Sprout
Mina Willander '23
The Other-World Experiment
Katelyn Puglia '23
Sun
Lindsay Walker '25
Snow
Emelia Burns '22
The Bright
Maddie Rzepka '22
Barely
Sabine May '22
Of Lilacs and Lilies
Katelyn Puglia '23
Affliction
Maya Serrano '23
Sidewalk Under Autumn Moon
Abigail LeBovidge '23
A Scorched Sky
Braden Nowicki '22
North Star
Mina Willander '23
Where I'm From
Audrey Gentile '22
The Lighthouse
Mina Willander '23
Untitled
Audrey Gentile '22
First, the Valley
Kelsey Murphy '24
New Currency Heading Artwork
Maya Serrano '23
Mina Willander '23
The Other-World Experiment
Katelyn Puglia '23
Sun
Lindsay Walker '25
Snow
Emelia Burns '22
The Bright
Maddie Rzepka '22
Barely
Sabine May '22
Of Lilacs and Lilies
Katelyn Puglia '23
Affliction
Maya Serrano '23
Sidewalk Under Autumn Moon
Abigail LeBovidge '23
A Scorched Sky
Braden Nowicki '22
North Star
Mina Willander '23
Where I'm From
Audrey Gentile '22
The Lighthouse
Mina Willander '23
Untitled
Audrey Gentile '22
First, the Valley
Kelsey Murphy '24
New Currency Heading Artwork
Maya Serrano '23
by Mina Willander
I wish things could
Sprout
Smell like the morning dew in the late spring
Feel like a pine-leaf cushion in the forest
Be certain in the way it will rot and come back
The wooden bridge fell last night
The fish all swam away
They discussed in their class that when there is a crash
They must all swim away
Yet some still come back
To visit their old shaded spot
Where they would nap in comfort next to the colder rocks
The fisherman’s favorite fish
Caught on the hook
Thought it had escaped when he let it go
But he never could have killed it
He thought it had too many bones
Many think that animal instinct is the reason why they are alive
But
Decisions and luck will end all things
The interlude of coincidences
Or the laziness one has
I often dream of the broken bridge
When I sleep on the dry river beds
In the natural way I sleep
As an animal
I wish things could
Sprout
Smell like the morning dew in the late spring
Feel like a pine-leaf cushion in the forest
Be certain in the way it will rot and come back
The wooden bridge fell last night
The fish all swam away
They discussed in their class that when there is a crash
They must all swim away
Yet some still come back
To visit their old shaded spot
Where they would nap in comfort next to the colder rocks
The fisherman’s favorite fish
Caught on the hook
Thought it had escaped when he let it go
But he never could have killed it
He thought it had too many bones
Many think that animal instinct is the reason why they are alive
But
Decisions and luck will end all things
The interlude of coincidences
Or the laziness one has
I often dream of the broken bridge
When I sleep on the dry river beds
In the natural way I sleep
As an animal
by Katelyn Puglia
The dust in the air, illuminated by the morning light flowing through the windows, carried the scent of rarely-bought books through the store. Between stacks of old books, under a sign that read SCIENCE FICTION, stood a man named Mr. Henry Bradley Moore. He was wearing a tweed suit, shoes that had been shined two days ago, and a bit of periwinkle eyeshadow, which glimmered in the sunlight. His hand wavered before each spine as he debated whether to take one.
For a long and rather dramatic moment, he gazed at the door, imagining the far more productive places he could be. This, however, was more of an empty performance than anything. Then, as usual, he gave into himself, pulling a random book from the shelf. As he leafed through its pages, the world around him fell away, replaced by something about aliens in Times New Roman.
His trance was broken when, unusually, he heard someone clear their throat. He snapped the book shut at once and, blushing, tried his best to cram it back into the shelves. This failed spectacularly. The book went tumbling to the ground with a loud thud, and he rushed to pick it up.
Another hand snatched up the book before he could reach it. Henry stood up and saw a woman standing in the middle of the aisle wearing a lab coat over a star-patterned dress. Every strand of her hair was pulled into a super-tight bun. She drummed her fingers on the book, and her nails were painted neon colors. (The one distant part of Henry’s mind which hadn’t launched into panic and embarrassment considered asking where she’d gotten the polish, but he was far too stupefied to get the words out.)
Embroidered on her lab coat was the name Dr. Ellery Aquilla.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile.
Henry managed to stammer, “um, good morning. I’m not used to seeing others in the store at this hour, much less a scientist.” Once he’d started talking, it seemed he couldn’t stop; the words spilled out in a jumble. “I apologize if this is a rude question,” he said, “but I just have to ask, what is a scientist like you doing in the science fiction section?”
The scientist— Dr. Aquilla —was completely unphased. “I tend to find,” she said, “that this section is more accurate on the matters of science than one would expect.”
“Ah,” said Henry.
The conversation fizzled out for a moment. Henry glanced back at that door, silently commanding himself to leave, but now he couldn’t! The scientist had his book after all… well, he corrected himself, it wasn’t his book. It wasn’t like he was going to purchase it.
Ellery’s voice snapped Henry out of his wondering. “Are you buying this?” She asked, holding the book out towards him.
He crossed his arms, his face burning. “Buying? Ha!” he said a little too loudly.
She cocked her head. “Can you not afford it?”
“Oh no, I can! It’s just- It’s just- There’s no way I can buy it. A businessman like me buying a sci-fi novel? My coworkers would scoff.”
Ellery shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to tell them you’re reading it. Read it at home.”
“It’s not really not that simple,” he laughed, although of course he knew she was right.
As time went on, Henry would find that Dr. Ellery Aquilla was usually right.
Henry recalled an office building he usually passed on the way here. It had been empty for some time, but over the past few weeks, he’d seen professional-looking people exiting and entering. Thick curtains had been drawn over the windows, and he’d overheard strange rumors about it over coffee breaks with coworkers. “I assume you work at that new science building,” he said. “What are they doing in there?”
Ellery sighed as if reminded of something tedious. “Experiments,” she said. “Data. I’m not supposed to say much else. My colleagues seem much nicer than yours, especially my friend Bertha. In fact,” she said, glancing at her watch, “it appears I’m running late.”
From the pocket of her dress, Ellery drew something unlike anything Henry had ever seen. It looked like a remote control, but with a radio’s antenna sticking out of it. She pointed it at the bookshelf and pressed a button.
“What are you doing?—”
In a brilliant flash of light, a small glowing circle appeared. Strange energy crackled in the air, making Henry’s hair stand up like static electricity from a balloon.
It was like something from a book, a rift in space and time. A portal!
Ellery looked over at Henry and handed him the book. He took it without thinking; his mind was pretty incapable of thought by now. All he could do was stare blankly at the miracle happening in front of him, understanding nothing and breathing like a fish on a dock.
She winked then stepped through. The portal closed as quickly as it had opened.
Henry glanced about to see if anyone else had seen it, but the aisle was empty. Scientists and their miraculous vanishing into thin air, he thought, hoping to convince himself that this was a regular occurrence.
He bought the book without speaking to the cashier.
Ellery would appear again, however. It wouldn’t be until a few months later when she disappeared from Henry’s dimension entirely.
---
The woman slid the manila folder under the glass and across the desk. Henry noted, then, that her name tag read “Bertha”. The folder was stuffed with a manner of papers and files, with tabs poking out of the sides and paperclips strewn about. The man who received it was approximately the last person who was supposed to have access to this kind of information— Mr. Henry Bradley Moore.
He jumped at the chance to open the folder, but slowly closed it back up after being met with a graph he did not quite understand. The not understanding made him nervous in the sort of way that suddenly makes you believe your shirt collar is too tight.
Bertha raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, tapping the hot-pink nails of her wrinkled hand on the counter. The noise only added to poor Mr. Moore’s anxiety. Other than that, the only sound in the near-empty room was the ever-ticking clock, which seemed to grow louder and louder as Mr. Moore’s brain launched involuntarily into the classic fight-or-flight response.
(In his case: flight.)
“Let me get this right,” she said, in a tone that implied that she already knew what was right about the situation. “You met a certain scientist who goes by the name Miss Ellery Aquilla. She was participating in the highly classified Other-World Experiment.”
He tugged on the collar of his shirt in an attempt to feel less miserable. “Well, it should be Doctor Ellery Aquilla, but yes.”
Bertha raised an eyebrow, then continued. “She is a resident of World 23-A5. You are a resident of this world, World 56-G2.”
He drew a paper clip from the folder and fiddled with it absent-mindedly. “That’s correct, again.”
“She was traveling to this world on scientific business, as part of an experiment of alternate-reality travel.”
Now he was trying to unfold the paper clip in order to make it a straight line. “You’re right.”
“She informed you about this experiment, despite orders from higher-ups not to.”
He almost had it into the right shape… “Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Moore, are you still listening to me?”
The paper clip snapped beneath his fingers. “Yes, of course. Er, sorry.”
“With all due respect,” said Bertha, “I see no reason not to shred your file, perform a quick memory wipe on your person, and inform the higher ups of Miss Aquilla’s mistakes so that they can quietly resolve the issue on their terms. Can you give me one good reason not to?”
“Dr. Aquilla and I are in love,” he said.
Bertha stared at him for a moment as if she were awaiting a punchline or a ‘just kidding.’ When it didn’t come, she sighed like a disappointed teacher. “Not really helping your case here,” she said. “In fact, I’d go as far to suggest that you’re making things worse.”
“You don’t understand!” The details of Ellery were coming back to him now, like a half-remembered dream. A lab coat over a star-patterned dress, a stack of books with faded covers of aliens and laser-blasters in her hands, the way reality seemed to go out of sync when she was present, as if it knew she was in the wrong one. “I need her back in this dimension.”
Bertha sighed once more, the kind of sigh you’d expect from an overworked waitress who’d been shouted at for mistakes the chef made. “Again, I have no good reason not to treat this as a simple failure.”
Fear and melancholy seized his heart.
“However,” Bertha went on, “just because I don’t have a good reason, doesn’t mean I have no reasons at all. I have an absolutely terrible reason, actually, which is that Elle Aquilla has been my best friend since childhood.”
