The ELM #02 : Something New

EVERGREEN LITERARY MAGAZINE

ELM #02 Definition of Love • Ode to the East Wind • Vast
May 2021 Knowledge (or lack thereof) • Bop-it! • In Time,
Bugbear

…And More!

“The Evergreen Literary Magazine Society is a student-run
extracurricular club that seeks to foster a strong creative community

at Evergreen through the regular publication of a magazine that
showcases the school's literary and artistic talent.”

[i]

Something New

The Evergreen Literary Magazine, Issue #02

The ELM Society

Rudy Buckley
Ella Collura
Abigail Cortez
Kiley Flynn
Renee Haas
Sarah Henry

Sam Krol
Liv Tomasello

Editor in Chief: Buckley Editing: Buckley, Flynn, Illustration: Collura, Design: Buckley, Collura,
Henry, Krol, Tomasello Cortez, Haas, Henry Cortez, Flynn, Haas,

Henry

This is where we would have put a group photo if we had the
opportunity to take one . . .

[ii]

A Letter from the
Editor-in-Chief

New is old. Did you know? Kane Tanaka is the world's oldest living
human being. He is 118 years old. When he was born on January 2,
1903, he was, for a brief moment, the world's newest human. "New" is
nothing new. There have been "new" things every hour of every day
for the last 13.77 billion years, ever since our universe became the
newest universe in the universe.

Old, by comparison, is a more recent invention.
One of the only consistent themes throughout history is that of the
new. Everything that has ever existed was at some point new.
So, when you think about it, "Something New" is one of the
broadest themes you could possibly come up with. But even with such
a lame prompt, the creative talents of the Evergreen community shone
through in such a fantastic way. I'm really happy with how this issue
turned out, and I have to direct a big thank-you to everyone who
contributed, from authors to poets to artists to illustrators, and every
member of the ELM Society who put work toward making this issue a
reality.
Now, let's engage in that old human tradition of the New. Gathering
around the fire, carefully we reach into the void, and with the hands of
creation, extract Something New. Whatever that means.

- Rudy Buckley

[iii]

[iv]

Table of Contents

Antzoulis--------Puzzle Piece ................................................................................. 1
McRae-----------My Home, My Heart.................................................................... 3
Henry ------------Universe....................................................................................... 5
McRae-----------Definition of Love ....................................................................... 7
Flynn ------------2.3 x 10^4 Minutes Remaining .................................................... 8
feature -----------But Before We Go ..................................................................... 10
Buckley ---------In Time, Bugbear ....................................................................... 11
Krol --------------A Letter to Dave ........................................................................ 12
Flynn ------------Vast Knowledge (or lack thereof).............................................. 14
Wilkes -----------All Good Things Seem to End ................................................... 16
feature -----------Art of Evergreen ...................................................................... 17
Krol --------------Well, Well, Well ........................................................................ 23
Henry ------------Ode to the East Wind (the Thing in our Lungs)......................... 25
McRae-----------A National Song......................................................................... 27
Krol --------------Bop-it!........................................................................................ 29
Flynn ------------Reaper: Chapter Two ................................................................. 31
feature -----------To the Teachers.......................................................................... 34
Antzoulis--------I’m Me ....................................................................................... 35

Contributors

Emilia Aksamit, Anastasia Antzoulis,
Rudy Buckley, Kiley Flynn, Renee Haas,

Sarah Henry, Jacob Kresge, Sam Krol,
Amani McRae, Levi Milenkowic, Hanna

Umstead, Brenna Wilkes

[v]

Join the ELM Society!

[vi]

ELM #02
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Puzzle Piece

By Anastasia Antzoulis, 11th g.

I have searched for you Anastasia Antzoulis
For all my life.

Under the dining room chairs
Of my childhood
Where you would so often
Get lost in the vast sea
Of brown and tan carpet.

In my bedroom,
As I note that a tornado
Must have hit recently;
Items thrown to and fro,
But through it all,
I fail to find you.

Around my curious dog,
Who would eat anything-
From fallen crumbs
To discarded scraps
And maybe even you.

In my blue CRV
That’s not really mine
But holds precious memories
Of wind-blown hair
And upbeat tunes
As we drove to the most
Mundane of places.

In the drawers that hold
The clothes I wear-
Black turtlenecks and graphic tees-
And the clothes I don’t-
Strapless dresses and velvet skirts-
The only thing missing is you.

Up and down my craft bins
Filled with colorful yarn
Eager to be made into sweaters,
A rainbow of acrylics and watercolor
Wishing to dance across a blank canvas,
And everything needed
To create something beautiful.

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But not you;
You cannot be created,
Or worn,
Or driven,
Or pet,
Or lived in,
Or sat on,
Or found, but...

I will search for you
For all my life,
My missing puzzle piece.

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My Home, My Heart

By Amani McRae, 11th g.

If I had the chance to travel the world
Explore the land
And fly through the skies
I would choose to stay home because—

If home is where the heart is,
Then my home is on wheels,
Up my sleeve, but most of all
It’s wherever you are.

If home is where the heart is,
Then I ought to be a nomadic being.
One day I’ll be making snow angels, the next I'll have my toes submerged in the burning sand.
None of it will matter if it means you’ll be there.

If home is where the heart is,
Then I hope I never lose sight of you.
Because what is home
If I have no heart to hold it together?

If home is where the heart is,
Then home loves to tell me stories
While running its hands through my curls
Reminding me what it feels like to love without sight.

