel free to chat among yourselves. (This is said sharply.) Narrator: Maybe Emilia hosted dinner instead of having individual investigation because she figured that with four conflicting personalities, someone was bound to confess something. If that was her intention, then she succeeded. (Jason, Eloise, and Madelyne murmur among themselves until Jason leans back to make sure Emilia’s out of earshot.) Jason: Thank god. Dragon Lady’s finally gone back to her lair. She’s so emotional. Wah, wah, wah. She needs to loosen up. (Eloise lifts her head. She’s clearly angry and a bit confused with Jason’s words.) Eloise: You do know her sister just died, right? (Jason scoffs then smirks.) Jason: That was over a month ago. She needs to chill out. Eloise: She’s solving her sister’s murder. Jason: Half-Sister. But still, women are just so melodramatic. (Eloise’s hands are in fists. She stares at her feet. She is clearly fuming with fury. Madelyne laughs nervously. Madelyne wraps a lock of her hair around her finger and plays with it. Eloise looks up.) Eloise: Jason, may I just say that you are the most- (This line is said increasingly angrier until Eloise is cut off by Emilia’s entrance from stage right. She’s holding a folder filled with paper and photographs. As she says the name of the item, she throws a picture of it onto the table.) Emilia: A bloody hammer, bootprints in the mud, a pearl necklace, and a threatening letter. All of these have one crucial thing in common. (Long dramatic pause.) These are all evidence to solve my sister’s murder. (Jason rolls his eyes once more.) One of you did it. And by the end of the night, I will figure out which one. And I will do whatever it takes to avenge her. (End Scene.) Return to Piece Selection

The Burning Light of the Clock Jamari Weaver Time, my old friend turned foe, Once a blank canvas I was free to paint my memories on, Now sand slipping through my fingers, When youth clouded my senses, The sprint towards the glowing light of an illuminated future started a fire, Flames burned me with ambition and passion, Leaving me with the scars of who I was, View clears with age, Lights become flashy advertisements hiding behind a unspoken cruel truth, Then comes the turn around, Bombarded with emotion in an unconscious moment of reflection, The realization the run has been in the wrong direction your whole life, Fire now ash, Memories become priceless, Forgotten thoughts a sudden haven for rapture, What was blurs, The truths I once knew become unclear, You may attempt back to the ignorant paradise of the past , But the burden of your knowledge replaces the once bliss of naivety, My essence withers with the exit of those play filled park days, The tune of my existence, Once a new classical piece of slow progression, Now an aged chaos of wrong notes and stressed keys, Reality drowns me as I attempt to reach the glimmering shine of a future of enjoyment not survival, I can feel the invisible war, The fantasy of youth, The opening of my eyes, The two sides of my soul sparring for what?, A final decision? A black and white feeling? An escape from the suffocation at the hands of society? Maybe to stop the generational repetition, “ Enjoy your youth while you can,” Pressure from the words, I am filled with rage for the ignorance exerted by a simple line, Of the audacity of those who forgot the war, But in the end it’s just time and me, The never-ending battle with my subconscious soldiers of emotion. Is time to be enjoyed? To be feared? To be angered by? To be reminisced? I know not the answer, I would rather bask in time’s incomprehension than fear the inevitable Return to Piece Selection

Our Cafeteria Dimitria Banov Russo She was gone. I didn't realize it in time. I was in shock and felt guilty for not crying, but I did just not believe it. I felt like the whole world had come to an end. It was just me and a huge nothing all around me. For this moment I thought I had lost Lizz forever, but she is still here with me as I write these lines down. She is still here in our cafeteria. It is almost as if I could see her here. Almost as if I could touch her. Return to Piece Selection