His heart leaped again, but this time out of hope instead of fear. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“Let’s just say I have an idea,” said Bertha, her expression remaining sour as ever. “It’ll be mostly fine, so long as no time-loops, paradoxes, or wormholes open up in the process. I can show you some of the portals, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Mr. Moore gulped. His collar was beginning to feel too tight once again. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Ellery is out there in the multiverse somewhere, jumping from reality to reality to reality. All you have to do is find her.”
The dust in the air, illuminated by the morning light flowing through the windows, carried the scent of rarely-bought books through the store. Between stacks of old books, under a sign that read SCIENCE FICTION, stood a man named Mr. Henry Bradley Moore. He was wearing a tweed suit, shoes that had been shined two days ago, and a bit of periwinkle eyeshadow, which glimmered in the sunlight. His hand wavered before each spine as he debated whether to take one.
For a long and rather dramatic moment, he gazed at the door, imagining the far more productive places he could be. This, however, was more of an empty performance than anything. Then, as usual, he gave into himself, pulling a random book from the shelf. As he leafed through its pages, the world around him fell away, replaced by something about aliens in Times New Roman.
His trance was broken when, unusually, he heard someone clear their throat. He snapped the book shut at once and, blushing, tried his best to cram it back into the shelves. This failed spectacularly. The book went tumbling to the ground with a loud thud, and he rushed to pick it up.
Another hand snatched up the book before he could reach it. Henry stood up and saw a woman standing in the middle of the aisle wearing a lab coat over a star-patterned dress. Every strand of her hair was pulled into a super-tight bun. She drummed her fingers on the book, and her nails were painted neon colors. (The one distant part of Henry’s mind which hadn’t launched into panic and embarrassment considered asking where she’d gotten the polish, but he was far too stupefied to get the words out.)
Embroidered on her lab coat was the name Dr. Ellery Aquilla.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile.
Henry managed to stammer, “um, good morning. I’m not used to seeing others in the store at this hour, much less a scientist.” Once he’d started talking, it seemed he couldn’t stop; the words spilled out in a jumble. “I apologize if this is a rude question,” he said, “but I just have to ask, what is a scientist like you doing in the science fiction section?”
The scientist— Dr. Aquilla —was completely unphased. “I tend to find,” she said, “that this section is more accurate on the matters of science than one would expect.”
“Ah,” said Henry.
The conversation fizzled out for a moment. Henry glanced back at that door, silently commanding himself to leave, but now he couldn’t! The scientist had his book after all… well, he corrected himself, it wasn’t his book. It wasn’t like he was going to purchase it.
Ellery’s voice snapped Henry out of his wondering. “Are you buying this?” She asked, holding the book out towards him.
He crossed his arms, his face burning. “Buying? Ha!” he said a little too loudly.
She cocked her head. “Can you not afford it?”
“Oh no, I can! It’s just- It’s just- There’s no way I can buy it. A businessman like me buying a sci-fi novel? My coworkers would scoff.”
Ellery shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to tell them you’re reading it. Read it at home.”
“It’s not really not that simple,” he laughed, although of course he knew she was right.
As time went on, Henry would find that Dr. Ellery Aquilla was usually right.
Henry recalled an office building he usually passed on the way here. It had been empty for some time, but over the past few weeks, he’d seen professional-looking people exiting and entering. Thick curtains had been drawn over the windows, and he’d overheard strange rumors about it over coffee breaks with coworkers. “I assume you work at that new science building,” he said. “What are they doing in there?”
Ellery sighed as if reminded of something tedious. “Experiments,” she said. “Data. I’m not supposed to say much else. My colleagues seem much nicer than yours, especially my friend Bertha. In fact,” she said, glancing at her watch, “it appears I’m running late.”
From the pocket of her dress, Ellery drew something unlike anything Henry had ever seen. It looked like a remote control, but with a radio’s antenna sticking out of it. She pointed it at the bookshelf and pressed a button.
“What are you doing?—”
In a brilliant flash of light, a small glowing circle appeared. Strange energy crackled in the air, making Henry’s hair stand up like static electricity from a balloon.
It was like something from a book, a rift in space and time. A portal!
Ellery looked over at Henry and handed him the book. He took it without thinking; his mind was pretty incapable of thought by now. All he could do was stare blankly at the miracle happening in front of him, understanding nothing and breathing like a fish on a dock.
She winked then stepped through. The portal closed as quickly as it had opened.
Henry glanced about to see if anyone else had seen it, but the aisle was empty. Scientists and their miraculous vanishing into thin air, he thought, hoping to convince himself that this was a regular occurrence.
He bought the book without speaking to the cashier.
Ellery would appear again, however. It wouldn’t be until a few months later when she disappeared from Henry’s dimension entirely.
---
The woman slid the manila folder under the glass and across the desk. Henry noted, then, that her name tag read “Bertha”. The folder was stuffed with a manner of papers and files, with tabs poking out of the sides and paperclips strewn about. The man who received it was approximately the last person who was supposed to have access to this kind of information— Mr. Henry Bradley Moore.
He jumped at the chance to open the folder, but slowly closed it back up after being met with a graph he did not quite understand. The not understanding made him nervous in the sort of way that suddenly makes you believe your shirt collar is too tight.
Bertha raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, tapping the hot-pink nails of her wrinkled hand on the counter. The noise only added to poor Mr. Moore’s anxiety. Other than that, the only sound in the near-empty room was the ever-ticking clock, which seemed to grow louder and louder as Mr. Moore’s brain launched involuntarily into the classic fight-or-flight response.
(In his case: flight.)
“Let me get this right,” she said, in a tone that implied that she already knew what was right about the situation. “You met a certain scientist who goes by the name Miss Ellery Aquilla. She was participating in the highly classified Other-World Experiment.”
He tugged on the collar of his shirt in an attempt to feel less miserable. “Well, it should be Doctor Ellery Aquilla, but yes.”
Bertha raised an eyebrow, then continued. “She is a resident of World 23-A5. You are a resident of this world, World 56-G2.”
He drew a paper clip from the folder and fiddled with it absent-mindedly. “That’s correct, again.”
“She was traveling to this world on scientific business, as part of an experiment of alternate-reality travel.”
Now he was trying to unfold the paper clip in order to make it a straight line. “You’re right.”
“She informed you about this experiment, despite orders from higher-ups not to.”
He almost had it into the right shape… “Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Moore, are you still listening to me?”
The paper clip snapped beneath his fingers. “Yes, of course. Er, sorry.”
“With all due respect,” said Bertha, “I see no reason not to shred your file, perform a quick memory wipe on your person, and inform the higher ups of Miss Aquilla’s mistakes so that they can quietly resolve the issue on their terms. Can you give me one good reason not to?”
“Dr. Aquilla and I are in love,” he said.
Bertha stared at him for a moment as if she were awaiting a punchline or a ‘just kidding.’ When it didn’t come, she sighed like a disappointed teacher. “Not really helping your case here,” she said. “In fact, I’d go as far to suggest that you’re making things worse.”
“You don’t understand!” The details of Ellery were coming back to him now, like a half-remembered dream. A lab coat over a star-patterned dress, a stack of books with faded covers of aliens and laser-blasters in her hands, the way reality seemed to go out of sync when she was present, as if it knew she was in the wrong one. “I need her back in this dimension.”
Bertha sighed once more, the kind of sigh you’d expect from an overworked waitress who’d been shouted at for mistakes the chef made. “Again, I have no good reason not to treat this as a simple failure.”
Fear and melancholy seized his heart.
“However,” Bertha went on, “just because I don’t have a good reason, doesn’t mean I have no reasons at all. I have an absolutely terrible reason, actually, which is that Elle Aquilla has been my best friend since childhood.”
His heart leaped again, but this time out of hope instead of fear. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“Let’s just say I have an idea,” said Bertha, her expression remaining sour as ever. “It’ll be mostly fine, so long as no time-loops, paradoxes, or wormholes open up in the process. I can show you some of the portals, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Mr. Moore gulped. His collar was beginning to feel too tight once again. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Ellery is out there in the multiverse somewhere, jumping from reality to reality to reality. All you have to do is find her.”
by Lindsay Walker
The sun and I became close friends
I noticed the similarities between us,
It made me look through a different lens,
To see nonetheless,
We are the same.
I aspire to be as bright as she,
Lighting up the world in her perfection,
Drowning out the darkness of the blackest sea,
And igniting the world’s complexion.
She is as simple as I,
Happiest dancing, alive,
When night is high
Still warm when the moon is fullest.
She sings from the highest rooftops
And reflects on the tips of dewed grass,
Filling up the sky until she drops,
To continue her dance on another land mass
You see,
We may be the most stretched of metaphors,
As different as can be,
But once you break apart those doors,
Everyone can agree
We are the same.
The sun and I became close friends
I noticed the similarities between us,
It made me look through a different lens,
To see nonetheless,
We are the same.
I aspire to be as bright as she,
Lighting up the world in her perfection,
Drowning out the darkness of the blackest sea,
And igniting the world’s complexion.
She is as simple as I,
Happiest dancing, alive,
When night is high
Still warm when the moon is fullest.