If home is where the heart is,
Then home is holding me in its arms tonight,
And home is singing me a lullaby
And my eyes are drifting closed.

If home is where the heart is,
Then for the early years of my life
I have been a homeless girl,
Searching for a place where I belong.

If home really is where the heart is,
Then I’ll be in Antarctica, Switzerland, and then Bolivia within a week
Because if home wanted to be in three places at one time
Then I’d follow home anywhere to have my heart.

I call my heart a home.
I call it home.
I call it home.
I call you home.

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Universe

By Sarah Henry, 12th g.

Tucked into a corner of our little town, right in the heart of rural suburbia,
is a lake. It exists in a place away from the slow nods of ‘everyday’, that which

slowly drains the life from hearts and lungs alike as a straw in error would.
It’s normal as any other lake, its water low and blue in the morning, high

and green in the afternoon. But just as the summer’s sun sets, as the clock’s

shorthand winds down to 7:00, as mothers call us inside for supper, and dads Sarah Henry
come in with their socks dark from grass stains, the lake turns purple. A brilliant,

shimmering purple, velvet in shadows, glossy and translucent in Sarah is an author who works heavily in
sunlight. The townspeople click and tsk their tongues at the lake’s poetry and fiction writing. She favors
peculiar color. They say it’s unsafe, unwashed, unalive. And they stories based in reality with an unreal
twist.
pull on the collars of the kids who dare to stay out any longer than

clear lakes and skies, shaking their heads at the outside.

But one evening, as I sat in the comfort, the snugness, of my

windowsill, my love, my best friend, called my name from below. She shimmied her strawberry legs up

the vine and coaxed me from my den of books and drying bathing suits covered in tired chlorine. In all of

our sneaking silliness, the unburied laughs of a badly kept secret, we journeyed to the lake with only a

picnic blanket, a pen, and a napkin.
Hand in hand, we ran across cookie cutter chartreuse lawns, the kind that were flat—our feet

demanded more. So we trekked through the forest, up rolling, tumbling hills and over logs of trees past

their wisdom. After that, only after that, we came upon the lake.

It shone in its iridescent film, filled to the brim with poison-berry-colored water, turned crimson at the

ends by the blazing orange above. Scared, convinced it was all a dream, we only dipped our toes in. The

water was cool, then warm, then cool again. So we jumped.

We swam, splashed, kissed, and danced as untouched beings in a place only God could dare to reach.

Then, we just floated, gazing up at the celestial body taking its final dip in the sky. And while the lake

dyed our bodies purple, we talked until we had solved every problem in the world.

Every answer was inside of us.

My love and I fixed the scared and shaky voices, unheard by the great giants above. We slayed the

dragons that hid behind desks and taxes, conquered the concrete corners, and cushioned those who had

only had hard surfaces and sorry excuses to fall on. Our lake took us to the very edge of the Earth where

we only knew the happiness of a place unphased by greed, and sorrow, and prejudice.

We only came to the shore to share what we had found, what we could save. But as our last fingers,

our last legs, left the water, so did the ideas, the solutions too. The great things we imagined were just

that; imagined. It slipped away from us, back into the water, and we had no way of receiving it again. Us

infinitely, insignificant things, specks, eraser shavings in all of the universe, could only stand there. We

were girls, stuck in rural suburbia, staring across a purple lake.

My love begged for the napkin and pen that sat perched on our picnic blanket. Quickly, she scribbled

something down and tucked it into her shirt. Then, we forgot just why we were there. We walked home.

I woke up this morning to find a crumpled napkin under my pillow. The periwinkle sheen of early

morning peaked through curtains, the East wind combed through my hair and I noticed the smeared ink
and the scrawled words; my love’s handwriting to be sure.

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It simply read:
“Purple lakes were supposed to be impossible.”

And yet, there it is. And yet, here I am.

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Definition of Love

By Amani McRae

We had fallen in love
With the late nights, warm hugs, and slow kisses. We had fallen in love with the idea of having our twin
flame, But it is not to be mistaken with falling in love with each other.

We were teenagers
Intoxicated with the idea of belonging
To another person we only read in the books
And seen in the movies.
Hoping to fill the void we are left in
As we feel our hearts shattering by
The thing we called love.

So, we sit here in each other’s arms
While our minds are somewhere else
But too scared to enter the world
Of an unknown love
Where we’d never want to know
What it was like to fall in love with someone new.

We weren’t ready for such a thing.
We’ve all heard the saying
“The right person, but the wrong time.”
But how long will we have to wait
Until it is the right time?
Are we even the right people?

Are we just actors in a play
Made by someone with a sinister definition
Of love?
We aren’t good for each other.
We never have been. We are stuck in
A constant cycle of what could’ve been—
What should’ve been.

We weren't ready for such a thing,
But we didn’t care about the facts
So we stayed, breaking each other’s bleeding hearts, Mending them with our own needle and thread.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t go back
Because the twisted road we called love
Wasn’t a path I would ever want to take again
We weren’t ready for such a thing
But sometimes I wish we were.

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2.3 x 10^4 Minutes Remaining

By Kiley Flynn, 11th g.

When they first broke the news, the storm of grief sending waves of blood Kiley Flynn

washing through my heart was strangely silent. It was like hypothermia had met

emotional shock in a neverending whirlpool of ups and downs as the denial

counted up and the days counted down.