16 < Table of Contents Guazi by Yiming Low To My Mother by Luna Lu 9:58 p.m. I unlocked my phone after finishing my essay just before my 10 p.m. deadline. A sigh of relief escaped my pursed lips and instantly turned into white fumes – fall in Michigan is already frosty and wintry. There was nothing new except a photo from my father. I reluctantly opened it, annoyed at the thought that it might be just another reminder to do the homework that I just finished or his exciting discovery of a new way to make scrambled eggs. But my immature annoyance soon disappeared upon seeing the photo, and a swamp of emotions washed over me. I had to close the screen to put it aside so my tears wouldn’t stain it. It was a plain, domestic photo of my mother sitting in front of a quiet bar at sunset, posing semi-awkwardly for my father’s camera. She was wearing a white dress with black maple leaves on it, designed in a traditional, minimalist Japanese style she always liked. Her hair was dyed to be as brown as mine, elegant curls draped around her shoulders in a way that reminded me of the delicious croissants she used to bake. But I couldn’t recognize her face. I zoomed in as hard as I could, desperately searching for something familiar. Her lips seemed to have a different color, her nose bridge was way taller than what I remembered to be, and her eyebrows looked thinner. The gradually growing distance between me and my mother was beginning to have an effect, and when I realized that I couldn’t register the softness in her eyes, my own eyes began to swell with tears. Mother and I didn’t have the easiest time with each other. In fact, our differences were already painfully obvious during my earliest years, as if we were living side by side in two different worlds. Mother was born in a village at the bottom of a mountain during the 1970s in China, a time I could never comprehend as a Generation Z kid born in an already-developed urban city. Growing up in a conservative family, my mother was perfectionistic and meticulous, and she lived by a strict set of standards: utensils must be set before meals with chopsticks on the right side of the rice bowl; be quiet when you are in a room with people older than you; floors and shelves in the household must be spotless at all times. I never understood why she allowed these unimportant details to control her days. There was more to life than dishes in the sink, dust on the floor, and unorganized shoe cases. There were insightful books to read, infinite topics to learn, and exciting creative work to pursue. An unmade bed could be reasonably ignored if one is rushing to write the next best chapter of their life. Having to spend ten minutes scrubbing the clean floor before I could resume my homework was an immense source of frustration for me. Now, looking back, her compulsiveness was her own way of maintaining the family and keeping us together. But for the younger me, it was something I needed to run away and escape from. Mother and I had countless arguments with each other during the following years, and it was because of our different views on womanhood that our relationship turned sour. Mother was raised in a misogynistic family, and she brought the scars along with her. I hated how she looked with them, and for that I hated her. I hated how she didn’t dare to speak during social events when my father was around; I hated how she gave up looking for jobs and settled as a housewife; and I hated how she spent countless hours trying to lose weight and telling herself that she wasn’t thin, slim, or attractive enough. One day, after hearing her saying how it’s best for me to choose the easy way and stop trying so hard, I shouted back: “Just because you are too much of a coward to muster up the courage to do something challenging, doesn’t mean that I am!” I ran out of the room without looking back. I didn’t see her puffy, exhausted eyes. This time, I ran 7591 miles away from her. She begged for me to stay, but she knew about my stubbornness. I swore to myself that I will never be like her. I made sure that we were living in different countries, eating different food, and speaking different languages. I stopped calling her, and I even stopped celebrating holidays and chose to spend my long breaks at my friends’ houses instead. " As I went on living without her, though, I started to find more and more of her shadow in me." As I went on living without her, though, I started to find more and more of her shadow in me. We both liked the smell of new cashmere sweaters, the burnt, crispy part of vanilla cakes, and spontaneous picnics in zoos and lake parks. We had a soft spot for anything with caramel, and we both agreed that the best pizza topping is pineapple. I could never forget the way she rode the scooter through rainstorms with me on her back. Comfortably leaning on mother’s warm shoulders and hiding under a comically large raincoat with raindrops dripping off my eyebrows, I peeked through an opening gap, curiously observing the blurry streets hugged by the hazy fog and traffic lights – that was my way of seeing this world. And for a while, my mother was my world. Even though she didn’t understand why I would rather practice roller-skating in the rain than take a day off, she still came and picked me up with dry clothes and chips. She was baffled when I picked non-fiction over comic books, but nonetheless made me custard buns and set them beside my bookmark. I never thought about how painful it was for her to have trouble understanding her own daughter. I didn’t hate my mother, not really. Hatred was the cheapest mask I got to cover up all the blame I put on myself for being too weak to stand up for her and the astringent guilt I hid in my bedroom closet. It was the only way I knew. Maybe mother and daughter are not meant to understand each other at all. Instead, we were made to push and pull and pass each other like Jupiter and Saturn, and all we could do was grow. In the end, it doesn’t matter if our worlds never intertwine together perfectly, as long as I can still sit by your side and have a cup of your coffee. I love you, mother. I am glad that I am your daughter. Thank you for protecting me in this vast, confusing universe. 10:19 p.m. Sitting next to Lake Michigan, I unlocked my phone once again and dialed my mother’s number. Earthy breezes teased with my sleeves and tickled my cheeks. A lone lighthouse shimmering from afar, its amber glow being the only thing that was keeping me away from the cold and endless darkness. “Oh baby, you haven’t called me for a long time. Did you eat dinner?” “Yeah yeah I did. Mom, guess what, I’m coming home this winter break.” About the Writer... Luna Lu is a current junior at Interlochen Arts Academy majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts, her focuses include film, theater, music, creative writing, visual art, and collecting books. A life-long learner, she dedicates her energy to the pursuit of beauty and knowledge. About the Artist... Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.