She sings from the highest rooftops
And reflects on the tips of dewed grass,
Filling up the sky until she drops,
To continue her dance on another land mass
You see,
We may be the most stretched of metaphors,
As different as can be,
But once you break apart those doors,
Everyone can agree
We are the same.
by Emelia Burns
I didn’t know it snowed until two hours ago
When the plows rolled by my window
The kids were giggling
As they rolled down the hills
They tumbled a bit
But they were there for the thrills
They went back up
And went back down
They didn’t care if they hit the ground
That’s the fun of it
And it’s better when you’re only six
And there’s no one you can think to miss
The plows glowed orange
Right through the dark
The children looked
And it made a spark
So they built a snowman
And laid in the cold
And looked up at the sky
Shimmering gold
Their eyes went up
And came back down
And they cried
While on the ground
They don’t understand
Why they can’t visit the stars
Or why they can’t live on mars
So they go sledding again
Up and down they go
Sledding again
Yelling “look out below”
It’s so nice to see them
All happy and small
Cause they should enjoy it
Before they lose it all
I didn’t know it snowed until two hours ago
When the plows rolled by my window
The kids were giggling
As they rolled down the hills
They tumbled a bit
But they were there for the thrills
They went back up
And went back down
They didn’t care if they hit the ground
That’s the fun of it
And it’s better when you’re only six
And there’s no one you can think to miss
The plows glowed orange
Right through the dark
The children looked
And it made a spark
So they built a snowman
And laid in the cold
And looked up at the sky
Shimmering gold
Their eyes went up
And came back down
And they cried
While on the ground
They don’t understand
Why they can’t visit the stars
Or why they can’t live on mars
So they go sledding again
Up and down they go
Sledding again
Yelling “look out below”
It’s so nice to see them
All happy and small
Cause they should enjoy it
Before they lose it all
by Maddie Rzepka
Sunlight rolls over me
Filling my eyes, throat, and heart with gold
I can see clearly
I can feel nothing else
It fills my entire body
Until I am it and nothing else
It takes over
It sets me free
Its whisper echoes inside me
Your time has come
My eyes close
My hands fold over my chest
My body lays still
Then my body lays slack
I rest there
In the Bright
Forever and always
Waiting in the light
Sunlight rolls over me
Filling my eyes, throat, and heart with gold
I can see clearly
I can feel nothing else
It fills my entire body
Until I am it and nothing else
It takes over
It sets me free
Its whisper echoes inside me
Your time has come
My eyes close
My hands fold over my chest
My body lays still
Then my body lays slack
I rest there
In the Bright
Forever and always
Waiting in the light
by Sabine May
When I was five, I witnessed something strange, but not too strange. The trees had turned early that September, and I sat on Dad's shoulders, plucking reds and oranges from the low-hanging branches on our way to Arder Elementary. I remember the walk, but my memory of drop-off is nonexistent. For me, the school day starts at lunch.
I was bouncing a pencil four hours later on the cafeteria table to distract myself from my contortionist of a stomach. I had already devoured a PB&J from home, but learning your letters makes you work up an appetite, and I had no money to buy something more. Amanda, a fellow kindergartener, must have caught me staring at her tray, because she tried to lob over a tater tot from two seats down. While I applaud her attempt, the throw started to fall short at the three-quarters mark. Call it a gust of wind in a windowless cafeteria, the work of a benevolent tater tot god, but I threw up a prayer and the potato lifted. It hit my palm.
"Nice catch" she said, and it was.
When I was eight, the slightly supernatural saved me again. That years' jack o'lanterns had only just begun to rot, but my sweet tooth and I were already out of halloween candy. Dad knew that I was running on empty; he had clucked about the importance of moderation a few days before as he purged my trashcan of Milky Way and Kit Kat wrappers. So when I left an illicit lollipop taken from my parents' private stash on my dresser before bed, I knew there was no explaining its origin. I was straight-jacketed in my blankets when the door started to open, yellow light from the hall seeping into my room like water climbing up a paper towel. I turned my head away as the spotlight reached the contraband, and waited.
"If you're going to pretend to be asleep, you need to control your breathing. It's too fast."
I unscrunched my face and turned towards the door. There was Dad, haloed by the hallway. There was my dresser, clean.
"Why would I be pretending? It's not like I'm trying to avoid bed, I'm already in it."
"Ah, so you're trying to avoid your kiss goodnight then! Are you already so grown up? I feel faint!"
He slapped the back of his hand to his forehead and I laughed, although it came out breathy.
"Goodnight, Tim."
"Goodnight, Dad."
The door closed. I watched his shadow disappear from under it. By the time I had de-cocooned myself, the low murmur of the downstairs television told me the coast was clear. I rocketed to my dresser and dropped to the floor, pressing my eye to the space between its back panel and the wall. I could just make out the silhouette of the fallen lollipop mingling with dust mites.
By thirteen, I had figured it out. There had never been, of course, any tater tot god, any lollipop fairy pushing incriminating candy off of childrens' dressers. I had made a much more exciting discovery, immediately qualified by an equally disappointing one: I was telekinetic. Barely telekinetic. I could nudge a fork off a table, but only if it was already suicidal. I could make deep ping pong shots fly out or break the lead in Amanda's mechanical pencils, but no amount of late-night training made me strong enough to levitate the TV remote into my hand, much less myself off the ground. Having read the Crucible for summer reading that year, I told no one. Not that there was much to tell.
When I was eighteen, I graduated high school, although just narrowly. I was sitting behind Amanda, occasionally flicking her mortarboard tassel across her face and watching her try to locate the wind. It wasn't what a friend does, but I wouldn't call us friends anymore; both classmates and teachers can only make so many excuses for you after a death in the family. I tried not to listen when the MC acknowledged the warehouse fire that killed Dad and the parents of a few other students, and sank low into my seat as they offered some morbid congratulations on having won the negligence lawsuit. It was a meager settlement, both morally and monetarily. The CEO walked and the check wouldn't have covered a year of therapy, had I chosen to go. That night, I rewatched news coverage of the fire. They flashed the face of Morris Barnes, CEO of Barnes Textiles, on the screen as they spat out figures: injuries, deaths, product lost. I pressed the off button without touching it and the glow died, but the afterimage of Barnes' face hung in the air like a ghost.
On my twenty-secondth birthday, I walk into a casino for the three hundred sixty-fifth time in my life. The floor is quiet, only the chronic gamblers left. They hunch over the slots, lips twitching with silent exhortations as their pockets lighten. I watch them as Ellen throws the dice. A six and six. That's a push for us both, and our chip stacks regrow. Ezekiel, who bet on the Pass Line, scratches his bearded chin and smiles sheepishly, as if apologizing for losing. He pulls his last two chips from the table and announces his forfeit. I wave goodbye as he moves away; you get to know people during long games of craps, and I don't mind knowing Ezekiel. He's a solid candidate for Gamblers Anonymous, yes, but for the moment he's managing, with a job interview on the horizon and a ludicrous number of father-son pictures lining his too-thin wallet. I should know; in the last ninety minutes, he's shown me them all twice. I return my attention to the game and bet Don't Pass again, double what I put down last time. My left hand smoothes the felt lip of the table as the dealer pushes the dice to me. I grab them with my right and roll, studying their slowing somersaults. There, the first die is on its last turn. It's going to be a four, so I leave it. The second is coming around now too, a five I believe. My left hand taps once and the die hiccups before landing on a three. Ellen's eyebrows disappear, or try to disappear, behind wispy copper bangs.
"You're the luckiest shooter I've seen in a while."
I grin and wiggle my fingers at her. "Magic hands."
"I'll say."
I collect my due and push back from the table. Ezekiel is being pulled towards the slots, which gives me an excellent excuse to loiter around them.
"Leaving already?" Ellen asks. She is up as well.
I get this often. I am to fellow players like pollen is to bees; they think that if they buzz around me enough, they'll take some luck home to the hive. Small talk will break my concentration at the slots, though, so I try some bug spray. "Just gonna go see what Ezekiel is up to. Feel bad for cleaning him out, you know? Might donate a little to keep him going before I cash out."
"Ah, so you're done playing for the night?"
I glance at my watch. "For the morning," I correct her, tilting the face so she can read it. 11:09 A.M.
She whistles appreciatively and slings a drawstring backpack over her shoulder. "I should be heading out too, then."
We separate, Ellen moving towards the cage and myself towards Ezekiel. I sidle up to him and rest one hand on the side of his machine as he pulls the lever. He flashes me a "welcome back" smile. This casino hasn't digitized their slots yet, and I can feel the reels clicking as an assortment of fruits blur with speed. Cherry. Cherry. I hold my breath and try to slow down the last wheel. Watermelon. My cheeks puff as I release the air. It's heavier than a die. Ezekiel bares his teeth and pulls again. Watermelon. Lemon. Can I force another lemon? No, cherry. The scene repeats. Seven, orange, lemon. Bell, orange, cherry. Watermelon, cherry, lemon. I finally slide my hand from the metal panel, it sweaty enough to leave a streaky print that for the color could feature in a horror-movie bathroom. I curse. The wheels are too massive; this isn't going to work.
"You're telling me," Ezekiel complains. I leave and he pulls again.
I review my options as I return to Ellen, who is still chatting with the cashier. This is the second casino I've found whose slots are physically manipulable. It is also the second casino whose slots I've failed to manipulate. Who knows when or where I'll find a third chance, not to mention that even if I do, the outcome isn't likely to change. I could continue with craps, but playing higher stakes is only going to increase the casino side-eye I'm getting. They're convinced I swap in loaded dice, and even if my form of cheating isn’t catchable, they’ll eventually ban me, proof or no. I thread a fifty dollar tangerine chip through my fingers, from pointer to pinky and then back again, as I resign myself to the fact that gambling isn't going to get me all the way. Shares in Barnes Textiles are up, one-fifty a pop, and without that slots jackpot, I'll never own more than a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the company. Ellen's faucet of chatter squeaks off as I approach, and she slides away from the cashier to let me in.
I slap the orange chip on the counter before fishing out the reds from my pocket. They felt heavy before, but piled in the open, they float in the emptiness of the counter. It's a net haul of a few hundred, so minus the cost of this week's amenities, I'm a single measly share closer to my goal.
I disappear under my hoodie as I exit the darkened casino. It is a bright, bitter autumn day. The metal bike rack outside shines in the noontime sun but is cold, almost wet to the touch. I breathe into my hands as I cross the parking lot. I don't have a plan B. My day job—or my night job, more accurately—wouldn't pay for a controlling share of Barnes textiles in ten lifetimes, and I'm set on dismantling the company in this one. I duck into the drivers' seat when I get to my car, turn the ignition, and crank the air to eighty-five degrees. I sit there until the heat forces me out of my hoodie, and don't adjust the temperature when my shirt starts to stick. I think about the warehouse fire and turn the knob a couple degrees more. I'm sweating in silence when a leaf detaches from the oak that overhangs my space. It's yellow, punctured with caterpillar holes like the beginning of a Powerpoint transition where one slide burns away. It's indecisive, jumping between updrafts before at last alighting on my windshield. I stare at it until I'm five again, riding high on Dad's shoulders, fists full of fall colors. Another gust sends the leaf twirling away. Suddenly I'm folded over like the backseat, nose snotty and chest heaving, unable to catch a breath. My tears evaporate in the warm air faster than I can form them, leaving a salty residue that stings the remnants of my teenage acne. I sob until I dry heave, and dry heave until I'm sure that nothing is coming up. My heart is more indecisive than the leaf, jumping so erratically that I start running through the family history: no heart attacks that I'm aware of, but someone has to be the first. I put the heels of my hands to my eyes and press hard: "calm down calm down calm down." I focus on my heart, trying to coax it into a more regular beat, when I feel it stop. I whip my head up and gasp as it restarts with a bang, the severest palpitation of my life. I rub the spot and recover as a suspicion brews. Is it possible? I focus again, this time recalling a crude diagram of the organ's atriums and ventricles, whatever I can remember from highschool biology. I pinch my fingers together and see the valves closing. A corresponding stillness in my chest sends my head spinning with possibilities. I've never tried internal manipulation before. I unpinch my fingers to relieve the building pressure, and as the blood rushes forth, so does an idea.