I can remember clearly the day I sat on my bed. Day 16. I counted backwards,

with day 1 being my last. I had spent all of day 16 staring at the definition of the
disease like I’d lost mobility in my arms and legs. And in a way, I did. I possessed
enough strength to go to the toilet and come back to sitting on my bed. And then I’d

stare at the screen some more, reading and rereading as if the definition made of tiny pixels would change
to words of comfort to warm the grief in my soul if I just read it one… more… time.

I sat on my bed at 8:47 AM. I used to be picky about the times I would do something; it always had to

be divisible by five, but I had too little energy and motivation to bring myself to accept that part of me.
Divisible by five was no longer a criteria for my timing, and I’d never realized how important the little

things could be until I felt them drifting away. Two minutes after sitting on my bed at 8:47 AM, I looked
over at the clock which now said it was 11:11 AM. There was a time I’d say that meant something, but it
just meant I’d killed two and a half hours without realizing it.

I kept staring. I could’ve memorized seventy digits of pi by now if I had put so much focus into it like
I did with my staring. I could’ve cured my disease by now. Part of me cursed myself for not doing so,
even though I didn’t know the first thing about curing diseases. I let out a sad laugh at such a thought. My

brain was foggy. Foggy yet empty, like the open sea with no lighthouse to expand the borders of sight.

Alas, I continued to sit and stare like a helpless dog awaiting an owner to return home from the grand

adventure of a 9-5 shift at work. In a cubicle. Everything was interesting to a dog. Like staring at this

definition was to me.
I’d read it over and over again, knowing I’d burned it so deep into my retinas that I’d be seeing the

afterimage tonight while laying in bed. Twenty minutes after 11:11, it was 4:16. My stomach let out a

groan of hunger at the sound of a knock on the door.
“Please come eat something.”
I can’t remember if I told him no or if I told him that I wasn’t hungry or if I told him off. Perhaps all

three. He persisted. A few minutes later, he came in with a warm bowl of soup. I could tell he reheated it
by the way the bowl was warm and the soup was cold. Still, he’d tried his best to make it presentable.

And I’d tried my best to keep track of the time by watching the clock while he was gone. The minutes
moved so quickly; it made my head spin. The earth didn’t seem to spin as fast as it did until you learned
about it in science class, just as my head didn’t seem to spin so fast until I started watching the time more

often. He fed me using the spoon. Small mouthfuls, a waste of food for somebody who was just living on

a limited schedule with less than three weeks to go.
I told him I wasn’t hungry again.
“You need to eat something.”
I told him I wasn’t hungry again. I told him and told him after every mouthful of soup he spooned

into my mouth like a persistent toddler begging for an ice cream cone rather than broccoli with dinner. He
simply shook his head with a sad look in his eyes every time and told me to eat another spoonful. And I

did. Not for my own good. It just seemed to give him a bit of hope with each drop of cold soup that made
it from bowl to spoon to mouth. I liked giving people hope, it was the one thing I was good at; he

deserved hope.
I was stuck at a crossroads, I suppose. I never liked the idea of life in the first place, I hadn’t for years

even before my diagnosis. It was just a matter of birth, diminishment of resources, and, finally, death.

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Instead, humans could just agree to stop breeding, stop destroying the world, and leave the dormant
consciousness drifting in space to rest, eternally awaiting a body that will never come. He just nodded and
spooned more soup into my mouth when I told him that.

“We can have a philosophical conversation about the existential crisis of life when you’ve found
more energy.”

How, I asked, was I supposed to find more energy when I was so obviously on the decline towards
the land of the non-energy corpses left behind by the tragedy known as death?

He considered me for a second when I asked this, as if this had deeply offended him but he was not
trying to show it. It made me regret my words, forever stuck at the crossroads of delaying the inevitable
for his own sake or speeding up natural selection. At that moment, I delayed. I added onto my question
with a statement, an observation, if you will.

I said I guessed facing Death but having to wait for him to come to you made you a bit of an atheist.
He just nodded again, lost for words for a moment before a soft response escaped his lips.

“It’s made me one too.”
I nodded back, and suddenly I felt embarrassed by the amount of nodding that was replacing what had
once been engaging conversation. We were just making up for lost time, and we knew it. I asked what he
thought was after death. At first, he objected to telling me, but after bearing with some of my insisting and
realizing I would not take another spoonful until he answered, he enlightened me.
“I don’t think anything is out there.” Content with this answer, I took another spoonful of gross, cold
soup. He added, “But even if we are alone, we can be alone together.”
I told him that he’d better not be joining me anytime soon, and I called him a doofus. He just smiled–
at me, at the empty bowl of soup I’d somehow finished, at me again– and it reminded me why I decided
to eat in the first place. I wasn’t up to smiling, but the storm of agony raging away in my heart had been
soothed for a moment. I’d made someone smile on day 16. Whether day 15 was really day 1 which was
really my last day or whether I’d by some miracle survive these horrors, all that mattered was that on day
16– whatever that meant to the world anymore– I made somebody smile. And I ate a bowl of cold soup.
And I talked about the world beyond this one.
The clock said it was 6:30. It could’ve been my last hour for all I cared. When asked by my friends
what kind of bang I had wanted to go out with, I told them I didn’t want to go out with a bang. I had said
in a drunken slur, and I quote in the most modest way possible, “Dunno.” Truth is, I did know, I just
didn’t know how to say it. They were all gone now, and I was as good as dead to them, just as dead as my
dedication to doing things at times that were divisible by five. But I made him smile. Make-A-Wish can’t
make him smile, but I? I did.

