Literary Magazine 2017

Barbecue
By Anonymous
On warm Saturday afternoons,
When the wood was gathered and stacked,
We would go outside and prance around,
And then hear the wood be cracked.
We were asked to gather the paper,
Then the matches and the bowls,
Sometimes I would light the flame,
Although that wasn't for me, the best role.
Later the sun would set,
And the once large fire would dim.
We would go inside, taking more food,
And grab the bowls by the rim.
The smell of meat would fill the air,
And we would laugh and set up plates.
We would wait and sit at the table,
For our yummy food awaits.
Then the lid would be lifted,
Spewing sparks at the sky,
And the meat would be ready,
By then we kissed the sun goodbye.

51

Crash

(A true story)

By Robbie Khazan
The white, feather-like balls peppered my heavily clothed body. On the inside I was warm,
but on the outside, goosebumps prickled along my skin.
I realize now that I knew something like this was going to happen. I was inexperienced
and slightly afraid of cutting through the air with no support.
But I found that out too late.
I started to shoot down the hill, fear and excitement filling me, as if I could do anything.
I couldn’t.
The wind started to strengthen, my heartbeat increased, pumping adrenaline through me.
My eyes fixed on the snow-covered rock, the one that would bring my doom.
I remembered one of those movies, with two approaching vehicles and the director has
the scenes go two steps forwards, and one step back until they meet. I felt like that as I was go-
ing towards the ramp, as though time was delaying it, letting it get more tense.
The wind whipped my face. I felt excited and ready, yet fearful and unprepared.
My sled hit the ramp. The knowledge that I couldn’t stop now frightened me. Soon the
sled left the snow mound and began to carry me in the air.
And suddenly, it was there. The feeling of emptiness. The feeling of loneliness. The feel-
ing that you don’t have control over what's about to happen.
Fear pierced me. I could see nothing, hear only the screams in my head. I was soaring
through space, suffocated.
Now, adding more to my previous analogy, throughout the whole pre-crash, according to
the movies, everything happens in slow motion. But that’s the part I don’t agree with. See, that's
what happens on land, but in the air, time doesn’t slow down,, it speeds up. So much so, that I
don’t remember anything from around me when I was flying, only what I was feeling.
I forgot the snow, the trees in the distance, the other sledders, even my own sled.
It happened in an instant. It was so fast and confusing, I couldn’t tell where I was on the
hill, or how far I had flown in the air. My vision was blurred and I couldn’t control my body.
Reflexes took over. I put out my arm out to “soften” my landing, and only then did my
senses return. I saw the snow, I saw the hill, I saw what was about to happen, and it was too late
to do anything about it.
It was the same as the moment right before a car crash. When you see the other vehicle
and you realize what’s about to go down. The moment of utter terror.
I landed, and then a large, hollow crack echoed through the air. A crash. It vibrated
through me, repeating itself in my ear, showing off my failure.
The real pain didn’t come till later. The shock kept all the pain in the background, far
away. But I knew what had happened. I had had my true crash, not a memory from a film, but a
real collision. I experienced that moment when those two cars met. The moment of complete
shock. The moment I met my doom.
My arm was broken.

52

The Man Who Colored Lives

A Tribute Poem to Steven Brion-Meisels

By Aliza Kopans
There was always a pin on his shirt,

I remember.
A square,

with a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. in the center and
red words bordering the edges.
I remember
that the words read

“True peace is not merely the absence of war; it is the presence of justice.”
He always brought Milanoes to class,
I remember.

Sometimes he brought chocolate chip cookies too.
They were tiny and tasted faintly like coconut.
He got mad at us only once,
I remember.

He didn't yell but his blue eyes turned stormy and his voice deepened.
Everyone went quiet and listened to him as he talked about respect.

I remember
the day he left
even though I didn't know at the moment.
He wasn't teaching but his daughter was
and she gave me a pink foam crown covered in glitter before she rushed
to see her father.

I remember
the night I found out.
My mom started crying and I did too
and we sat on the red couch
and let tears fall and fall and fall
and sadness cloud our thoughts.

I remember
temple the next time.
Someone cut pieces of paper into a giant loop
and everyone wrote a memory on it.
We stood inside the circle and passed around a microphone.

I remember
that my voice cracked when I said that he always listened

but I was too sad to be embarrassed.
I remember

when my mom came back from his funeral and
told me that someone wrote

“I never knew Mahatma, Nelson, or Martin, but that's okay because I knew Steven.”
I wish I knew him more.

53

I have a pin now.
It's a square,

with a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. in the center and
red words bordering the edges.
The words read

“True peace is not merely the absence of war; it is the presence of justice.”
And on the back red letters spell “Stephen Brion-Meisels”
which is not perfect but
I remember
that he never wanted perfect.
I remember
a person with so much to offer
and not enough time to give it all.
I remember
a peaceful soul
with an open mind
and a quiet voice held inside an oversized smile.
I remember
a teacher,
a mentor,

who treated everyone with respect and in turn was respected.
I remember

a man who painted paper
and colored lives.

Morning Tea
By Tess O’Shaughnessy

54

I Will Never
By Aubrey Jensen

I will never
Walk into this classroom

As a student.
Never again,
Will I call them my teacher.
I will never
Call this building my home again.
This won't be my living room,
And that’s not my bedroom.
When the truck pulls away, it won't be ever again.
I will never
be that age again
Or call that my grade.

That day
Will never be the date again.

I will never
Not wish that today was yesterday.

As the cobwebs collect,
I realize what

I knew all along.
I will never
get to do this

Or know them
If I am stuck in the past.

So,
I will
Not regret what I’ve done.
But remember
And move on.
It’s time to change
But still hold onto memories.
And as for forgetting,
I hope
I will never.