It springs out of me fully formed like Athena did from Zeus' skull. It is more extreme than what I had originally pursued, and I balk for a moment, but then I feel the heat of the vents on my bare arms again. I no longer care about dismantling Barnes' company. He should pay personally, and now I have a weapon that his security cannot detect.
A month later, I find myself sinking into a quicksand-like carpet as I loiter in an impossibly plush reception area. I'm waiting tables at seven, but if this goes well, It'll be my last shift at the café. I straighten my arms quickly at my sides as my watch buzzes to indicate that it's already three o'clock, snapping my starched button-down like a karate gi as I march into the office. The interviewer sitting behind the desk, Brenda Jensen according to the name plate, is a bespectacled woman of sensible clothes and a ballerina-tight bun who fires questions at me like a semi-automatic.
"Name?"
"Timothy Goodman.” I hadn't had the time to change it before the interview; I'm hoping no one will look at past company records too closely.
"Prior experience with reception?"
"None."
"Prior experience with customer service?"
"Waiter."
She allows for only the briefest of elaborations, and I pick at my fingers under the table. God knows if I'm doing well. Scratch that: I doubt even God can read this petite, military woman. Finally, a "thank you, we'll be in touch," and I'm dismissed.
I find myself back at the front desk, which is staffed by the temp that I've just interviewed to replace, and notice a new arrival in one of the waiting room chairs. His chin is newly shaven, but there's no mistaking him.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Ezekiel."
The man looks up and grins.
"Timothy! It's been a minute."
"I know, I haven't dropped by the casino in a while."
Ezekiel's grin widens. "Isn't it great? Neither have I. Been really trying to clean up for this job. Speaking of which," he twists in his chair to look at the clock ticking above his head on the wall behind him, "it's 3:30: my time to shine."
"So you're here for the reception position, then?"
He grunts affirmation as he hoists himself to standing. "I hear that it's mostly just playing Candy Crush when no one's looking, though, which suits me just fine."
I ask him what level he's on as he smooths his tie with well-manicured nails.
"Level three hundred," he answers. "You?"
"Oh, I don't play," I laugh, but I'm preoccupied with sudden inspiration. Ezekiel's put together, a real candidate, if I could just throw him off his game--
"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Timothy." He offers his hand.
I smile without teeth and shake, snaking my power up his arm, feeling for the largest nerves which, at widths of half a millimeter, are at the edge of my new anatomical awareness. I pinch them as best I can and Ezekiel withdraws his arm with a hiss, claiming pins and needles. One last weak smile, and he hurries into Jensen's office.
It only takes a day for Barnes Textiles to call me back and offer me the job. I must've worked a number on Ezekiel for them to reject him so quickly. As long as it takes a killer off the streets in the end, I think to myself as I pull on my uniform that Monday, it will be worth it. The commute is a painless fifteen minutes. The sky is a cloudless azure that throws the modest skyline of Lafayette, Indiana into sharp relief. Barnes doesn't deserve to die on such a crisp day, I think, as I pull into the company garage. My car beeps goodbye as I give the lock button one too many presses on my way to the elevator. As I wait, I triple check Barnes' schedule, which my new position gives me access to. His first meeting is scheduled in Conference Room 507, near the top of HQ. I put my phone away as the doors slide open, and I catch my reflection in their stainless steel. A black polo over black khakis, which is fitting, I think. The elevator car is empty and I step in and press five.
One.
Two.
Three.
I pass the third floor without incident, but the elevator slows for another passenger as I reach the fourth. I finger the employee ID hanging from my belt; no one's going to ask my business. My stomach swoops as I slow to a stop, and the doors open.
I have never been jumped before.
Two pairs of hands are pulling me out of the car the moment the opening is wide enough. I yelp and scramble back, but I am no bodyguard, and these two suits definitely look it. I am completely out of the elevator a few seconds later, the doors closing and moving onto the next floor. I try to scream for help but a hand is clapped over my mouth until I stop thrashing enough to see Ellen standing stone-faced at the back wall, which is composed of glass panels that overlook the stairwell accompanying the elevator. I hold still and am allowed to speak.
"What are you doing?! You're not police!"
Ellen waves something palm-sized next to her face. It glints, and she folds it back up.
"Wrong."
"It doesn't matter." I thrash once more against the guards. "I haven't done anything. I work here!"
"Well, officially, we've got you for tax evasion. Haven't been declaring your tips at the café."
"Officially?"
Ellen's eyebrows shoot up in a brief display of emotion and a feeling of déjà vu quiets me.
"'Magic hands,' remember?"
I'm back at the casino, being followed from game to game by Ellen and other luck-seeking gamblers. I'm playing craps. I double my bet and roll a seven. She compliments my dice shooting. She sounds suspicious instead of admiring.
I don't respond.
"You didn't think you were the only one, did you?" Her voice is harsher now. "You grow up with powers, like in a comic book"—she sounds offended at my stupidity—"and aren't immediately skeptical?"
I don't respond.
"Dice manipulation is a favorite. You weren't creative to go to the casino. You were, however, one of the rare ones who decided to mess with biology." She shifts and the dark circles under her eyes become more prominent.
This time I defend myself.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't hurt anybody. I won't."
It was true. Morris Barnes was going to take the elevator, or maybe he was going to walk up those stairs, and I was going to miss my shot, not to mention be carted off to God knows where. This time, I really did hope that God knew, because I was out of my depth.
"Tell that to Ezekiel."
I'm craning to look over her shoulder at the stairwell, but abandon my vigil in order to roll my eyes. She must have been keeping tabs on me outside the casino. "I'm sorry that I beat him out for the job, but he's doing well, he'll find another."
I hear muffled footsteps, but the echo could be carrying them from floors down.
"You pulled a stunt with his arm."
The sound of scuffing shoes nears, and I am nodding absentmindedly before I realize that it's a confession. If I get close enough, maybe I can still take Barnes down. It's not like I can be tried for any of this in a real court, and if they're planning on doing away with me extralegally, I might as well finish what I started.
Then two things happen at the same time. The man who killed my father rounds the bend and Ellen says, "he's dead."
I freeze and so does Barnes, intrigued by the scene we've created. My eyes flick to Ellen, my brain still processing. She forges on.
"His right arm threw a clot right after the interview. I'm not sure what exactly you were trying to twist, but if it was the veins, you did a bang up job. Doctors said they'd never seen it before. Like kinked up garden hoses."
I unstick my throat.
"That can't have been me. I barely did anything."
"Barely," she snarls. "And this man," she spins, jabbing the air like she wants to poke out its eyes, "barely skirted those fire safety regulations three years ago."
I flinch. Barnes does too, although I can't be sure if he's heard her words or is just reacting to her aggressive posture.
"It wasn't hard to put together. The lawsuit is the third search result under "Goodman." Her back is still turned, and she has regained her composure."I know why you took this job, Timothy. He took a shortcut, and you wanted revenge. Now you take a shortcut, and someone else is dead."
I look at Ellen's face in the reflection of the glass. Barnes is to her right, and save for the rise and fall of his chest, he is as still as a picture. There is no open real estate for my own reflection, weak like Ellen's in the less-than-mirror-like panes, so it layers over Barnes. The three of us stand there for a minute. Vaguely, I wonder if real security is coming to save the CEO, but the thought dissolves as the man in question abruptly turns and continues hurriedly up the stairs. It is just me and Ellen now, plus the two guards clutching my biceps. She pulls a creased polaroid from her pocket and presses its face to the window. Despite its wallet size, it seems to expand in my vision to fill my field of view. It shows a high schooler, the stubbly beginnings of his beard promising to soon match the covered chin of his father next to him. Ellen doesn't turn back around, leaving us to stare at each other in the glass, Ezekiel's son in the forefront and myself in the background, my image hanging over his shoulder like a ghost.
When I was five, I witnessed something strange, but not too strange. The trees had turned early that September, and I sat on Dad's shoulders, plucking reds and oranges from the low-hanging branches on our way to Arder Elementary. I remember the walk, but my memory of drop-off is nonexistent. For me, the school day starts at lunch.
I was bouncing a pencil four hours later on the cafeteria table to distract myself from my contortionist of a stomach. I had already devoured a PB&J from home, but learning your letters makes you work up an appetite, and I had no money to buy something more. Amanda, a fellow kindergartener, must have caught me staring at her tray, because she tried to lob over a tater tot from two seats down. While I applaud her attempt, the throw started to fall short at the three-quarters mark. Call it a gust of wind in a windowless cafeteria, the work of a benevolent tater tot god, but I threw up a prayer and the potato lifted. It hit my palm.
"Nice catch" she said, and it was.
When I was eight, the slightly supernatural saved me again. That years' jack o'lanterns had only just begun to rot, but my sweet tooth and I were already out of halloween candy. Dad knew that I was running on empty; he had clucked about the importance of moderation a few days before as he purged my trashcan of Milky Way and Kit Kat wrappers. So when I left an illicit lollipop taken from my parents' private stash on my dresser before bed, I knew there was no explaining its origin. I was straight-jacketed in my blankets when the door started to open, yellow light from the hall seeping into my room like water climbing up a paper towel. I turned my head away as the spotlight reached the contraband, and waited.
"If you're going to pretend to be asleep, you need to control your breathing. It's too fast."
I unscrunched my face and turned towards the door. There was Dad, haloed by the hallway. There was my dresser, clean.
"Why would I be pretending? It's not like I'm trying to avoid bed, I'm already in it."
"Ah, so you're trying to avoid your kiss goodnight then! Are you already so grown up? I feel faint!"