4 < Table of Contents Generations by Emilia Hickman My mother, grandmother, and her mother before by Sriya Bandyopadhyay " The tray rotates in a perfect cycle, / As the radiating glow of candles illuminates / Each part of my face." I feel the flames get closer to my face, As a copper tray approaches me, And a calloused finger anoints me with red. It shocks me and my eyes widen. I am greeted by my mother and grandmother, Each on either side of me, Closing their eyes and chanting a hymn Under the breath. The tray rotates in a perfect cycle, As the radiating glow of candles illuminates Each part of my face. Starting at my temple, Trailing down to my right cheekbone, Then my lips, Then my left ear and then My forehead, My presence is acknowledged by the gods. The same sacred motion Received by my mother, Her grandmother, And her mother before. My mother and grandmother Push me forward, Gesturing that I should offer myself As the representative for my family. “What is your name?” The priest asks me as he juggles A tray filled with the same Species of marigold that have been growing Outside the temple for years. I clear my throat and respond. He nods his head and mumbles in silence As he sprinkles drops of sacred water Over my head. The cold water startles me As he rushes to the next question. “What is your caste, young girl?” The same two questions Before each blessing, to my mother, grandmother, And her mother before, But different responses in each. The bond to God is created anew In each girl’s youth, And is reborn when the next Goes to mark her acceptance. The predictability of our faith Is what allows us to grow. The scripture doesn't change, Allowing our fates to be variable. The rituals don’t alter, Making the connection to our ancestors enviable. The rhythm of our belief doesn’t falter, So we can expand our knowledge and be indispensable. We sit in patience in front of the altar To be spiritually defensible. About the Writer... Sriya (she/her) is a high school senior living in Dubai, United Arab Emirates and she attends The American School of Dubai. Her poems have been published with The Weight Journal, Teen Ink, KidSpirit, The Rolling Stone, Blue Marble Review, and Footprints on Jupiter. She has published her own book, Being The One, describing her journey as a teenager in diverse environments. Her poetry is inspired by the small details in her daily life, but speaks to larger ideas of personal growth. As an author, she has progressed from writing solely about external events, to internal revelations. About the Artist... Emilia Hickman is a junior in high school and at the moment she has an interest in drawing people in her life. This is a picture of her and her mom.

< Back Life is a Circus by Yujin Jeon About the Artist... Yujin Jeon is an 18-year-old Junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. Her motivation as an artist is to combine inspiration from the elements of her Korean heritage with her personal narratives. This challenges her to mark new narratives that explore perspectives of fresh characters and capture a bold color range, accentuated by small, layered details. Inspired by Korean children’s folklore and scenery, she depicts interpretations of herself in dream-like worlds where her appearance shifts into different transformations that model her curiosity, vulnerability, and confidence. Previous Next