55

When We Were Young
By Tess O’Shaughnessy
My six year old self got a rush of excitement when my three cousins and sister heard the
familiar sound. The creaky stairs alerted us that our eldest cousin, Julia, was coming.
I screeched giddily to my older cousins “Hide!” as if I had been preparing for this moment
all my life.
All five of us in a stuffy top bunk was a stretch even if we all had miniature bod-
ies. Especially when we were all shifting, trying to find creative (but obvious) hiding spots on the
small bed. Maeve pretended she was part of the stuffed animal pile, Honor swaddled herself in a
blanket, Ilina wedged herself between the mattress and the railing, Daniel under the blankets
kicking all of us, and I piled all of the pillows on top of me with only my head poking out.
Our giggles filled the room as Julia reached the top of the stairs with her Polaroid camera
in hand. She captured our happiness with a click of a button and a flash. We “revealed” our-
selves ,wanting to talk to eighteen year old Julia with her luxuriously long, curly, blond hair, her
long necklaces, and big, beautiful smile. Her old -fashioned instamatic camera was always
around her neck, ready to capture the next memory. In our mind no one could be cooler.
We took turns waving the photograph in the air while the photo slowly came to life. I was
the lucky one who got the final waves as the photo fully developed. It was fun watching our dis-
guised selves appear like a magic trick.
We asked Julia all about high school. The desire of being grown up came to a halt when
we found out that school wasn’t always going to be coloring books and snack time. I snapped
back to reality, not knowing how lucky I was to have such little responsibilities.
After talking for a bit we somehow always ended up all lying on each other in one big pig
pile on the top bunk. When the conversation switched from school it would usually switch to
some silly thing like a funny movie, or trying to persuade Julia to throw away the picture she took
knowing that she wouldn't no matter how hard we tried.
We didn’t comprehend how grateful we would be for these pictures when we were old-
er. I don’t remember who or what started this childish game, but what I do remember is the love,
light hearted chats, and laughter. It was almost a tradition we had at family gatherings such as
holidays that faded as we got older and were given responsibilities and standards. We still laugh,
maybe even more, but in the back of our minds, worries and stress are always lurking like
school, social things, homework and many other cares.
We sometimes have to live in the moment in order to have a truly happy moment.

56

Journeys

The Celebration
By Giovanna DeStefanis
57

Trip
By Oscar Kardon
The potential it has
getting smaller and smaller.
The time you have
getting shorter and shorter.
The memories you make
getting more and more.
The knowledge you gain
getting larger and larger.

What a trip.

Evolution
By Trinity Choroszej

Evolution
Adaptation of the living
Transforming of the divine
The believing of the being
The developing of time
Through multi-colored eyes

We see it all.
Some rise
Some fall

Though there are still some
Who only perceive in monochrome

58

Reading
By Gemma Conway
Reading gives me such a thrill,
it's always so exciting,
that I cannot get my fill.
Especially a book like Anne Frank,
It's so full of emotion,
It must earn a top rank.
Words swim across the page,
You begin to feel free of any type of cage.
No matter what words they are,
You will always feel better,
You feel like you can go on many adventures,
So go already, and hop into the car!
You travel the world,
While staying in one spot,
It all feels so magical,
You get drawn into the plot.
So pick up a book,
Read it right in that place,
Go take the journey,
I hope you win the race.

59

Hope Rabbit Holes
By Aliza Kopans By Louisa Szaraz
None of his senses confirmed it
He saw nothing except Confused
The endless ribbon of road unfolding Bewildered
He heard no sound yet Endlessly falling down a swirling rabbit hole
With no hope for wonderland
He felt it Sitting at a desk in a room in a school
Words not making sense
Home Sense not making sense
By Tina Zou But who should care
The rain had just settled down Who should pull me out the hole
The sun kissed the cotton candy sky Or catch me when i fall
I walk to the bus stop as the soft wind blows Who tends to the struggling tree in the desert
The air is inaudible and indistinct Or the lonely zebra in the suburbs
I was all alone Then again these words make sense
No one in front of me I can see the end of the hole
No one behind me But then i gasp
My legs kept moving Don’t want to catch my death in my fall
And finally I reached home Didn’t want to fall at all
The bell saves me from my daydream
To find there’s no fall at all.

60

Time
By Alexine Wey
Time is so precious,
its not something to waste,
its a God-given gift,
for which all should rejoice.
Time can hold so many good things,
like parties and Christmas and swinging your swing.
But after some time,
all good things must end.
So after all this remember my words,
that time is not free, and there’s no going back,
so spend your time wisely,
‘cause time’s something some lack.

You Had One Job
By Meghna Gite

61

Reflection
By Lulu Magee and Tessa Erbe

Endings bring
Anticipation for the future

Caught up in tomorrow
Forgetting the beauty of today

The endless support
As we navigate the deep waters
Small minnows in the big ocean

Unprepared and unnoticed
Ready to leave

But can’t quite close our suitcases
The memories won’t all fit
But space will be given
For new experiences
That fill the space
And childhood
Will be left behind

That child always lives beneath us
In small flickers

Developing with age
As we come and go
Forgetting what we had before
The love and friendships may fade
But will never be extinguished
We have a long distance to travel
But the journey leads to a
Beautiful destination

62

Finding
Courage

By
Olive Lawrence
63

Dream
By Aliza Kopans

how easy it would be to
let himself slide
into

the softness of snow
the darkness of night
the comfort of sleep
but he had come so