He slapped the back of his hand to his forehead and I laughed, although it came out breathy.
"Goodnight, Tim."
"Goodnight, Dad."
The door closed. I watched his shadow disappear from under it. By the time I had de-cocooned myself, the low murmur of the downstairs television told me the coast was clear. I rocketed to my dresser and dropped to the floor, pressing my eye to the space between its back panel and the wall. I could just make out the silhouette of the fallen lollipop mingling with dust mites.
By thirteen, I had figured it out. There had never been, of course, any tater tot god, any lollipop fairy pushing incriminating candy off of childrens' dressers. I had made a much more exciting discovery, immediately qualified by an equally disappointing one: I was telekinetic. Barely telekinetic. I could nudge a fork off a table, but only if it was already suicidal. I could make deep ping pong shots fly out or break the lead in Amanda's mechanical pencils, but no amount of late-night training made me strong enough to levitate the TV remote into my hand, much less myself off the ground. Having read the Crucible for summer reading that year, I told no one. Not that there was much to tell.
When I was eighteen, I graduated high school, although just narrowly. I was sitting behind Amanda, occasionally flicking her mortarboard tassel across her face and watching her try to locate the wind. It wasn't what a friend does, but I wouldn't call us friends anymore; both classmates and teachers can only make so many excuses for you after a death in the family. I tried not to listen when the MC acknowledged the warehouse fire that killed Dad and the parents of a few other students, and sank low into my seat as they offered some morbid congratulations on having won the negligence lawsuit. It was a meager settlement, both morally and monetarily. The CEO walked and the check wouldn't have covered a year of therapy, had I chosen to go. That night, I rewatched news coverage of the fire. They flashed the face of Morris Barnes, CEO of Barnes Textiles, on the screen as they spat out figures: injuries, deaths, product lost. I pressed the off button without touching it and the glow died, but the afterimage of Barnes' face hung in the air like a ghost.
On my twenty-secondth birthday, I walk into a casino for the three hundred sixty-fifth time in my life. The floor is quiet, only the chronic gamblers left. They hunch over the slots, lips twitching with silent exhortations as their pockets lighten. I watch them as Ellen throws the dice. A six and six. That's a push for us both, and our chip stacks regrow. Ezekiel, who bet on the Pass Line, scratches his bearded chin and smiles sheepishly, as if apologizing for losing. He pulls his last two chips from the table and announces his forfeit. I wave goodbye as he moves away; you get to know people during long games of craps, and I don't mind knowing Ezekiel. He's a solid candidate for Gamblers Anonymous, yes, but for the moment he's managing, with a job interview on the horizon and a ludicrous number of father-son pictures lining his too-thin wallet. I should know; in the last ninety minutes, he's shown me them all twice. I return my attention to the game and bet Don't Pass again, double what I put down last time. My left hand smoothes the felt lip of the table as the dealer pushes the dice to me. I grab them with my right and roll, studying their slowing somersaults. There, the first die is on its last turn. It's going to be a four, so I leave it. The second is coming around now too, a five I believe. My left hand taps once and the die hiccups before landing on a three. Ellen's eyebrows disappear, or try to disappear, behind wispy copper bangs.
"You're the luckiest shooter I've seen in a while."
I grin and wiggle my fingers at her. "Magic hands."
"I'll say."
I collect my due and push back from the table. Ezekiel is being pulled towards the slots, which gives me an excellent excuse to loiter around them.
"Leaving already?" Ellen asks. She is up as well.
I get this often. I am to fellow players like pollen is to bees; they think that if they buzz around me enough, they'll take some luck home to the hive. Small talk will break my concentration at the slots, though, so I try some bug spray. "Just gonna go see what Ezekiel is up to. Feel bad for cleaning him out, you know? Might donate a little to keep him going before I cash out."
"Ah, so you're done playing for the night?"
I glance at my watch. "For the morning," I correct her, tilting the face so she can read it. 11:09 A.M.
She whistles appreciatively and slings a drawstring backpack over her shoulder. "I should be heading out too, then."
We separate, Ellen moving towards the cage and myself towards Ezekiel. I sidle up to him and rest one hand on the side of his machine as he pulls the lever. He flashes me a "welcome back" smile. This casino hasn't digitized their slots yet, and I can feel the reels clicking as an assortment of fruits blur with speed. Cherry. Cherry. I hold my breath and try to slow down the last wheel. Watermelon. My cheeks puff as I release the air. It's heavier than a die. Ezekiel bares his teeth and pulls again. Watermelon. Lemon. Can I force another lemon? No, cherry. The scene repeats. Seven, orange, lemon. Bell, orange, cherry. Watermelon, cherry, lemon. I finally slide my hand from the metal panel, it sweaty enough to leave a streaky print that for the color could feature in a horror-movie bathroom. I curse. The wheels are too massive; this isn't going to work.
"You're telling me," Ezekiel complains. I leave and he pulls again.
I review my options as I return to Ellen, who is still chatting with the cashier. This is the second casino I've found whose slots are physically manipulable. It is also the second casino whose slots I've failed to manipulate. Who knows when or where I'll find a third chance, not to mention that even if I do, the outcome isn't likely to change. I could continue with craps, but playing higher stakes is only going to increase the casino side-eye I'm getting. They're convinced I swap in loaded dice, and even if my form of cheating isn’t catchable, they’ll eventually ban me, proof or no. I thread a fifty dollar tangerine chip through my fingers, from pointer to pinky and then back again, as I resign myself to the fact that gambling isn't going to get me all the way. Shares in Barnes Textiles are up, one-fifty a pop, and without that slots jackpot, I'll never own more than a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the company. Ellen's faucet of chatter squeaks off as I approach, and she slides away from the cashier to let me in.
I slap the orange chip on the counter before fishing out the reds from my pocket. They felt heavy before, but piled in the open, they float in the emptiness of the counter. It's a net haul of a few hundred, so minus the cost of this week's amenities, I'm a single measly share closer to my goal.
I disappear under my hoodie as I exit the darkened casino. It is a bright, bitter autumn day. The metal bike rack outside shines in the noontime sun but is cold, almost wet to the touch. I breathe into my hands as I cross the parking lot. I don't have a plan B. My day job—or my night job, more accurately—wouldn't pay for a controlling share of Barnes textiles in ten lifetimes, and I'm set on dismantling the company in this one. I duck into the drivers' seat when I get to my car, turn the ignition, and crank the air to eighty-five degrees. I sit there until the heat forces me out of my hoodie, and don't adjust the temperature when my shirt starts to stick. I think about the warehouse fire and turn the knob a couple degrees more. I'm sweating in silence when a leaf detaches from the oak that overhangs my space. It's yellow, punctured with caterpillar holes like the beginning of a Powerpoint transition where one slide burns away. It's indecisive, jumping between updrafts before at last alighting on my windshield. I stare at it until I'm five again, riding high on Dad's shoulders, fists full of fall colors. Another gust sends the leaf twirling away. Suddenly I'm folded over like the backseat, nose snotty and chest heaving, unable to catch a breath. My tears evaporate in the warm air faster than I can form them, leaving a salty residue that stings the remnants of my teenage acne. I sob until I dry heave, and dry heave until I'm sure that nothing is coming up. My heart is more indecisive than the leaf, jumping so erratically that I start running through the family history: no heart attacks that I'm aware of, but someone has to be the first. I put the heels of my hands to my eyes and press hard: "calm down calm down calm down." I focus on my heart, trying to coax it into a more regular beat, when I feel it stop. I whip my head up and gasp as it restarts with a bang, the severest palpitation of my life. I rub the spot and recover as a suspicion brews. Is it possible? I focus again, this time recalling a crude diagram of the organ's atriums and ventricles, whatever I can remember from highschool biology. I pinch my fingers together and see the valves closing. A corresponding stillness in my chest sends my head spinning with possibilities. I've never tried internal manipulation before. I unpinch my fingers to relieve the building pressure, and as the blood rushes forth, so does an idea.
It springs out of me fully formed like Athena did from Zeus' skull. It is more extreme than what I had originally pursued, and I balk for a moment, but then I feel the heat of the vents on my bare arms again. I no longer care about dismantling Barnes' company. He should pay personally, and now I have a weapon that his security cannot detect.
A month later, I find myself sinking into a quicksand-like carpet as I loiter in an impossibly plush reception area. I'm waiting tables at seven, but if this goes well, It'll be my last shift at the café. I straighten my arms quickly at my sides as my watch buzzes to indicate that it's already three o'clock, snapping my starched button-down like a karate gi as I march into the office. The interviewer sitting behind the desk, Brenda Jensen according to the name plate, is a bespectacled woman of sensible clothes and a ballerina-tight bun who fires questions at me like a semi-automatic.
"Name?"
"Timothy Goodman.” I hadn't had the time to change it before the interview; I'm hoping no one will look at past company records too closely.
"Prior experience with reception?"
"None."
"Prior experience with customer service?"
"Waiter."
She allows for only the briefest of elaborations, and I pick at my fingers under the table. God knows if I'm doing well. Scratch that: I doubt even God can read this petite, military woman. Finally, a "thank you, we'll be in touch," and I'm dismissed.
I find myself back at the front desk, which is staffed by the temp that I've just interviewed to replace, and notice a new arrival in one of the waiting room chairs. His chin is newly shaven, but there's no mistaking him.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Ezekiel."
The man looks up and grins.
"Timothy! It's been a minute."
"I know, I haven't dropped by the casino in a while."
Ezekiel's grin widens. "Isn't it great? Neither have I. Been really trying to clean up for this job. Speaking of which," he twists in his chair to look at the clock ticking above his head on the wall behind him, "it's 3:30: my time to shine."
"So you're here for the reception position, then?"
He grunts affirmation as he hoists himself to standing. "I hear that it's mostly just playing Candy Crush when no one's looking, though, which suits me just fine."
I ask him what level he's on as he smooths his tie with well-manicured nails.
"Level three hundred," he answers. "You?"
"Oh, I don't play," I laugh, but I'm preoccupied with sudden inspiration. Ezekiel's put together, a real candidate, if I could just throw him off his game--
"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Timothy." He offers his hand.
I smile without teeth and shake, snaking my power up his arm, feeling for the largest nerves which, at widths of half a millimeter, are at the edge of my new anatomical awareness. I pinch them as best I can and Ezekiel withdraws his arm with a hiss, claiming pins and needles. One last weak smile, and he hurries into Jensen's office.