Barbarous Verdure Kalliope Gonos The stars look so gorgeous from the moon, each one shining millions of miles away, bright and pure. After an exhausting journey here, the beauty is most definitely appreciated. Though, this break while we run maintenance checks on the ship gives me time to think, and I realize just how scared I am for the next part of our ambitious journey. I have only an hour before I surrender myself to the will of technology and enter my cryogenic chamber. At least it's better than being stuck on the ship for a year. Mars is so far away, but this venture will be worth it. It has to be. Considering the state that earth is in, the fate of humanity depends on it. I return to the ship and head towards the control panel to check for any final messages before our long-awaited departure for Mars. When I open the message port I see only one unread message, it's a call request from Director Ellroy Hall. I quickly accept the request and step backwards as the director's face appears on screen. “Hello, Dr. Martin.” says Ellroy “Hello, Director,” I reply. “I trust that everything is in order for your departure?” she asks. “It all looks to be Director, we are awaiting the results of our temperature check in the chambers. We are expected to depart in twenty minutes.” “Good,” she replies steadily. “I wish you, and your fellow pioneers good luck on this endeavor, see you in a year.” She then ends the call. The results of the tests on the ship are all ideal. I take a moment to calm myself before climbing inside. “This could be the day that I die,” I think to myself, before entering my pod to sleep for 8760 hours. I jolt awake, startled by the sudden warmth. My cryopod has opened. I rush to the window of the ship, shivering as I walk. When I look outside of the porthole window, I see something that no one has ever seen before: Mars, up close. It seems like I can see every crater, every canyon and mountain and fissure. I feel like I'm on top of the world. We made it. After eating a large meal to regain my strength and sending in a message with word of our arrival to Mars, I meet with the others in my crew. We put on our suits and cautiously step into the pressurization chamber. I am the first to ever set foot on Mars. We start to take tests and samples of everything before loading them back into a separate pod to send back to earth when we stumble upon a large opening in the ground that seems to be some sort of cave. I volunteer to check it out while the others continue to collect samples. As I descend into the cave paying close attention to my surroundings. I begin to see maroon vines growing on the walls and clinging to the ceiling. We have no prior knowledge of any life on Mars so I grab a sample quickly, as if I'm scared that the vines will disappear. Exhilarated and high off the adrenaline, I continue down the tunnel with a skip in my step. The once narrow shaft opens up into a wide cavern filled with blossoming undergrowth. Shades of purple, green, and pink fill the open space. I’m stunned as I try to take it all in. It's truly a miracle. The reason we had no idea that Mars contained life is because it was all under the surface! These plants grow using the light from phosphorus algae, as opposed to the sun. This is a scientific breakthrough that I am thrilled to share with the rest of my team, and eventually, the world. As I try to leave the cave, samples in hand, I hear a low, rumbling sound. I look around in a flurry of panic, not knowing what the sound could be. Then I feel something snake around my ankle before pulling me backwards, hard. Gasping in shock, I claw at the appendage in vain. As I am dragged along the ground, I can feel the shards of glass from sample tubes digging into my back, drawing long lines of crimson down my body. Another limb juts out at me from the dark, grabbing my waist and pulling me into an upright position. It hurts, the limbs feel like they are constricting around me, my vision goes spotted around the edges. I can't breathe. I hear a deep, almost otherworldly voice echoing throughout the chamber. The sound is so rough it hurts to listen to. The voice utters just a few sentences— simple yet menacing. “You have destroyed the Earth. We have observed you, and your crimes. We will not let you do the same to us as you did to our counterpart,” it says this before the appendages begin to tighten. The one formerly around my ankle snakes up to wrap around my throat. I feel myself coughing wet, loud coughs. Blood leaks from my mouth, then dribbles down my chin. All I can feel is blistering pain. It's too late to be saved by the time my last breath rattles in my chest. I savor my last moment, before my eyes gently close. Return to Piece Selection

< Back True Colors by Ryleigh Marsh The ouroboros eats its tail in perpetuity, and By Anayelli Andrews-Nieves there’s a snake sliding through the grass, coal-black and glistening. I draw away from its closed mouth, its venomless fangs, even though there are more obvious threats anywhere I look. There are men, guns and debt’s iron grip—and yet my throat will still squeeze if I’m asked to speak to a stranger. If I lay eyes on a spider or a snake. I’m growing up, and I want to be good in the same way those strange girls did, twelve, nine, sixteen, eight, fifteen— my years shed like layers of skin, outgrown and then sloughed off, swallowed whole. Their confusion is mine while we learn to breathe, to speak, to drive, although I’m doing that two years late because mama and I were both afraid. I’m growing up, and I’ve always wanted a grown-up to kill the spider on the ceiling and protect me from the snake in the yard. To take me inside and play make-believe with me. Look at these four walls—inside, we’re safe. Claiming that as truth makes me a child, and pointing out the lie makes me cruel. Nothing will make me a grown-up, and nothing will make me good. The spider weaves, and the snake hisses. I’m growing up. Recognizing the strangers curled up in strangers, the pieces of skin peeling from them. Vestiges of children hidden, in me and them. I’ve learned that there are no grown-ups to find us, that scared children are everywhere, that creatures live in all backyards, and that to someone, I am a snake. To someone, I am less. More. I’m learning that growing up is the same as something rough-scaled and writhing coming to understand its own changing shape one bite at a time, forever. About the Author... Anayelli Andrews-Nieves is a young writer from Florida. She primarily writes poetry and fiction. She believes that performing her writing is important as an artist. Outside of writing, she likes looking for the nuances of stories in any medium. About the Artist... Ryleigh Marsh is a Visual Arts/Photography major in 11th grade at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. They enjoy doing portrait photography. Previous Next

Oblivion Greta Reis The fear Athazagoraphobia: The fear of the presence of nothing The fear of the absence of everything The fear of what between something and nothing The fear that someday no one will remember anyone or anything; because someday there won’t be a someday The fear of the presence of nothing: Being scared that no one will ever exist Knowing that there isn’t anything to replace the presence of nothing Seeing that there isn’t anyone that ever existed Existing without a reason to exist The fear of the absence of anything: Being scared that everything and everyone is missing Knowing that everything is gone and you can’t replace it Seeing that only you exist Existing without a reason to exist Can’t it be both? The fear of Oblivion Return to Piece Selection