far
he must try to go on
the memories had
escaped his protection had

fallen behind him
were

there any left
could

he hold on
did

he still have the strength

he tried to
remember

Awakening
By Anahad Sharma

64

Trees
By Anonymous
Even from far away, you could still see that every tree in the forest owned bright green
leaves. When the wind passed by on its evening stroll, their leaves made a clatter of a thousand
symphonies. The trees seemed so happy, one just the same as the other. How great the trees
must live, exactly the same, no differences to tear them apart. Not a tree could be cruel, since
they all were identical. How nice life must be for a tree.
On an evening stroll one warm Spring evening, the wind brought along an unfamiliar
friend. It was a small red seed, unrecognizable by the green-leafed trees, who remembered their
youth as not quite that color. They were curious to see what the seed that the wind had brought
would grow up to be, so they sat there patiently and waited for its life to begin.
She grew up tall, just as tall as the others, but when she opened her eyes she was inse-
cure of her colors. She looked around her. Every tree in the forest owned green leaves, bright
green leaves, different from her dark red leaves, that clattered against each other when the wind
strolled by. The other trees pretended to not notice her, pretended there was no red to shatter
their arrangement of green, pretended that a different color did not exist. They simply just
thought a new color was bad. They were used to the green way, the right way in their minds,
and did not want change, and that was just the way it was.
She became used to these ways, living in her lonesome, outnumbered by a color that
she would never own. So she stood there lonely, trying to feel accepted in a place where no one
was different. Every tree wanted the forest to be all green again, and she knew she was not
wanted.
It was not her fault she was born with red leaves.
She knew she could not change the color of her leaves, but she did know that the other
trees could change their minds. But how could she change a mindset of a thousand trees? She
was hopeless again, and stood there, surrounded by a color that would never belong to her.
Until one day, a seed, just a shade lighter than the one she used to be, dropped from the
wind on its evening stroll. She was curious to see what this new seed would grow up to be, so
she waited patiently for its life to begin.
He grew up shorter, just a bit shorter than she, and when he opened his eyes he too was
insecure of his colors, for he was only yellow- leaved tree in the forest. He was afraid of being
himself, just like she was, hated for his differences. Day by day, living in hate. He had the same
drive as she did, to become accepted for something he knew he could not change.
But the next day, another seed dropped. And the day after that, the same happened.
They grew to be great, all different colors. Some red, some yellow, and even some green.
Opening their eyes for the very first time, the green- leaved trees realized that more colors were
not bad. All around them stood trees, tall and small, bright and dull, green, yellow, orange, red,
all forming the lyrics to a song, a beautiful song that can only be sung by differences. They real-
ized that more colors are better than one. Even from far away, you could still see that every tree
in the forest owned its unique color.
And the green-leaved trees realized that color was just a color.

65

Rappelling Memory
By Anonymous

I closed my eyes and leaned back; there was that sinking feeling in my stomach
that you get on the really steep part of a roller coaster or when you jump from a really high
diving board into a pool. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. My hands were clammy and
my heart was beating fast. I am stuck in time- I am falling forever- and then, all of the sud-
den the rope catches me. “Spread your legs!” they shouted. It was hard to spread my legs
because they were shaking so much. Was the rope tearing, or was that my imagination? Is
the harness strapped tight enough to me? Is this
safe?

There was cheering as I disappeared from my group’s view, but I didn't feel like
cheering. “Hold tight to the rope with my left hand, put the rope through the buckle with my
right. Keep legs spread apart, begin descent, repeat,” I said to myself.

I turned my head around: the view was stunning. It seemed to go on forever and
ever, as vast as space. I was at the Mitzpe Ramon crater, in Israel, in the middle of the
desert. While it was formed by erosion, it looked as if it was formed from a massive crater
as big as the moon. It was a beautiful day out with lots of sun and about 70 degrees.

I turned my head back around to focus on getting down. It felt like I was walking
backwards down a cliff, which I basically was. I crouched my knees down, gathered all my
strength, and pushed off! I came hurdling back towards the cliff and bounced off again like
I was on a sideways trampoline, smiling all the way.

When I near the end of my great journey, I heard the click of photos being taken of
me. I remembered the butterflies in my stomach I had had before when I was waiting for
my turn. The girl before me had started to go down and then got too scared and wimped
out, which had made me kind of scared.

My heartbeat’s rapid pace began to calm down and my breathing slowed. I was
back on a flat surface. I disconnected from the rope, looked up at the long hike I had
ahead of me, and sighed.

66

Conquering Fear
By Callie Coleman

I could already hear the thudding of people landing hard on the mat. “Wall, toes, floor,”
I repeated to myself in my head. The tumbling instructor always taught us “When you go for
your set, find the wall. Once you feel yourself rotating, tuck your head in and find your toes.
Lastly, follow your toes until you see the floor, land, and stand.” For the next minute all I re-
peated to myself were those words. You could hear my voice cracking as I whispered to my-
self.

The instructor told me to go, and that I was more than capable of doing it. But self-
doubt had taken over my body as fear struck my eyes. I started to run into my round-off, taking
breaths to the rhythm of my feel lightly bouncing off the floor. Thinking of every way this could
end.

Out of the corners of my eyes I could see people flipping, and twisting, and running. I
could hear people talking and encouraging others, but eventually I couldn’t: all I could hear
was my heart quickly beating, keeping a steady pace. My heart started to race as I went into
my back handspring. I was biting my lip so hard I was surprised it didn’t draw blood.

I could practically taste the adrenaline that was running from the tip of my toes to the
roots of my hair. In one surge of strength I pushed my hips over, waiting for my feet to hit the
floor before reaching up and holding a prayer that I’d land.

It was time. In an instant I thought I saw my life flash before my eyes. Nothing was
more terrifying than what I was about to do. It felt as though time had stopped.

I set up and saw the wall, staring at the world champion banner that fell in my line of
sight. Swiftly I pushed my hips over and tucked my head in as I found my toes. I followed them
through to the floor.

And just like that, it was over. I landed, then stood. My head popped up with the big-
gest smile on my face. I stopped holding my breath, and took in one huge gasp of relief. Land-
ing on my feet felt as if I were being held under water and finally got a breath of fresh air. I
turned to my tumbling instructor and said, with joy in my eyes, “That was fun!” Holding in a
slight laugh, I wondered why I hadn’t done that earlier. Now that I had built up so much confi-
dence, I felt invincible.

My coach laughed. “It’s not a skill until you’ve done it three times and landed,” he said.
“Deal!” I responded, with a promising smile from ear to ear. This time, with even more
enthusiasm, I ran into my round-off. Next, I flew into my back handspring. Lastly, with all my
might, I set up towards the wall. Butterflies in my stomach took over and I flipped myself over.
Landing on my feet, I stood proud and said “One more to go!” Within two seconds I was back
at the other side of the mat and started to run into my round-off. In one smooth motion it was
over. I had conquered my fear. I did it.