It only takes a day for Barnes Textiles to call me back and offer me the job. I must've worked a number on Ezekiel for them to reject him so quickly. As long as it takes a killer off the streets in the end, I think to myself as I pull on my uniform that Monday, it will be worth it. The commute is a painless fifteen minutes. The sky is a cloudless azure that throws the modest skyline of Lafayette, Indiana into sharp relief. Barnes doesn't deserve to die on such a crisp day, I think, as I pull into the company garage. My car beeps goodbye as I give the lock button one too many presses on my way to the elevator. As I wait, I triple check Barnes' schedule, which my new position gives me access to. His first meeting is scheduled in Conference Room 507, near the top of HQ. I put my phone away as the doors slide open, and I catch my reflection in their stainless steel. A black polo over black khakis, which is fitting, I think. The elevator car is empty and I step in and press five.
One.
Two.
Three.
I pass the third floor without incident, but the elevator slows for another passenger as I reach the fourth. I finger the employee ID hanging from my belt; no one's going to ask my business. My stomach swoops as I slow to a stop, and the doors open.
I have never been jumped before.
Two pairs of hands are pulling me out of the car the moment the opening is wide enough. I yelp and scramble back, but I am no bodyguard, and these two suits definitely look it. I am completely out of the elevator a few seconds later, the doors closing and moving onto the next floor. I try to scream for help but a hand is clapped over my mouth until I stop thrashing enough to see Ellen standing stone-faced at the back wall, which is composed of glass panels that overlook the stairwell accompanying the elevator. I hold still and am allowed to speak.
"What are you doing?! You're not police!"
Ellen waves something palm-sized next to her face. It glints, and she folds it back up.
"Wrong."
"It doesn't matter." I thrash once more against the guards. "I haven't done anything. I work here!"
"Well, officially, we've got you for tax evasion. Haven't been declaring your tips at the café."
"Officially?"
Ellen's eyebrows shoot up in a brief display of emotion and a feeling of déjà vu quiets me.
"'Magic hands,' remember?"
I'm back at the casino, being followed from game to game by Ellen and other luck-seeking gamblers. I'm playing craps. I double my bet and roll a seven. She compliments my dice shooting. She sounds suspicious instead of admiring.
I don't respond.
"You didn't think you were the only one, did you?" Her voice is harsher now. "You grow up with powers, like in a comic book"—she sounds offended at my stupidity—"and aren't immediately skeptical?"
I don't respond.
"Dice manipulation is a favorite. You weren't creative to go to the casino. You were, however, one of the rare ones who decided to mess with biology." She shifts and the dark circles under her eyes become more prominent.
This time I defend myself.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't hurt anybody. I won't."
It was true. Morris Barnes was going to take the elevator, or maybe he was going to walk up those stairs, and I was going to miss my shot, not to mention be carted off to God knows where. This time, I really did hope that God knew, because I was out of my depth.
"Tell that to Ezekiel."
I'm craning to look over her shoulder at the stairwell, but abandon my vigil in order to roll my eyes. She must have been keeping tabs on me outside the casino. "I'm sorry that I beat him out for the job, but he's doing well, he'll find another."
I hear muffled footsteps, but the echo could be carrying them from floors down.
"You pulled a stunt with his arm."
The sound of scuffing shoes nears, and I am nodding absentmindedly before I realize that it's a confession. If I get close enough, maybe I can still take Barnes down. It's not like I can be tried for any of this in a real court, and if they're planning on doing away with me extralegally, I might as well finish what I started.
Then two things happen at the same time. The man who killed my father rounds the bend and Ellen says, "he's dead."
I freeze and so does Barnes, intrigued by the scene we've created. My eyes flick to Ellen, my brain still processing. She forges on.
"His right arm threw a clot right after the interview. I'm not sure what exactly you were trying to twist, but if it was the veins, you did a bang up job. Doctors said they'd never seen it before. Like kinked up garden hoses."
I unstick my throat.
"That can't have been me. I barely did anything."
"Barely," she snarls. "And this man," she spins, jabbing the air like she wants to poke out its eyes, "barely skirted those fire safety regulations three years ago."
I flinch. Barnes does too, although I can't be sure if he's heard her words or is just reacting to her aggressive posture.
"It wasn't hard to put together. The lawsuit is the third search result under "Goodman." Her back is still turned, and she has regained her composure."I know why you took this job, Timothy. He took a shortcut, and you wanted revenge. Now you take a shortcut, and someone else is dead."
I look at Ellen's face in the reflection of the glass. Barnes is to her right, and save for the rise and fall of his chest, he is as still as a picture. There is no open real estate for my own reflection, weak like Ellen's in the less-than-mirror-like panes, so it layers over Barnes. The three of us stand there for a minute. Vaguely, I wonder if real security is coming to save the CEO, but the thought dissolves as the man in question abruptly turns and continues hurriedly up the stairs. It is just me and Ellen now, plus the two guards clutching my biceps. She pulls a creased polaroid from her pocket and presses its face to the window. Despite its wallet size, it seems to expand in my vision to fill my field of view. It shows a high schooler, the stubbly beginnings of his beard promising to soon match the covered chin of his father next to him. Ellen doesn't turn back around, leaving us to stare at each other in the glass, Ezekiel's son in the forefront and myself in the background, my image hanging over his shoulder like a ghost.
by Katelyn Puglia
What does it mean that the girls of this village are dying? Are people saying that it comes as a fever first, then flower petals come bursting from their throats, from their lips, from their eyes, until they are mad and ensnared in thorns and roots? Or is that just a children’s story? Is it only the young girls, or the elderly too? Are the elderly too wise to catch such a foolish disease? Have the doctors seen anything like this before? Are the doctors afraid? Is there a reason that this is happening to us here, to us now? Are there reasons for anything?
Is there something wrong with the girls? Are they twisted? As they fall sick, do they look like monsters with horns made of spiraling ivy? Are they beautiful? Do they look like goddesses of the spring, those deities who could grow daisies wherever they stepped? Are they being punished for speaking too loudly, for writing poetry, for being sure of themselves in the way that men are allowed to be? Are these things wrong? Should they be punished?
Do you hear them cry out verses of their own invention as they die? Does the sound scare you?
Will they be buried with flowers on their graves, petals wilting in grief, or is this disrespectful? Will the girls be buried at all? Will the people make books bound with the writings of the dead girls to honor their memories? Are their stories too wild? Are the stories of lilacs and lilies? If found, will these manuscripts be thrown in the fire? Will they be saved, but with red ink strikes through the lines that are too daring, for fear of what would be thought of the authors? Is this censorship a mercy, a protection, or a betrayal?
Did the girl writing this cross any of her sentences out, too?
Are the men of the village blaming the girls? Do they comfort their daughters as the flowers consume them, or lock them in their rooms to avoid the poisoned air, or leave them in the streets of the town, hoping that the fever-fire will catch them too? What of the mothers? Are they ill too, and if they are, do they hide it? Do they look down upon the weakness of the younger generation and sneer, holding contempt for the girls who succumb to fate? Or, do they hold their daughters in the dark and reveal in hushed voices how the flowers have a hold on them as well? Have the children of the village begun to twist their already-morbid nursery rhymes into songs about this plague? What does it mean that so many nursery rhymes are already about pestilence?
What of the girls themselves? Did anyone ever ask the flower-eyed women what they think of it all? Do they make daisy chains and peace in the forest, sit in circles under moonlight and discuss what is to be done? Or do they hiss at one another in snarls as sharp as the thorns on their skin, saying “who started this and why do you wish to make them hate us”? Do some of them wonder if the people of the village would have hated them anyway? Will this tear the girls apart? Will it bring them together?
Will the girls, who have survived the world of men for so long, survive this too? Or will they die on fire with flowers in their hands, die like witches tied to the stake to burn? And if they die, will they die together? If they join hands, will they burn bright enough to keep the people from looking away? Will they force the village to look them in the eyes and say, these are our girls?
What does it mean that the girls of this village are dying? Are people saying that it comes as a fever first, then flower petals come bursting from their throats, from their lips, from their eyes, until they are mad and ensnared in thorns and roots? Or is that just a children’s story? Is it only the young girls, or the elderly too? Are the elderly too wise to catch such a foolish disease? Have the doctors seen anything like this before? Are the doctors afraid? Is there a reason that this is happening to us here, to us now? Are there reasons for anything?
Is there something wrong with the girls? Are they twisted? As they fall sick, do they look like monsters with horns made of spiraling ivy? Are they beautiful? Do they look like goddesses of the spring, those deities who could grow daisies wherever they stepped? Are they being punished for speaking too loudly, for writing poetry, for being sure of themselves in the way that men are allowed to be? Are these things wrong? Should they be punished?
Do you hear them cry out verses of their own invention as they die? Does the sound scare you?
Will they be buried with flowers on their graves, petals wilting in grief, or is this disrespectful? Will the girls be buried at all? Will the people make books bound with the writings of the dead girls to honor their memories? Are their stories too wild? Are the stories of lilacs and lilies? If found, will these manuscripts be thrown in the fire? Will they be saved, but with red ink strikes through the lines that are too daring, for fear of what would be thought of the authors? Is this censorship a mercy, a protection, or a betrayal?
Did the girl writing this cross any of her sentences out, too?
Are the men of the village blaming the girls? Do they comfort their daughters as the flowers consume them, or lock them in their rooms to avoid the poisoned air, or leave them in the streets of the town, hoping that the fever-fire will catch them too? What of the mothers? Are they ill too, and if they are, do they hide it? Do they look down upon the weakness of the younger generation and sneer, holding contempt for the girls who succumb to fate? Or, do they hold their daughters in the dark and reveal in hushed voices how the flowers have a hold on them as well? Have the children of the village begun to twist their already-morbid nursery rhymes into songs about this plague? What does it mean that so many nursery rhymes are already about pestilence?
What of the girls themselves? Did anyone ever ask the flower-eyed women what they think of it all? Do they make daisy chains and peace in the forest, sit in circles under moonlight and discuss what is to be done? Or do they hiss at one another in snarls as sharp as the thorns on their skin, saying “who started this and why do you wish to make them hate us”? Do some of them wonder if the people of the village would have hated them anyway? Will this tear the girls apart? Will it bring them together?