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In Time, Bugbear

By Rudy Buckley, 12th g.

I look at you and feel unstuck in time. Rudy Buckley
I feel the softness of your paws,
And I feel the callouses Rudy is an aspiring fantasy writer who
You'll come to bear. dabbles in poetry. He is best described as
“aloof”.
I pick you up, and you’re like a baby,
And I hear myself sighing,
"You're too heavy for this now!"

You look at a world you've never known,
And I see the years of wisdom reflecting
In your eyes.

And when you take a nap,
I see every nap I'll ever see you take-
Curled up on the couch
As we watch TV shows you don't understand,
In the car,
By a fireplace,
On the porch at four in August
With a grey muzzle and a lifetime of love,
And in every time I feel, every place I feel
It's exactly how I feel right now
The same love
The same now
The same then
Not forever
But for all the time that matters.

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A Letter to Dave

By Sam Krol, 11th g.

Dear Dave,

You were level 29 when I saved last. It feels so long ago, but it was

literally just over the weekend, because when else do I have the time to play Sam Krol

this 14-year-old Pokémon game? ELM said she couldn’t be Kermit the Frog
It’s impressive, I suppose. That you’ve made it this far, I mean.

You were never really meant to. I don’t think the developers planned

for me to fish you up there, at level 6, and decide to keep you with me. again.

They (the developers) have tried to convince me several times to
just evolve you, turn you into something useful. But that’s not something I set out to do, you see.

I gave myself this challenge. I told myself that I would keep you with me until the Elite Four, and we
would win together. But this kind of relationship is unrealistic. You can’t expect these things from me.
The Elite Four will be hard to beat. They’re hard enough to beat when I’ve got 6 good, strong Pokémon in

my party. But now I have you as well, and I need to provide for the other 5. So that they can succeed for

the both of us.
I don’t have any skills to battle other than to train my Pokémon, and to spend all this time training

you when I could be training the others? The others with more useful moves? It’s a bit of a given who I
would choose in the end. You understand, don’t you?

I won the award with you, that’s true. You were just barely good enough to win after I fed you so
many poffins. Even poffins you didn’t like because you are literally a Magikarp. You liked the spicy ones
the best though. I’ll be sure to remember that.

I’m grateful for your company on these long roads. Battle after battle, catching new Pokémon,
making new friends. But I’m also grateful to Martha, who has been there since the beginning. And
Jonathan, who I’m pretty sure is a drag queen. There’s Peter, who evolved recently; he’s doing well.
Rocksanne is doing alright, she hasn’t leveled up yet but she’s working towards it. I’m proud of her. I’m
proud of everyone in my party. They’ve fought long and hard to be here, in Hearthome city. You’ve been

pulled along for the entire ride, dragged up by their strength and strong wills.
You can’t evolve. I can’t let you evolve like them. After we beat the Elite Four, maybe then I could,

but I can’t make any promises to you. Not until then. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.
You have a lonely nature, I get that. And I know that since I caught you on Valentine’s Day, you

might’ve read the situation wrong. But I don’t want the same thing you want.
I just can’t find it in me to love and devote myself to someone so entirely useless. All you can do is

splash and tackle. You don’t even know any water type moves or how to treat a girl right.
You’re literally a fish. You can’t come to dinner or have a movie night inside. You can’t go for a

drive…
You can’t drive at all really.
Our worlds are just… so separate. You have to understand that. I literally fished you up out of a pond,

and I can’t commit myself to a relationship of dragging you through life and pulling you in and out of my

party so that you can gain enough exp to be at least somewhat useful.

You did defeat the last Pokémon from that Gym Leader once. I remember that. But the Pokémon was
on 2-health points and I had just pulled you out of my party. You can’t really… it’s kind of a given that
you would win, right? You were three levels above the Pokémon, and it used a weak move on you. Don’t

blow these things out of proportion.
The first time I tried to use you in battle, you decided that you weren’t going to tackle the other

Pokémon. And I get that, really, I do. But did you have to miss twice and injure yourself? I had to pull

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Martha in to defeat the Pokémon and waste several potions on you. That isn’t okay. You realized after
what the cost of missing was.

Martha tells me I shouldn’t be so attached to you. And I get that. You’re just a Magikarp, she’s my
starter Pokémon.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to get attached. I’m proud to be your trainer, but I’m afraid that’s all
I can be. I don’t want anything else from you. And you shouldn’t be asking for anything from me.

I’m sorry it had to come to this.
It’s not me, it’s you, I pinky promise.
Your trainer and… friend? I guess?
Pippa

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Vast Knowledge (or lack thereof)

By Kiley Flynn

“Have you ever thought about what it’s like to have been up there?”
She tried to avoid looking over at him, but it was hard to do when they were laying in the dewy grass
and staring up at the stars above. His eyes, unlike the gentle twinkling of the stars, practically bore into
her soul after absorbing the light of the unknown universe that drifted through the cosmos with the planet
she currently resided on. He looked curious, too curious for her not to answer. It wasn’t that he wanted to
actually know what it was like up there, why would he ask her? He just wanted her thoughts. Her
speculations. So she gave him some.
“In space?”
“Yeah.”