67

Seeking
Justice

The Downfall of America
By Olive Lawrence

68

Women’s March
By Tessa Erbe
Marching on

Can I just say how
Beautiful and strong

You look?
Fight on
Small Creature
You may be a sapling
But you can start a forest fire
Of change
What a mess you’ll make
A beautiful, terrible

Mess
Oh what a pity,
While we laugh in their
sorry little faces,
They feel criticized,

Called out
Discriminated
It's a mighty strange feeling,
The THUMP of karma
Hitting you upside

The head
What a shame.
Love to stay and linger
But we have a world to change
Appears I’ll be taking that crown

To go

69

Why? By This Giraffe
By Anonymous

what I don’t understand is Why but others
Why do we live in a world where are guilty of causing these things
people are bought and sold They lie
like commodities and steal
people know and cheat
and yet are these role models we want
it is not being stopped for our children?
Why girls are not given education the people in power are supposed to be good, just,
or forced to leave school and fair
once a month so Why is all of this happening?
because they have no clean water for wash- I know you may not agree with me
ing and that’s fine
in some parts of the world you may think these things don’t exist
Why feminism is a dirty word and while I will grit my teeth and try to smile at you
and girls are afraid when
they walk down the street
alone,
at night

Why male victims of rape are for they exist
not sympathized with

and Why victim shaming still happens I will understand and empathize

Why mental health is not considered a because that is what I’m good at
‘real illness” people have called me a “mother”
by so many

and a giraffe
Why my beautiful friends are getting shamed (honestly I don’t know where that comes from)
for the way they express themselves

Why people have to worry about but this giraffe
what their family will think if they bring home a will hug you
guy, when you’re feeling down
instead of a girl no matter who you are

Why we still have to talk, and talk and this giraffe
about what restrooms a person should use will ask questions
and the “possible dangers” the person could people shy away from
cause this giraffe tries to help

but what I really don't understand is Why and accept
the people in power and love
don’t stop it and thank you for reading this
sure no matter who you are
some try
and that’s good

70

Walk Home
By Anonymous
So like walking home,
Like on a saturday night, 10 pm, just had dinner with your friends
But you know, they live on the other side of town
So obviously you guys say bye, and hug each other goodnight
And you wave and sing a sweet “G’night girls!”, as you start on your six and a half minute
walk home
It's just, like, through the park, you know?
That one, you know, that all the moms bring their kid to when its warm and sunny out
And sometimes there’s a butterfly or two dancing around the rainbow flowers
And it’s really sweet, like, it’s cute, ya know?
But, like... sometimes, you know, when it’s kinda dark, maybe about 10 pm,
there aren’t really those butterflies
And those moms
And that sun
And those innocent kids there anymore
Cause they tend to leave at about 5:30 when that sun leaves too.
And, like, maybe sometimes those butterflies, and moms, and sun, and kids
Become those guys, with those hoodies
And that wind
And that chilly bite in the air that just wants to nip and poke fun at you until you get home and
shut the door fast
And sometimes if you're wearing a dress, like that one real cute one that was on sale at H&M
for 40 percent off, yea yea, you were really excited about that one!
Well, you know sometimes that chilly wind can blow the bottom of that dress right up
And it’s like just super embarrassing and you just wanted to walk home, but of course the
wind had to go and ruin everything, and you start to regret buying a dress this short,
When one of the hoodie guys shouts,
And you know they’re shouting at you, but you were taught to ignore it
Because when skirts blow up, you yank them back down and just keep on walkin’
No no, you don't turn around and yell back because no no, that’s just not okay,
That will not do.
It will only make things worse
Oh, well, good thing it’s dark outside, they can’t see my red hot embarrassment
But you know that like, this won’t happen when the suns out
Because when the suns out the hoodie guys might get caught
So they don’t risk it, you know, like calling on girls and ignoring no’s, cause like that’s not re-
ally who they really are, just like, at night they’re like that.
And at night, what can a little girl do but keep on walking, and pulling her skirt down, because
doing anything else will only make things worse
So, like, when you get home your friends text you to make sure you got home a-okay
Because it's not always expected to come home a-okay, obviously
But of course you’re okay, because like, you’re still alive, right?
“Made it home safe!”
Message sent.

71

Mind
By Sofia Westerhoff

Everyone is born with a clean mind Then at 16
Empty You’re so proud
To protest Planned Parenthood
Or as some would say Screaming about sins
Waiting to be filled And offering forgiveness

Now, some minds are filled with At 19
Love, Acceptance, Hope You vote
While others You see the power you possess
Struggle Thinking of only yourself
And others like you
With the darkness of not knowing
Not knowing But did you ever stop and wonder?
What would it have been like if
Why mommy won’t let you play with the
new girl You could have had that playdate
And met her daddies
Because she has two daddies
Why you’re dragged across the street Or if you hadn’t crossed the street
Whenever a woman with a pretty scarf If you had shared the slide with everyone

Hugging her head Hugged your brother
Is near And then educated yourself about women’s

But as you grow older rights
It fills your mind And then
How different would your mind be?
Like a glass to the brim
And by eight

On the playground
You avoid the kids with darker skin

And at ten
You tell your brother to stop acting like

such a girl
When tears fill his eyes

Overflowing
Like the hatred you possess

72

he likes you
By Olive Eng-Canty

when you were in kindergarten you ran to your mother crying,
telling her through tears how on the playground a boy called you names before pushing you

down.
you thought of all the times your mom held you when you cried, but this time she just smiled.

“he just likes you” was what she said.
and then you were wiping your own tears and saying “really?” with a small smile.

and your mom nodded with a knowing grin.
so the next day, when the boy pushed you, you smiled.

your mom’s words played in your head.
so when he rubbed your face in the dirt, you let him,

because you cracked the code, didn’t you?
and you were willing to let him hurt you because he did for his love for you.

when you were in grade nine, you held a boy’s hand for the first time.
hand holding turned to kissing and “like” turned to lust,

and you realized you didn’t like the way his hands went under your shirt like that,
or the way they unbuttoned your jeans.
but you smiled when he did it anyway,
because he liked you, didn’t he?

he liked you, so you said yes when all you thought was no no no,
and he liked you, so you didn’t care if it hurt you,
because it was all worth it if he liked you,
he’s just hurting you because he liked you.

so when you’re twenty-five, your boyfriend of two years hits you for the first time,
and you can’t dial that last 1 for help,

because he keeps saying he cares about you,
and he loves you,

and he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry.
and it sounds like what your mom told you when you cried on the playground,

he just likes you
so you tell yourself he’s doing it because he likes you,

it’s all because he likes you.
he hits you because he likes you.

a woman learning to respect herself and her body is learned at a very young age. don’t teach her the boys
are just hitting her because they “like” her. teach her how to hit back.