Will the girls, who have survived the world of men for so long, survive this too? Or will they die on fire with flowers in their hands, die like witches tied to the stake to burn? And if they die, will they die together? If they join hands, will they burn bright enough to keep the people from looking away? Will they force the village to look them in the eyes and say, these are our girls?
by Maya Serrano
by Abigail LeBovidge
The aroma of sweet decay permeates:
A pumpkin left out too long,
The stagnant stream,
The blanket of dry leaves Mother Nature pulls over herself as she tucks herself in for the winter.
A man walks his dog.
The moon sits watchfully, her hair spilling over the clouds she rests on
(A night ago her sharp edges pierced my heart,
But tonight her crescent is full.)
I have no hat,
But I do not need one—not yet, not tonight.
A painting is hung in the sky:
Purples fade to graying blue, with pillows of orange,
Above the vivid green field surveilled by streaks of white.
A lantern calls yellow, but its voice fades to pink.
From shadow emerges the human-made innocence of spinning lights,
Small wheels that follow the sidewalk,
A little girl on a scooter painting
Neon rainbows in the night.
Of spidery hugs glowing purple over hedges,
Bridging Christmas and Halloween.
The shadow that kept time behind mine as I walked,
Stepping in time,
Burns away as I near the embrace of the next streetlight.
The bannered room that felt so big sits small behind its silhouetted cage.
Children call and play, loud on the asphalt, muted by the night;
The hour is young, but the old sun tires early.
The words surround me, filling my mind,
The only breeze in this still night
(Which whispers of the coming cold
With a chilled tongue full of half-empty promises.)
I take the way through the woods, and my hands from my pockets.
It is so dark I can barely see it; I wish had not sat so close to the screen.
My blood races under the careful touch of the cold.
The shadows fracture the curb--
No, fold neatly into the low stone wall--
No, drape loosely over the car.
Warm light presses against glass, a constant of full homes;
A greater comfort from where I stay swallowing the chill,
On my way, making progress, still far enough from the pencils and the ceilings
Labeled with my name.
If I don’t make it home tonight
This poem will spill unheard;
The thought mixes with the air like syrup and sweetens my breath.
A pumpkin left out too long,
The stagnant stream,
The blanket of dry leaves Mother Nature pulls over herself as she tucks herself in for the winter.
A man walks his dog.
The moon sits watchfully, her hair spilling over the clouds she rests on
(A night ago her sharp edges pierced my heart,
But tonight her crescent is full.)
I have no hat,
But I do not need one—not yet, not tonight.
A painting is hung in the sky:
Purples fade to graying blue, with pillows of orange,
Above the vivid green field surveilled by streaks of white.
A lantern calls yellow, but its voice fades to pink.
From shadow emerges the human-made innocence of spinning lights,
Small wheels that follow the sidewalk,
A little girl on a scooter painting
Neon rainbows in the night.
Of spidery hugs glowing purple over hedges,
Bridging Christmas and Halloween.
The shadow that kept time behind mine as I walked,
Stepping in time,
Burns away as I near the embrace of the next streetlight.
The bannered room that felt so big sits small behind its silhouetted cage.
Children call and play, loud on the asphalt, muted by the night;
The hour is young, but the old sun tires early.
The words surround me, filling my mind,
The only breeze in this still night
(Which whispers of the coming cold
With a chilled tongue full of half-empty promises.)
I take the way through the woods, and my hands from my pockets.
It is so dark I can barely see it; I wish had not sat so close to the screen.
My blood races under the careful touch of the cold.
The shadows fracture the curb--
No, fold neatly into the low stone wall--
No, drape loosely over the car.
Warm light presses against glass, a constant of full homes;
A greater comfort from where I stay swallowing the chill,
On my way, making progress, still far enough from the pencils and the ceilings
Labeled with my name.
If I don’t make it home tonight
This poem will spill unheard;
The thought mixes with the air like syrup and sweetens my breath.
by Braden Nowicki
As we walked, my Dad’s dress shoes made dull thuds on the pavement. The path we were following wound behind us a short distance to a large ornate door with golden handles spinning out from the center, often open to reveal rows of pews. The church’s white roof made a steep point at the front and gradually curved downward to the ground. The dynamism of the roof seemed to point to the sky, to beckon to God. Bright morning light shone through its colored glass windows. The air was heavy with moisture and each blade of grass barely supported small droplets of water. The dew on the grass reflected the sun, causing light to dance along the ground as we walked. Birds sung to each other in various patterns and pitches, breaking up the morning silence. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air travel through my throat down to my lungs, and stepped inside our car.
The car had baked under the sunlight, heating the air inside. My breathing became more labored and the discomfort didn’t subside until the AC turned on and cool air began to hit my knees. I sat in the car, ready to leave the lot after mass, when my mom received a phone call. She listened for a minute and leaned her head against the door, lifting her hand to her forehead. Her breathing became erratic and her voice wavered:
“Your grandma… passed away in the hospital.” The sentence didn’t set in immediately. I knew she wasn’t doing well, but I wasn’t prepared for those words. They’re the kind of words you never expect to hear. Instead, you expect there to be a sort of stasis; you expect time to stop marching. It gets to the point where, even as you watch your grandma deteriorate in front of you, even as you notice her awareness decreasing, even as you see her eyes start to glaze over and look through you and not at you, you don’t think you’ll hear those words. But the words still come.
The heat grew unbearable and stifling. My head started to pound and I laid it against the window. I was unable to lift it again from the suffocating weight of my mother’s words. I didn’t want to lift it. I tried to hold in my tears until I noticed my family starting to cry. Their tears beckoned mine forth, and they spilled out of my eyes, washing over my cheeks. They felt slightly cold as they slid down, sucking heat from my face. I began to feel the sting of salt in my eyes, and soon it became so painful that I couldn’t open them. I felt the heat of the car, the stifling heat, crashing over me in waves, pounding on my head, pushing me against the door. The pressure forced my head harder into the window. The sound of rushing air from the AC filled my ears. The frigid wind hitting my knees was discomforting now as it contrasted the scorching heat. The car vibrated and hummed beneath me, shaking and removing any semblance of solid ground. The pounding continued, louder now. The fans and the hum of the car and the shaking and the sting of tears and the cool glass window and the pounding attacked at full force to overload my senses within the behemoth of engineered metal I sat in.
It’s too soon, I said to myself. It’s too soon.
I remembered the last time I saw her. I remembered the way she just stared. She barely regarded me at that point. I don’t know if it was the cancer or the medicine or the fatigue, but, where there had once been so much life behind those eyes, I found nothing.
It’s too soon, I cry again. We didn’t have enough time.
My breath shook. Everything felt unstable. The pounding grew again, almost rhythmic now. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. It refused to stop, refused to subside. It sounded like heavy boots, boots marching in unison, making sure time moved forward. The air tasted foul. The birds were no longer singing, but screeching and cawing and chiding me with their grotesque barks and gruesome laughter. The sun, which had once illuminated the morning, scattering beautiful light through stained glass windows and playing brightly in the dew-covered grass, now turned towards me in rage, forcing its rays onto the car, that metal coffin, baking and boiling the sour air. And the church became a sepulchre, its razor point piercing the sky, begging the malevolent sun for more heat, more stifling heat.
As we walked, my Dad’s dress shoes made dull thuds on the pavement. The path we were following wound behind us a short distance to a large ornate door with golden handles spinning out from the center, often open to reveal rows of pews. The church’s white roof made a steep point at the front and gradually curved downward to the ground. The dynamism of the roof seemed to point to the sky, to beckon to God. Bright morning light shone through its colored glass windows. The air was heavy with moisture and each blade of grass barely supported small droplets of water. The dew on the grass reflected the sun, causing light to dance along the ground as we walked. Birds sung to each other in various patterns and pitches, breaking up the morning silence. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold air travel through my throat down to my lungs, and stepped inside our car.
The car had baked under the sunlight, heating the air inside. My breathing became more labored and the discomfort didn’t subside until the AC turned on and cool air began to hit my knees. I sat in the car, ready to leave the lot after mass, when my mom received a phone call. She listened for a minute and leaned her head against the door, lifting her hand to her forehead. Her breathing became erratic and her voice wavered:
“Your grandma… passed away in the hospital.” The sentence didn’t set in immediately. I knew she wasn’t doing well, but I wasn’t prepared for those words. They’re the kind of words you never expect to hear. Instead, you expect there to be a sort of stasis; you expect time to stop marching. It gets to the point where, even as you watch your grandma deteriorate in front of you, even as you notice her awareness decreasing, even as you see her eyes start to glaze over and look through you and not at you, you don’t think you’ll hear those words. But the words still come.
The heat grew unbearable and stifling. My head started to pound and I laid it against the window. I was unable to lift it again from the suffocating weight of my mother’s words. I didn’t want to lift it. I tried to hold in my tears until I noticed my family starting to cry. Their tears beckoned mine forth, and they spilled out of my eyes, washing over my cheeks. They felt slightly cold as they slid down, sucking heat from my face. I began to feel the sting of salt in my eyes, and soon it became so painful that I couldn’t open them. I felt the heat of the car, the stifling heat, crashing over me in waves, pounding on my head, pushing me against the door. The pressure forced my head harder into the window. The sound of rushing air from the AC filled my ears. The frigid wind hitting my knees was discomforting now as it contrasted the scorching heat. The car vibrated and hummed beneath me, shaking and removing any semblance of solid ground. The pounding continued, louder now. The fans and the hum of the car and the shaking and the sting of tears and the cool glass window and the pounding attacked at full force to overload my senses within the behemoth of engineered metal I sat in.
It’s too soon, I said to myself. It’s too soon.
I remembered the last time I saw her. I remembered the way she just stared. She barely regarded me at that point. I don’t know if it was the cancer or the medicine or the fatigue, but, where there had once been so much life behind those eyes, I found nothing.
It’s too soon, I cry again. We didn’t have enough time.