“I think it’s an isolation like you could never imagine.” Short, sweet, and to the point. “Like, even
when you’re up there with other people, it’s a loneliness you can never comprehend until you’re already
facing it.”

“I always thought it would be a little more wondrous, more freeing,” he replied. He put one arm
behind his head. “Imagine being free of this tiny world and being able to look out at it and realize how
microscopic life really is.”

“Humans are social animals,” she argued. “Imagine doing that alone, knowing 7.5 billion people had
no clue you were up there, looking down on you? Nobody’s gonna wave. Nobody’s gonna drop in to say
hi. It’s, like, the worst form of isolation you could possibly face.”

When he shifted a little closer to her, she shifted a little further away. This was a touchy subject, and
being comforted would only let the emotions– the fear– flow more freely. Space was, of course, as safe as
they all said it could be. Not that safe, but possible. Colonizing was possible, once they found the right
place. People always came back from their missions when the news said they did. As for those the news
stayed oddly silent about… It was certainly a touchy subject. It was a vast, unexplored empire of stars.
She shifted a bit further away from him again in the moonlight.

“You really think it’s that bad?” The enchanted, wondrous lightness of his voice had dropped to a
concerned whisper, and she began to question if she’d been a little too honest with him. “I mean, you get
to go where nobody’s gone before. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

“But what if something goes wrong?”
He paused, perhaps searching for an answer among a clump of thoughts shaped like a cluster of stars.
When she looked over at him, she found a pair of shining black orbs in the form of irises staring back at
her, a black hole sucking her into the depths of his curiosity. The silence of Earth wasn’t all that silent
anymore once one considered the silence above.
“Things are bound to go wrong. And sure, you can’t really get help out there, but isn’t that part of the
fun, part of the adventure?” He turned onto his side to see her better. “Are you okay?”
Of course, she was okay. The sky was lit up with endless opportunities and dangers and threats, and
the absolute silence was quite possibly the worst for a being that had never known true silence just once
before escaping to the never ending abyss of the darkness around them.
“But what if something did go wrong? Technology might get more advanced, but that doesn’t mean-”
“What is wrong with you?”
“What?”
He had begun prying her hands away from the lumps of grass she’d been tearing up from the ground.
The soft surface of the planet, drifting in solitude among the stars, alone as she tore it to pieces among her
own self sustained mourning. Isolated. Suffering without even knowing it yet. Opportunities beyond
belief were out there, where there was bound to be some other race on some other populated planet, and

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they weren’t the only ones in this desolate world of darkness, fire, atoms, and pulsing electric charges. If
only that was true.

“Nothing’s wrong!” she objected with a gentle shove to get him away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it’s
amazing up there. Just like it’s amazing down here. But out there, you get nothing. At least that’s what we
think. Here, you get wild animals and plants when you die in the middle of the woods. Out there, you get
nothing but the bacteria living on your skin and the blood cells in your body. And empty radio calls. And-
And broken tethers as you watch a ship of frozen corpses float away, just more debris littering the
expanse of worthless dark matter we like to call space. What if it isn’t that great up there? What if true
isolation can never be found here on Earth, and the only true isolation you can find is floating a million
miles away as you look out into the nothingness surrounding you and find that nobody can hear your
voice anymore?”

She stammered to a stop with wide eyes up at the beautiful, welcoming stars and constellations,
inviting the human race to explore the furthest corners of their universe.

“What are you talking about?”
She took her time. “What if… we really are alone in this dimension?”

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All Good Things Seem to End

By Brenna Wilkes, 8th g.

Two sisters sit on a swing set, one in a pink dress and the other in dark blue overalls. They talk and
laugh, faces flushed red. They look like they’re having a good time. But all good things seem to end.

More kids come to the playground, beckoning the pink one to come play. She runs to the others, but
the girl in overalls stays behind on the swings. Matching sunflower charms swing from the bracelets on
their wrists.

That girl in pink with her blonde curls never looks back at her sister sitting alone on the swings. In
fact she never looks back again. All through elementary, middle, and high school, she never looks back.
She never even wants to look back. She gets too caught up in her popularity to even care.

And everytime that little girl in her overalls needs her sister, she remembers that day in the park, and
she doesn’t try to follow. She sits on her swing and keeps her feelings inside. She doesn't want her sister
to come back to the swingset anyways.

That girl in the pink dress changed that day. The only thing that makes her even recognizable
anymore is that sunflower charm, still hanging from her wrist.

Sometimes she thinks she can still reach her, but it's just wishful thinking really. She knows that girl
will never come back to the swingset.

She also knows she can never leave, purely because she is too scared. She is too conscious about
everything she does wrong, too nervous she is going to make a mistake, too
anxious that everyone will hate her when she lowers her walls.

Her sister is always too outgoing, too confident, too excited
to stay silent.

That girl in overalls wishes she could jump off that
swingset and run over to those other kids and say hi,
but she can't. She is tethered to that swingset, never to
leave or meet anyone new.

That little girl in overalls just sits there,
internally willing herself to move but always
stuck to her spot.

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SOMETHING NEW
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Sir Reginald Elm
Official Mascot of the ELM Society

IN MEMORIAM

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ELM #02
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Well, Well, Well

By Sam Krol

“I swear if you toss another penny down here I’m going to crawl out of this well and throw it back at
you.”