73

It’s Time
By Sofia Westerhoff
It’s time for America to wake up
To get its head out of the sand
And to check a calendar
Because it’s the 21st century
But for some reason the clock’s been set back
We are reliving the protests we thought our grandmothers had already won
And that is not okay
We are repealing acts and orders
Good acts and good orders
That gave minorities rights
That treated them like humans for once in their lives
And that is not okay
Representation has gone down
America is so much much more
Than just the mold of people who founded it
We are a melting pot
Of ethnicity, religion, and gender
We were built off the basis of equality
And every day that equality progressed
But now we’re flipping calendars backwards
And that is not okay
And we will keep sliding backwards
Unless we put our feet down
And stand up united
With liberty and justice for all

Strength
By Sylvie McMaken-Marsh

74

Short Stories

Deadpool Variant
By Anahad Sharma
75

Perfect
By Allison Rodger

The waves crashed on the sandy shore, perfectly deep blue waves with white foam tips. Hitting the land,
then returning to the water, leaving lines in the sand. Mara sat down by the water, letting the cold wash over her
feet. In the distance she could see the reeds swaying back and forth in the breeze. She closed her eyes and let
the sun heat her face and the wind blow her hair. Her favorite thing about the beach, she thought to herself, was
the peacefulness. In these moments, when she sat very still and closed her eyes, she could hear her own heart-
beat and a very soft whirring noise in her ears. Humming quietly to herself, Mara stood, and began to walk to the
wooden stairs. She walked slowly and rhythmically up the stairs one foot at a time, trailing her fingers along the
splintery, worn banister. The sun-warmed wooden planks felt hot against her bare feet.

When she reached the top of the stairs, there was a gravel path, which wound its way through a leafy
green forest. Mara stepped into the woods. Tall trees stretched up into the sky, making the forest cool and
shady, but the setting sun peeked through the trees, casting everything in a golden light. Dark green moss clung
to the sides of rocks, and Mara could see a few small red mushrooms growing on a fallen tree. Colorful wildflow-
ers bloomed near the edge of the path, and further away there were the needle-like leaves and blue berries of a
juniper bush. The whole forest was rich and green, and filled with all types of trees, from birch to pine. The
greenness stretched on until the ground suddenly fell away into a cliff, from which the ocean below was visible. A
small pool of clear water sat in the crater of a rock, a leaf floating on top of it. There was not a single mosquito or
bug in the air, although it was the middle of summer, and it was so quiet she could hear her own footsteps falling
on the dirt path.

In the very center of the forest, there lay a little clearing. A brown cottage with a blue door puffed small
clouds of smoke from a wooden chimney. It was getting colder as the light faded and the shadows began to
form, though it was not at all uncomfortable. Mara stopped in front of the window to look at her reflection and
smooth her frizzy hair. The girl staring back at her was short, with narrow hips and shoulders. She was pale, and
had lavender circles under her small brown eyes. Suddenly, the blue and white gingham curtains were drawn
back, and the window was flung wide open. Jay poked his head out and grinned his perfectly crooked grin which
seemed to stretch from one ear to the other, lighting up his face.

“Hey beautiful! Enjoy the beach? You know how I always know when you’ve been to the beach? Be-
cause your hair's a mess!” His laughing face disappeared from the open window, and he soon stepped out of the
door, striding quickly towards her. He pulled her into a whole-hearted hug, which she returned, a little less enthu-
siastically. “You always look perfect though,” he added, letting go of her but keeping his arm around her shoul-
ders. He was a fair amount taller than her, and she had to look up at him when she spoke.

“Can we go for a walk?” Mara asked.
“Let’s go to the town,” Jay said, beginning to walk towards the town, his steps falling into perfect unison
with Mara’s.
The moment they started walking, Mara saw the town on the horizon. It was a bit strange, she thought,
that they were already there after barely walking at all, but sometimes things were funny like that. Sometimes
hours flew by like seconds, before you could blink. And other times seconds seemed to stretch on for hours.
Sometimes places felt like they were closer or further away than they actually were. It was perfectly normal.
The town was built around a circular, grass-covered hill in the center, on top of which the stone ruins of a
castle sat. It was built this way so that the castle was visible from everywhere in the town. The houses in the
town were all small and identically built. They were each painted a different pastel color, with contrasting bright
doors and grey slate roofs. They had hanging baskets and window boxes, overflowing with pansies and other
colorful flowers. There were shops as well, including a pale yellow candy shop with an electric green door. The
sign hanging in the window read “Closed” though, and there were no lights on inside. It always seemed to be
closed. In fact, there never seemed to be anyone in this town at all. There was never anyone walking on the
streets, and there was never any noise.
“Hello? Mara!” said Jay, his voice breaking the silence.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” asked Mara. Jay grinned his lopsided grin again. Somehow, even the
things that were imperfect about Jay, like his smile, managed to be perfect. He always looked amazing, and he
always said exactly what she wanted to hear.
“You’re still not listening!” he said, laughing. “Sometimes I wonder what you’re thinking about.” He slid
his arm from around her shoulders, and reached to take her hand. “Your hand is shaking again,” he said, his
blue eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Mara assured him, sliding her hand into her pocket. “It always does that. It doesn’t mean
anything’s wrong. It’s just sort of a...nervous habit.”
“Well, you don’t need to be nervous,” he replied. The two turned left onto the road which led to the cas-
tle. The sky was that purple color that comes after it’s blue and before it’s black, and a small crescent moon had
appeared behind a few wispy clouds. The gray stone of the castle looked silvery in the dim moonlight, and the
grass cold as it tickled her toes. Standing on the top of the hill, Mara and Jay looked out at the view. They could
see the perfectly circular ring of houses, and then the grassy fields with grazing sheep which stretched on forev-
er, different shades of green separated by stone walls. It looked like a patchwork quilt, thousands of greens, all

76

















fingers shake and her lip trembles. Elle, strong and brave… is scared.
Of me.
The flames subside as the wind dies, the water slithering back to me, the darkness leaching from the

room as the stone sinks back to the earth. To have someone fear me, it kills any of my fear, replacing it with

shame, with horror. Like the kind I examine my hands with. A sob breaks through me.
The boy cocks his head to Elle. “Nothing suspicious, my butt. Her power has totally not been awak-

ened.”
Elle scowls, pressing her hands on the wall as she rights herself. Her braids are tangled in each oth-

er, her skin and clothes are soaking, she has clay and mud splattered on her, a dark shadow encircles her.
And her arms! They’re covered with blisters, burns bubbling on the surface of her epidermis. I release a sob
as she examines them, hissing as she touches them. She whips her fingers away.