My breath shook. Everything felt unstable. The pounding grew again, almost rhythmic now. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. It refused to stop, refused to subside. It sounded like heavy boots, boots marching in unison, making sure time moved forward. The air tasted foul. The birds were no longer singing, but screeching and cawing and chiding me with their grotesque barks and gruesome laughter. The sun, which had once illuminated the morning, scattering beautiful light through stained glass windows and playing brightly in the dew-covered grass, now turned towards me in rage, forcing its rays onto the car, that metal coffin, baking and boiling the sour air. And the church became a sepulchre, its razor point piercing the sky, begging the malevolent sun for more heat, more stifling heat.
by Mina Willander
It is the feeling
Of new things
Things that overtake me completely
Like a heart attack
Or the cold wind that hits one through an open door
That brings me back
To this awakeness I cannot get a hold of
The way I have always been is tugging on my wrist
This riff comforts me like nothing else
I carry the flowers from my garden
Every petal is attached
And my delicate hands rip them right off
I crush them on the pavement as I had as a child
I am not supposed to run after the things I know might not happen
But the slight possibility always trips me
And I fall on my back
But once I get up
I run to find it
Everytime I walk outside
Expecting the quiet and serene
I see the most chaotic things I have ever seen
Expect me to turn around
I won’t
Those scenes always have me by the neck
It doesn’t matter what anyone does
It will depend on coincidence
Fate is the dust on my shoulder
However, as far as I can reach
To the dot of Polaris behind my window
I will do the actions I mean to do
Because the glass is not strong enough
To reflect the light I desperately look into
The houses beyond the forest
With the smoke rising up the chimneys
Have me walking on top of them
Humming a tune that is ingrained in my head
But I stop in remembrance of the families’ homes that over I tread
These small moments are worth it
The stars are bright where I am
If where my body leads me to is my end
It is the end I have wanted
I will do everything with this three leaf clover
To find a leaf from another
And tape it against the stem of mine
The decrescendo of my breath
Flows equally with the song I had been singing
And unlike how I always hold back my voice when I am awake
I contradict myself in the night
The only one who watches
Is what I have wanted
Only the North Star
The broken shards are shaped like stars
Where they lay under my body
Creates this reflection of the light
Like nothing else
It is the feeling
Of new things
Things that overtake me completely
Like a heart attack
Or the cold wind that hits one through an open door
That brings me back
To this awakeness I cannot get a hold of
The way I have always been is tugging on my wrist
This riff comforts me like nothing else
I carry the flowers from my garden
Every petal is attached
And my delicate hands rip them right off
I crush them on the pavement as I had as a child
I am not supposed to run after the things I know might not happen
But the slight possibility always trips me
And I fall on my back
But once I get up
I run to find it
Everytime I walk outside
Expecting the quiet and serene
I see the most chaotic things I have ever seen
Expect me to turn around
I won’t
Those scenes always have me by the neck
It doesn’t matter what anyone does
It will depend on coincidence
Fate is the dust on my shoulder
However, as far as I can reach
To the dot of Polaris behind my window
I will do the actions I mean to do
Because the glass is not strong enough
To reflect the light I desperately look into
The houses beyond the forest
With the smoke rising up the chimneys
Have me walking on top of them
Humming a tune that is ingrained in my head
But I stop in remembrance of the families’ homes that over I tread
These small moments are worth it
The stars are bright where I am
If where my body leads me to is my end
It is the end I have wanted
I will do everything with this three leaf clover
To find a leaf from another
And tape it against the stem of mine
The decrescendo of my breath
Flows equally with the song I had been singing
And unlike how I always hold back my voice when I am awake
I contradict myself in the night
The only one who watches
Is what I have wanted
Only the North Star
The broken shards are shaped like stars
Where they lay under my body
Creates this reflection of the light
Like nothing else
by Audrey Gentile
I am from the lens,
from Nikon and Canon.
I’m from the art gallery,
bright, colorful.
It sounded like the Beatles playing “Abbey Road.”
I’m from rose quartz,
the crystal that sat in my grandmother's yard.
pink, glistening and always calling my name.
I’m from the acceptors and the advocates,
from Baker and Gentile.
I’m from the cran-apple sauce on thanksgiving
and the closeness on Christmas Eve.
From “Speak up for yourself!” and “Never give up!”
I’m from here,
where loving who you love is not a sin.
I’m from Winchester, Italy and England,
pasta with marinara and parmesan and shepherd’s pie.
From the time that my sister made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt,
the courage of my cousin to come out as non-binary.
In a folder in Google Photos,
I am from creating,
creating something that is worth more than a hundred words.
I am from photography.
- Inspired by George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From"
I am from the lens,
from Nikon and Canon.
I’m from the art gallery,
bright, colorful.
It sounded like the Beatles playing “Abbey Road.”
I’m from rose quartz,
the crystal that sat in my grandmother's yard.
pink, glistening and always calling my name.
I’m from the acceptors and the advocates,
from Baker and Gentile.
I’m from the cran-apple sauce on thanksgiving
and the closeness on Christmas Eve.
From “Speak up for yourself!” and “Never give up!”
I’m from here,
where loving who you love is not a sin.
I’m from Winchester, Italy and England,
pasta with marinara and parmesan and shepherd’s pie.
From the time that my sister made me laugh so hard my stomach hurt,
the courage of my cousin to come out as non-binary.
In a folder in Google Photos,
I am from creating,
creating something that is worth more than a hundred words.
I am from photography.
- Inspired by George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From"
by Mina Willander
What I know the most --
what I know will never stay
And what tumbles on the rocks of the ocean --
Goes with the current
Do not remind me of
The creatures that drag on the bottom of the sea
They have not felt the ocean breeze
I sway when you turn away
I hate how I look in your direction
Whiplash of the wind
Flooding of the tides
When it is convenient the moon is there
And when it is not I am there anyways
But I know what has been designed --
the carvings of the cliffs
And the shape of the rocks --
Goes with the current
Third time the oceans comes
I know where it will go
I let it rise up the sand
I embrace the water as I always have
You know it is time
But I cannot decide
You know it is not time
Now I am too weak to decide
Things waver until I have been burned out
Eventually things will change
And the color of the sky
The strength of the storms
The pace of your walk
The way you think
And the way I think
Go with the current
But, while the weather is nice
The seagulls will hover over us
And your waves will crash against me
And my light will graze over you
Yet I know
When you will pull away
and I keep looking in your direction
It will always
Go with the current
What I know the most --
what I know will never stay
And what tumbles on the rocks of the ocean --
Goes with the current
Do not remind me of
The creatures that drag on the bottom of the sea
They have not felt the ocean breeze
I sway when you turn away
I hate how I look in your direction
Whiplash of the wind
Flooding of the tides
When it is convenient the moon is there
And when it is not I am there anyways
But I know what has been designed --
the carvings of the cliffs
And the shape of the rocks --
Goes with the current
Third time the oceans comes
I know where it will go
I let it rise up the sand
I embrace the water as I always have
You know it is time
But I cannot decide
You know it is not time
Now I am too weak to decide
Things waver until I have been burned out
Eventually things will change
And the color of the sky
The strength of the storms
The pace of your walk
The way you think
And the way I think
Go with the current
But, while the weather is nice
The seagulls will hover over us
And your waves will crash against me
And my light will graze over you
Yet I know
When you will pull away
and I keep looking in your direction
It will always
Go with the current
by Audrey Gentile
We are all going through a journey. Whether it be completing a paper for history or running for president. We are all working towards something or going through something to get to the bigger picture. We all have goals, they give us something to work towards. Goals are the things that drive us, that keep us going, even in the toughest of times. While we are working towards our goals, there are going to be people that try to tear us down, that try to keep us from achieving those goals. There are always obstacles that will stand in your way. The biggest obstacle is your choice. Whether to find the fight within yourself to overcome the obstacles or to give up and let the opposition win. It’s not easy. It’s like climbing a mountain. There will be times when you want to quit, times when your arms and legs ache. But you know deep inside of you that you can and will finish that climb. This is your climax, your time to show those obstacles that nothing can tear you down. And when you’re done, when you get to the top of that mountain, you’ll feel fulfilled, you’ll know that you achieved something even when those obstacles made it harder. But you kept going. You overcame those obstacles. You knew that even when there was no end in sight, if you kept going you would reach the top of that mountain and you did.
- Inspired by Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."
We are all going through a journey. Whether it be completing a paper for history or running for president. We are all working towards something or going through something to get to the bigger picture. We all have goals, they give us something to work towards. Goals are the things that drive us, that keep us going, even in the toughest of times. While we are working towards our goals, there are going to be people that try to tear us down, that try to keep us from achieving those goals. There are always obstacles that will stand in your way. The biggest obstacle is your choice. Whether to find the fight within yourself to overcome the obstacles or to give up and let the opposition win. It’s not easy. It’s like climbing a mountain. There will be times when you want to quit, times when your arms and legs ache. But you know deep inside of you that you can and will finish that climb. This is your climax, your time to show those obstacles that nothing can tear you down. And when you’re done, when you get to the top of that mountain, you’ll feel fulfilled, you’ll know that you achieved something even when those obstacles made it harder. But you kept going. You overcame those obstacles. You knew that even when there was no end in sight, if you kept going you would reach the top of that mountain and you did.
- Inspired by Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."
by Kelsey Murphy
in school,
we learned the valley was hard.
the valley was painful.
the valley was mean.
simple words
simple ideas
for a fissure riddled plain...
it is a hurricane our professors played off as a smattering of precipitation
big words
big emotions
condensed to fit their thin pink lips.
their Midas touch turned the fissures from
full and dark feathers
and closed doors
to echos
to beaded curtains
the age old question
curse?
or gift of innocence.
some never had the privilege of that choice.
i know now.
the valley was savage,
the valley was excruciating,
the valley was impossible,
to climb the hill
to even gaze upon it
we
must
first understand
the valley.
- Inspired by Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."
in school,
we learned the valley was hard.
the valley was painful.
the valley was mean.
simple words
simple ideas
for a fissure riddled plain...
it is a hurricane our professors played off as a smattering of precipitation
big words
big emotions
condensed to fit their thin pink lips.
their Midas touch turned the fissures from
full and dark feathers
and closed doors
to echos
to beaded curtains
the age old question
curse?
or gift of innocence.
some never had the privilege of that choice.
i know now.
the valley was savage,
the valley was excruciating,
the valley was impossible,
to climb the hill
to even gaze upon it
we
must
first understand
the valley.
- Inspired by Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."
by Maya Serrano