The traveler paused. I could hear his coin purse jingling with very little pieces of change as he

contemplated what to say in response to me.
“If you don’t want a penny,” he started. “What would you like?”
“What do you mean ‘what would I like?’ I just don’t want pennies. I’ve given wishes for pennies for

over a hundred years and I have too many pennies and too little to do with them,” I ranted to the

silhouette in the sky.
“But… I would like a wish. What am I to give you if you don’t want pennies?” he asked, and I

realized that this was the perfect opportunity to gather resources.
“Could I, perhaps, get some large stones and firewood?” I asked, and the man was silent again. His

silence was followed by the sound of hoofbeats galloping away, and I figured he was leaving, deciding
not to ask for a wish if he couldn’t do something that easy.

“It was worth a shot,” I said to myself, plopping down on my pile of coins like a weary dragon. Soon

enough, another horse came by, clomping around the well.
“Are you still down there?” called a voice.
“Traveler! Have you brought me what I desired?” I called up. Four large stones came crashing down

around me, stirring up the coins. Once the rocks settled, an armload of wood was sent down, raining

splinters.
“Can I ask my wish now?” I was struck dumb for a moment, my eyes on the supplies I now had.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“I would like to ask for riches. My family isn’t doing very well right now, and… this was my last

chance.”
“You were willing to waste money on a wishing well?” I called up, and the man sighed.
“Silly, I suppose. Although you are the only wishing well I know of that talks back,” he said and my

eyes widened.
“Well yeah,” I covered quickly. “Wishing wells are like reverse dragons.”
“What is a reverse dragon?” he asked quickly, and I panicked even more.
“Uh… a… a worm,” I said quickly, and then winced.
“So, are you a worm?” he asked.
“What are you, a scholar? You asked for your wish, it should come soon enough. Try planting corn

instead of wheat for a change,” I called up, trying to dismiss the man.
“Okay… should I tell others that you no longer want pennies?” he asked. I sighed.
“I suppose if you think of it, that might be something useful,” I said, and he left, leaving me with my

new rocks and sticks.

News travels surprisingly quick when the magical well speaks up asking for something, apparently.

Either that, or the man just knew a lot of people, but soon enough, I had another visitor.
“Oh magic well, may I ask for a wish?” he called, and I rolled my eyes.
“Oh traveler, what is your profession?” I called back, and he stumbled away from the well. I laughed

a little at that, maybe a bit too hard. “Yes, I speak, surprised traveler?” I asked.
“I heard rumors, but I didn’t think it could be true…” he trailed off then. I shook my head.
“I’m a wishing well. A magic well. Whatever you want to call it. I’ll ask again. What is your

profession?”
“I’m a fisherman,” he said, and I nodded to myself.
“I’ll take a bucket of fish and a bundle of wood,” I called up.

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“I- what?”
“A bucket of fish. And a bundle of wood,” I said again.
“I heard you, but… okay…” he said, running off. Part of me didn’t think he was going to return, but

he came back the very next day, lowering the bucket into the well and tossing the wood down to me.
“May I ask for my wish now?” he asked.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I wish for a girl-” he started, and I pretty much tuned out the rest of it. It was the usual spiel- a girl

whose skin was fair as whatever and voice soft as something and hair as pale as so-and-so. When he

finally finished up, he paused for another moment.
“Oh, wishing well? May I ask a question of you?”
“Go ahead, ask,” I said, trying to organize my things in the confined space.
“Why? Why does a well need fish and wood?”
“Look, do I ask you why you’re wishing for a girlfriend? Do I ask if you have

enough game to get a girl? Exactly,” I called back up, and it was silent for a

while.
“Okay.”

And he was gone.

With that, I became the wishing well with unusual requests. Most wishing wells

you come across ask for a penny, or something of value, a service, loyalty, friendship,

your soul, a ring, something along those lines, and many travelers would come

around still expecting something brutal, expecting unusual to mean cruel.
“Y’know, I could really use a spoon or two,” I called

up to one such traveler.
“Uh… are you sure? Like… I came here willing to

offer my left arm and you want a spoon?”
“A good spoon, though. A mixing spoon and maybe a few eating spoons.”
“Okay. I guess,” the traveler said, and soon enough I had a few spoons to

accompany me in the darkness. And the darkness wasn’t even that bad. The well was

dried up after years of drought. I had some space for the things I asked for, and for the
first time that year, I thought that getting pushed into a well isn’t as bad as it seems.
Arguably it wasn’t the best time it could possibly be. Especially since my friend was

the one that pushed me in, but I had supplies and the travelers who passed by to keep

me company.
It wasn’t the worst way I spent a year of my life.
“Are you ready to behave?” came a familiar voice, and I smiled.
“I can’t believe you threw me down a well just to sit in time out,” I called up.
“It was the only way I could make sure you stayed in one place. Just about

everyone on this side of the world knows you can’t sit still,” she said. I just shrugged.
“Good point, good point. I’d like to come out though, if you’re offering?” I said

hopefully, and a rope spun down. “On another point, before I come back up, do you
need any spare change?”

“Spare change? Why...? Wait, are you the wishing well I’ve been hearing about?”

she asked, and I laughed.
“Maybe...”
“I can’t believe you!” There was a smile in her voice. I stood on the rope, and was

quickly pulled up and out, our horses attached to the rope a ways away.
“Yay! I lived!”
“Of course you lived, how could we not?” she asked.