“I’m so, so, so sorry! Elle? Are you okay? Can I help? I think-”
I reach toward her, but she flinches away. She looks guilty immediately. I retract my hand and look
around. The whole room. Total annihilation. I use my new favorite word: cataclysmic. It’s perfect in this scenar-
io.
Elle exhales, long and drawn out. “Sorry,” she mutters, abashed. Nikko glares at me and I feel a ten-
dril of anger flare in my chest. I take a deep breath, letting the heat of indignation subside.
“Look,” I begin, apology flooding my voice. Nikko’s hard expression seems to soften as he hears it. I
focus my attention on my injured friend. She’s cradling her arm, a blank face attempting to mask her pain. It’s
the look she gets when she gets hit with a ball in gym.
“Elle- I am so sorry, I have no idea what happened, and that’s not an excuse, but I may be able to
help you.” I approach her slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. I slide my sweater, the one I wear every-
where, off, and concentrate.
The fear that had consumed me earlier ignites. I sort through my emotions until I settle over an icy
calm. A determination to help. I drink in the emotion, until it feels as though a balloon is swelling under my rib
cage. I clench my jaw at the crushing compression. I release it with vigor. Perhaps a little too much.
A wave of water sprays from my fingers, dousing the jacket and most of the floor. I wring out my jacket
and slowly, meticulously, wrap it around Elle’s injured arm. “There. I don’t know how well it will work, but it’s
the best I can do considering I know nothing about medicine or burns.” I pause a beat. “Yeah, it probably won’t
help, but it’ll at least be a barrier between the skin and bacteria, or something.”
I duck my head, knowing my solution won’t help. This is all so new and confusing. Millions of ques-
tions pelt my brain, begging to be loosed, but I don’t have the words. One look at Elle’s wrapped arm, and I
worry I won’t like them. A new wave of guilt hits me and I begin to apologize. But Elle shushes me.
“Ember, you want answers. We get that. But you have to trust us, and come with us now.”
I take a step back. “What?” bursts from my mouth.
Elle’s shoulders droop as she takes in my appearance, probably haggard, scared, and confused. She
offers a sympathetic smile. “Ember-” she begins, but I interrupt.
“Elle, I’ve known you for a year. I know you. I trust you. But I want my answers.” I take a deep breath,
releasing the tension and emotions that build in my chest. I don’t wait for her nod, and I send a withering glare
at Nikko as he narrows his eyes, snorting. “What happened? Tell me.”
“Ember, you don’t-”
“Elle! Tell me!” Instead of shrinking at my snarling tone of impatience, she straightens her spine, be-
coming confident Elle again. Her tone holds none of the patience she has used with me for months.
“You used your magic,” she states simply.
I roll my eyes. “Right. Like magic exists. That-was- a-a hallucination. From stress.”
Elle narrows her eyes at my ignorance, though she gives me a little smile. Then she aims a full-out
smirk at Nikko, a smirk that seems to say “Told you so, you arrogant, smug...” I cut off that thought.
Elle’s tone is light, a coddling sort of voice. It’s probably meant to be soothing, but it creates a spark of
fear. I once heard this: if a doctor numbs an area, that means you’re to expect pain. If someone speaks to you
in honeyed tones, brace yourself for some bad news. “Magic is real, I can prove it.”
She holds out her hand, and I notice a chunk of stone from my little temper tantrum. She lays her fin-
ger on it and the stone wobbles, but it moves as though it has a mind of its own.
“What did you do?” My voice is an octave higher than usual and I catch Nikko smirking at me. I glare
at him, breathing deeply to calm my racing pulse.
Elle twirls her fingers, a smile flitting over her lips. “I’m an Implanter. I can, well, implant something into
another thing. That’s why I was nominated for this assignment. I can install certain feelings or actions into peo-
ple by touching them.”
I step farther back. “Whatever you do, please do not manipulate my emotions,” I say, pressing myself
to the wall, as far from the two of them as possible. I’m clearly going mental, and if these are hallucinations, I
need to get out of here.
My brain starts to analyze my situation, replacing my emotions with logic. I need to find a way out of
here. I mark the exits, noting how I would have to move to flee through them. I don’t know what Nikko’s magic
controls, but I know Elle can’t easily harm me unless she touches me or manipulates an object with violent

85

intent. And since neither of them seem willing to harm me, I have to believe she won’t. Elle knows the
layout of the school, but I’m betting Nikko doesn’t. Which means, while I’ll have to avoid both of them, I
should make Nikko follow me. He shouldn’t know the twists and turns as well as Elle and I do. I’ll race
out the door on his right. But I need a distraction and some more information.

“And what magic do you control, Nikko?” I ask, innocently enough.
He narrows his eyes and scowls, but responds grudgingly, “I’m a Distorter. I make people see
things that aren’t there.”
Okay, my internal voice says. You need to trust your instincts, not your emotions. He could cre-
ate an illusion to deceive you. Now, for the distraction.
I grab my head and moan, bending my knees enough to bow my head. Elle rushes forward, but
I send a spark of fire toward her. She lurches backwards, away from the miniature flame. I extinguish it
by clamping my hand as if I were actually snuffing out the fire. I push past her, ducking under Nikko’s
arm and racing across the gym. My soccer coach always called me a cheetah because of how fast I
can sprint, but at this moment, I feel like the gazelle, about to be preyed on.
I don’t look back, knowing if I do it will slow my progress. Any second lost is a second closer to
something messed up.
I race around the corner, but a gaping hole appears beneath my feet. I feel as though it’s suck-
ing me in, whirling, creating fear and immobilizing my movements.
Ember: instincts, not emotions. Your brain is trying to trick you. Outsmart it.
I unstick myself, running faster, shattering the illusion like a pane of glass. Nikko curses from
somewhere behind me.
I spare a glance backwards, diverting my attention for a moment. Elle pops in front of me, grab-
bing my arms and twisting them behind me. I struggle for a mere second before the fight flows out of
me.
What would it do anyway? It’s hopeless. I shouldn’t bother fighting. It feels as though every
worthless, pointless thought is bursting from my subconscious, bubbling to the surface. The whole thing
is pointless.
No, Ember. I force myself to concentrate on my pulsing heart, feeling the adrenaline coursing
through my veins, shaking me out my stupor. This is another illusion, except these aren’t your thoughts.
Break out of this.
“Let go of me, you no good liar!” I snarl, twisting my shoulders in a quick movement so her fin-
gers slip from their grasp. I stumble at the sudden release, backing into Nikko, whose hands latch onto
my elbows. I gasp at the images he displays.