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Ode to the East Wind (the Thing in our
Lungs)

By Sarah Henry

The East wind awakens slowly as winter nods off,
And while flowers bloom from beneath powdered hills,
It floats up from the ocean.
The breeze is only supposed to smell of the fresh sea and its salt,
But as it makes its way through farms, and towns, and cities,
Its odor is only made vastly more complex and distinct.

The East wind smells of sweetness, the kind that’s sticky with the promise of summer and dripping
honey.
It carries the wisps of grass clippings, freshly cut at 8:00 in the morning,
The sighs and yawns of the kids who had to put up with it,
And fragrant laundry on lines in the backyard, bellowing freely in the peach sun.

Our East’s gales sing for us too.
It sounds like the faint whistling tune of birds,
Those that wake us from dreams in the morning,
And whir of boys’ and girls’ bikes skating over long twisting roads,
Their arms out, their t-shirts of obscure bands whipping around their chests.
Ringing away from the wind is the soft whispers in between drive-in movies,
And the whoops of excitement that splash in the stream and slide in playgrounds.
By the time it reaches the city,
That ever-extending and overcrowded place,
It reverberates into an orchestra of a mother’s soft hushes good night,
The crickets that play a peaceful farewell
And the loud, encompassing music of the gargantuan traffic in cars churning to work,
Or the little scooters curving against brightly lit sidewalks.

East winds pass you by warm, like the hot window in the corner of a cafe,
Steady brushes of people’s shoulders, walking down streets.
It’s sudden, surprising even, but a comfort in a lonely world,
And then it leaves you cold and calm.
The chill is reminiscent of last strums of a guitar bouncing about in your head,
One last shiver up your spine as you sink into bed to sleep.

Guiding East Winds is the world’s breath.
Whether you find yourself in the depths of the woods,
The blinding white of uniform houses plotted in front of paved concrete and flat chartreuse,
Or in the heart of interconnecting skyscrapers, rising above as if you’re a mere ant,
It catches you.
For one rare moment, everything stops;
Flying fingers over blue phones, the pedestrians rushing to the edge of a destination,

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Braiders and salonists of thick black hair, the business man stumbling down the stairs to the subway, the
kids bent over bleeding chalk in front of apartment buildings, the old couple bickering back and forth, the
young couple making amends, the busker playing a tune to save their life, and the one kind soul who
gives them a dollar,
Pauses.
And in that pocket of peaceful nothing and everything,
Mixed with the East wind in all of it’s warmth and sweetness--
We take a breath,

So life can go on.

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ELM #02
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A National Song

By Amani McRae

An echo reigns through the country today,
Shaking the walls
Pushing the winds
And taking the whispered prayer with it.
Stirring the asleep, the dead, the hungry.
Awaking everyone from their everlasting nightmare
That left one cold and scared of no change, no justice, and no peace.
But the sun shone a little brighter today.
Infiltrating through windows of our bedrooms,
Warming the backs of everyone
Regardless of where they stood or kneeled.
All included in this euphoric feeling
That pushed the stagnant stream from young bronze girls’ eyes, finally letting go of what was holding us
hostage,
Eyes glued to the screens of our televisions,
Seeing a representation of us in congress,
Inspiring us to achieve our dreams without fear.

Let none of us ever take no as the final answer
As we allow our tears to fall because this is history,
Yet it is only the beginning!
Young sun kissed men believing there will be change
Where they don’t have to kiss their wives goodbye
For the last time without their knowing.
Immigrants’ dreams of their path to citizenship finally exit the mystical fog as they imagine being
reunited with their children once more.
They too entered the procession as we all shouted the same rejoice of thanks!
The one word that we have been yearning for
At the tips of our tongue but caged and packed away
Scared of speaking too soon or being unheard,
But now We can understand why the caged bird does sing.
The compressed sobs once choking mothers and fathers, All simultaneously praying to their god that there
will be change
If not for them, their children,
Have all been released, letting them up for air.
Not enough tears will reduce the fire and has never solved our problems
Yet the burn marks on our soul from the scolding iron brands of the past
Still ache when we turn to look away from what hurt our souls. Hurt all of us together.
All different stories, all different scars, yet
All writhing in pain so often it has become normal...

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Today we start mending those wounds
Each person learns to bandage the backs of their neighbors and speak with the kindness and the
understanding and the love we had lost within all these years.
But that loss ends tonight as we are ready!
Waiting with open arms, taking in what we deserve
As we are all awake and satiated with fierce determination and all will be silent and alone no more….
The quiet isn’t enough, it never was.
The quiet is a louder answer than the riots.
As though you were comfortable in the skin you were born with but not comfortable enough to speak
against the issues as to why your African American, Latino, or Asian classmate wasn’t?
Not comfortable enough to see this has gone too far?
Not comfortable enough to say we need change and we need it now? We will not push away what we
don’t understand.
What was
Is not what is.
And what is
Will not be what will—
Please let us place our hopeful gazes and hearts back onto our nation… For without hope and faith, we
have nothing…
Nothing at all.
We are called here today to participate in a nationwide movement. All the Liberals and Conservatives,
All the Democrats and Republicans,
All the she, he, theys and thems,
Let us work together and sing the song of our country.
Let us move forward, together,
Echoing the melody of We the People of the United States
Striving to create a more perfect Union
A safer home, a happier life
An equal life, for all.
Let us yell and rejoice at the words echoing through this country. Let us raise our glass to freedom.
Let us raise our voices and echo with the wind this word together, today and for the next centuries of our
country:

Unity!
One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty
and justice for all.