To be continued...

An Excerpt From “An Unnamed Story”
By Eleanor Freed

Chapter 1
BBRRRIIIINNNNGGGG! My old alarm clock declares 6:35 with evil glee. As if it enjoys
torturing me.
I reach over and violently fling the malevolent thing at the floor as hard as I can. Just
like every morning, it shuts up but doesn’t break. And in five minutes it’ll just start clanging
again, like an old train that refuses to stop working but also refuses to do anything other than
what it’s been doing for the past hundred years.
“Sasha, it’s time to get up!” Dad’s voice floats up from downstairs. He’s always up so
early. How the heck does he do it?
“Mmmf,” I reply, burying my head in the pillow. Does he have to be so darn cheerful? I
mean, yeah, the early bird gets the worm and all that, but it’s Monday and I was up late last night
doing my stupid astrophysics homework. And I don’t want a worm for breakfast.
“C’mon, kiddo, up and at ‘em!” Dad calls again. “If you’re down here in five minutes, I’ll
put chocolate chips in the pancakes!”
He sure knows how to get me up. I spring out of bed and dash into the bathroom like
there’s a dragon at my heels. I’m in the shower in less than 30 seconds and out again in under a
minute. Back in my room, I throw on some clothes, comb my hair, and dash downstairs. I’m

86

greeted with the heavenly smell of Dad’s pancakes on the griddle. Inhaling deeply, I reach into the fridge
and pull out an apple.

“Good morning, Sasha,” Dad greets me.
“Hi, Dad,” I reply. “How’s Will?”
“He’s okay. hey called this morning and said he was getting better. hey said it was something he
picked up before he got here, but it’s just showing itself now.”
“Are they sure? That he’ll be okay, I mean? Doesn’t it, like, kill you?”
“They said he might have avoided it well enough that he could recover. They won’t let anyone visit
him, though.” Dad sounds tired and upset.
I bite my lip to stop myself from bursting out. Why can’t we at least visit Will? He’s my brother, for
goodness sake! They can’t keep me from visiting my own family!
I eat my pancakes with a lot less joy than I’d hoped. After washing them down with a glass of water,
I cram my folder, notebook, pencil case, and book messily into my backpack and head for the door.
“Isn’t it a bit early? It’s only 7:10,” Dad calls after me. I shrug, but he chases me down on my way
out. “Don’t forget this!” he exclaims as he deposits my lunch bag into my backpack. He gives me a quick
hug and then adds, “Don’t you need your clarinet?”
I sigh, drop my backpack, and charge back up the stairs to my room. I pull my clarinet case off the
shelf and dash back downstairs. Swinging my backpack up again, I call, “Bye Dad!” over my shoulder and
dash off.
It’s a bit chilly out, but not cold enough for me to go back and get my coat. I don’t think I can face
Dad without breaking.
I stride along briskly, hands buried in my sweater pockets. I’m supposed to meet Izzy by our old
elementary school and walk with her, but I really don’t feel like talking to anyone now. So I pull out my phone
and dash off a quick text so she knows I’m not coming. No matter how much I love my friends, sometimes I
just have to be alone.
Why do the doctors think they can keep me from my own brother? We may not be related by blood,
but does that mean I can’t love him like we are?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. I can’t think about that now. I have a test in German and a quiz
in Tech and some other thing I didn’t study for in algebra. And why didn’t I study? Because I was busy do-
ing my stupid astrophysics homework. Again.
Okay, I tell myself, I need to stop complaining. If I want a chance at an A on any of those, I need to
study and stop thinking about this mess. I run through the German vocab in my head, then the techy stuff,
then all the meaningless algebraic formulas I don’t know. You’d think maybe the teachers would coordinate
so that we didn’t have three tests in one day, but no, they have to throw it all at us at once. I really hate high
school sometimes.

✩✩✩
As soon as the last bell clangs, I dash out of Creative Writing and fly to my locker, almost breaking
the lock as I try to open it. Leaving my locker messy and disorganized, I swing my backpack onto one shoul-
der and hurry to the music room to retrieve my clarinet. I successfully sprint past Izzy and Caroline, calling,
“Gottagobye!” over my shoulder at them.
Once I’m about four blocks away from school, I slow down. The hospital is only ten minutes away at
a normal pace, which could work for or against me. On the one hand, I can get there pretty quickly. But on
the other hand, plenty of people walk by there on their way home. And no one, not even Izzy and Caroline,
know about what happened to Will. Even I don’t really understand what’s wrong with him. Even the doctors
don’t really know. They still can’t decide if it’s picked up by exposure or if it’s genetic.
I take the short route, deciding that my need to see Will is more important than my desire to keep
his illness secret. I fight this battle with myself every day, and every time I reach the same conclusion. I
don’t even know why I bother to think about it anymore. I’m clearly not going to change my mind.
I try not to look like I’m hurrying, but fail miserably. I make it to the hospital in just under seven
minutes, nearly smash an old woman with the door, and run right into Norton’s two uncles. Hoping they did-
n’t recognize me, I dash up to the desk and declare, “Aidliktaseewillinderpleez.”
“Whoa there, kiddo, calm down and say that at half speed,” the man behind the shiny, almost reflec-
tive desk replies. He looks tired and drawn, and not at all happy to see me for the nineteenth time in a
month.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I’d like to see Wilson Linder, please.”
“Ah, Wilson. I don’t know if we’re letting in visitors for him at this time. Let me check.” The man
takes the phone from its receiver and dials, then says into it, “Hello, there’s a girl here to see Wilson
Linder. Can I send her up?” He’s quiet for a moment as the person on the other end speaks, then turns to
me and asks, “What is your relationship to Wilson?”
“He’s my brother,” I inform the man, resisting the urge to shove open the doors, run outside, and
scream until the man’s eardrums broke.

87























cream, pistachio for Mumma, double chocolate for Daddy, cookie dough for me. No more eating plates
and plates of bacon and eggs at the diner. No more sharing secret smiles as Alex asked us why we had
ice cream all over our faces.

Divorce. Divorce. Divorce.
I lie back down and roll over, covering my face with my pillow. When my grandmother calls I ig-
nore her.
Divorce. Divorce. Divorce.
I feel a hand on my back. I’m surprised at how gentle my grandmother’s usually strong touch is.
“Idaho, hon,” my grandmother says, her voice kind. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve gotta get up and
do something. Don’t you want to see your grandfather?”
“No,” I say, my words muffled by the pillow.
After a long moment my grandmother leaves. I just lie there inside my black hole, my face buried
in my pillow.
Divorce. Divorce. Divorce.

Chapter Two
~

I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes again the tick-tocking old clock says 2:36.
Noon sun filters through the open windows, along with the fresh smell of wet grass. I’m starving, so I
throw back my blankets and slip out of bed. Someone must have taken off my shoes in the night, proba-
bly the same person who covered me with the blanket and, as I now realize, unpacked and put away all
my clothes neatly in the dresser. They didn’t bother taking off my clothes, though, and I don’t bother
changing into clean ones. I step quietly out the door and through the hall. It’s filled with fishing memora-
bilia. I have never quite understood the point of fishing – waiting for hours to get something that you
could get at the store in five minutes – but my grandfather loves it. I guess it reminds him of his child-
hood or something.

I stare at all the fishing-themed items hanging on the walls. Fishing rods. Fishing trophies from
various contests. Fish posters. Fish photos.

A framed photo of a particularly spooky trout stares back down at me. I shiver and hurry down the
hall towards an open door with low voices coming from it. I step through the door into the kitchen. It’s
small, but bright, painted a sunny yellow. Potted plants sit on the windowsills and tabletop. The whole
kitchen smells faintly of lemons.

The minute I step into the kitchen, my grandparents’ conversation stops abruptly.
“I’m hungry,” I say flatly.
My grandmother pulls out the peanut butter and her homemade jam and starts fixing me a pea-
nut butter and jelly sandwich. My mouth starts watering. I love my grandmother’s homemade jam.
As she makes it she chats to me. I notice she’s careful to avoid talking about the divorce.
My grandfather sits in his chair, sipping coffee. He looks about the same as I remember. He’s
tan and weather-beaten from his fishing trips, his hands calloused and brown, the color and texture of
beef jerky. The only visible difference is his scraggly beard, which is a bit grayer than before. But there’s
something else, too; the twinkle is gone from his eyes, the warmth absent from his smile. In fact, his
smile is nonexistent.
“No good divorce,” my grandfather mumbles to himself, taking a swig of coffee and leaving the
room.
My eyes fill with tears that I try to blink away, but can’t. I shove my chair back and stand up, deter-
mined to leave. My vision is blurry with tears. I can hear my grandmother say, “Don’t you want this pea-
nut butter and jelly? It’s your favorite!”
But I’m not hungry anymore. I run down the hall and out into the front yard, letting the screen door
bang shut behind me. The wet grass from last night’s rainfall soaks my shoes as I run across the broad
lawn of the farm and towards the barn. Fuzzy memories fill my head. Memories of my last visit to the
farm.
I slide open the heavy oak door, the curling paint peeling off in my hand. I sink into the hay and
cry. I used to think that a twelve-year-old like me shouldn’t cry, but after Mumma and Daddy got di-
vorced I cry so much that I’ve given up that theory.
Divorce. Divorce. Divorce.
The barn is a good place to cry. It used to be home to Dot, my grandfather’s horse, back when I
was a baby. But Dot died years ago, and now the barn is empty. It’s quiet, and the comforting smell of
hay floats in the air.
I cry and cry. Finally, the tears stop pouring down my face and slow to a trickle.
When the tears stop altogether I look up, and my eyes meet the eyes of a chocolate-brown puppy
with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a tail wagging for all it’s worth. My heart melts.
“Hello,” I murmur, stroking the puppy’s soft fur. He nuzzles my hand. I laugh, and before I know it
we’re both laughing and rolling around on the ground. It feels like a barbell has been lifted off me. The
black hole of misery has loosened its grip.

99

At least until a voice speaks from behind me. “I see you’ve met Sam.”
Startled, I whirl around to see a tall, freckled girl standing a foot away. Her hot pink high-tops are
smudged, her shoelaces untied. She’s wearing a faded Red Sox hoodie. She looks around the same
age as me. Her mass of curly red hair is scraped back into a ponytail.
“Yeah,” I murmur, absentmindedly petting the dog. “Is he yours?”
“Nope. He’s your grandpa’s dog, I believe. But Sam’s pretty popular around here.”

The girl jumps up to a low-hanging rafter and grabs hold. She twists her body in a way I wouldn’t
think possible and somehow ends up in a sitting position on the rafter. I stare, but she just keeps talking.

“I live across the lake,” the girl continues.
“With your parents?” I ask, feeling a twinge of jealousy. Probably everyone in the world lives with
both their parents. Not me.
"Nah. I live with my aunt and uncle. My parents died when I was two. Car crash.”
The girl swings down and starts doing jumping jacks. Honestly, does this girl ever stop moving?
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. What do you say when someone tells you her parents died? And
doesn’t even seem bothered about it?
“I’m, um, I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“Ah – it’s okay. I don’t really remember them. My aunt and uncle are pretty nice, anyway.” The girl
smiles brightly. Suddenly her eyes light up and she whips a small blue notebook out of the pocket of her
hoodie. She jots something down, then stuffs the notebook back in. I give a small smile, but inside I’m
curious, and a bit disturbed. How could you just forget your parents? Could I ever forget the time my par-
ents were together? Could I ever adjust, like this girl obviously has?
And what is the blue notebook? I’m about to ask when I hear someone calling.
“Oh! That’ll be my dear old auntie.” The girl winks at me and holds out her hand.
“I’m Sarah, by the way. Sarah Thatcher.”
“I’m –“
“Idaho Lash, right?”
My mouth falls open. “How did you know?”
The girl winks again. “I have my ways. Word gets around.”
The calling gets louder.
“Well, see ya!” The girl slips out the door before I have a chance to further question her.
I make my way out of the barn, picking hay out of my hair. Sam frisks along behind me. A possible
new friend and a puppy? For the first time in weeks I feel a glimmer of hope.

To be continued…

100