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Bop-it!

By Sam Krol

She had heard tales of the game far and wide, heard of people trying and failing at it. Heard that it got

faster and faster as the game went on. Heard of the simple commands.
“Bop-it!” the game yelled, and she smacked it. She didn’t think it would be this easy.
“Twist-it!” She turned the knob.
“Pull-it!” she pulled the knob, listening to the sweet sound.
The game itself wasn’t that difficult, the few simple commands, the shape of the game, the different

modes it had. It was easy.
“Bop-it!” it yelled again, and she smacked the game.
“Twist-it!” again.
“Twist-it!” again?
“Twist-it!” It’s gotta stop soon. She was on the edge of her seat now.
“Bop-it!” Okay, the curse was broken.

But the game would also throw curveballs at you unexpectedly, as though the game were alive and

trying to trip you up purposefully.
“Twist-it!” not again.
“Pull-it!”
“Bop-it!” she stood up, her focus zeroing in on the game.
“Bop-it!” she bopped it.

Still, the game was easy.
“Sing-it!”
“Ahhhhhh!” she sang.
“Twist-it!” she twisted.
“Bop-it!”
She was falling into a hypnotic state, she couldn’t see anything other than the game in her hands as

she fiddled with it to get the correct sequence.
“Bop-it!”
She couldn’t move other than to hit the game.
“Speak-it!” silence reigned, even the music stopped.
“What?” she said.
“Bop-it!” apparently she got that one.
“Twist-it!”

When had she approached her door?
“Bop-it!” the door opened on its own.
“Walk-it!” The game moved her, her steps shaking as she was led away from her house, the music

speeding up incrementally.
“Bop-it!”
“Twist-it!”
“Pull-it!”

The commands were matching up with her steps.
“Stop!” the game yelled, and she realized that the game had led her to a cliff.

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“Jump-it!” and she was gone.
As she fell, the commands stopped.
“Awwwwww… better luck next time! High-score-”
She hit the ground.

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Reaper: Chapter Two

By Kiley Flynn

[An excerpt from Reaper]

The Croppers always came at seven. Everyone who had ever had a relative harvested had told him
that. 7:00 PM. He was sure his harvested relatives would’ve let him know as well, but they were already
being used for everything from fertilizer to organ donors. Even the news notified everyone watching to be
ready for the police to come for the Controlled Euthanasies between seven and eight. Technically, the
reporter had said this before she announced Zayn’s harvesting, so he could’ve played a loophole, but he
didn’t. Nevertheless, he still ran into problems.

His mother had immediately broken down in tears, which didn’t say much. She cried at everything
from sad scenes in a movie to dead worms on the sidewalk. His father just seemed numb. He probably
had expected it. After all, Zayn had made it a point over the weekend to bring up the news article Winnie
had shown him. His father was pretty quiet after hearing the announcement. And Milo was still mostly
indifferent, too young to understand.

When 3:00 rolled around, his family set out for a final early dinner with their son before he was taken
away for harvesting. It was bittersweet, driving the hour to the restaurant they’d always visit and ordering
their regular orders. They were all trying to act like Zayn wasn’t due to get shoved into a police car and
driven away to his demise in order to control the ever-growing population of Benton County. Nobody
seemed willing to process the news, even as they sat together in silence in the restaurant.

His family hadn’t even gotten their food yet when the restaurant door was thrown open and a pair of
armed and armored Croppers barged in, looking like a pair of trigger-happy angry teenage boys at a
shooting range. Their guns swung around targeting just about everyone at one point or another. The blood
left Zayn’s face.

It was 4:36 when he read the time in a frantic reach across Milo to grab it. Just a few minutes ago, he
didn’t want to look at the thing out of the worry he’d throw up on it, so he was fine with Milo playing
games. Now it was a different story. He had screenshotted the info sent to him involving his harvesting. It
had just been a gut feeling, but now it could buy him two and a half hours of his life.

Zayn met the gaze of a familiar face sitting alone in a booth nearby. She had a hoodie on, pulled far
over her face, and she looked like she was trying to shrink herself away in her seat. It was hard to pinpoint
where he’d seen her with the shadow of her hood hiding her face, but he saw enough to know he’d seen
her at one point or another. Mystery Girl pulled her glass of a yellow colored drink closer– probably some
type of lemonade; she definitely wasn’t of legal drinking age. Maybe the Croppers weren’t looking for
him, and the panic she betrayed in her eyes confirmed it.

Zayn was an idiot, as far as he was concerned. He’d done some dumb things to get his friends out of
trouble, and he was going to do it for this girl too. So next thing he knew, he was scooting his chair back
with a screech and standing up as obnoxiously as he could. It was enough to draw the Cropper’s attention
away from Mystery Girl and land on him with a hungry glint for a prospective bonus pay in their eyes.
They diverted their path to him.

“I see we have a runaway Reaper on our hands,” the one Cropper growled, a predator singling out his
prey.

“Actually,” said Zayn loudly, “I’m not scheduled to be harvested until seven. I’m just a Crop. A
Reaper is someone who tries to flee the police. Technically, I’m fine as long as I’m waiting for you in my
house tonight.”

“I know what a Reaper is, you little brat,” Cropper Number One retaliated. “But someone should give
you a dictionary, boy, because Reapers can be runaways before runaways really runaway.”

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Cropper Number Two finally spoke up. “You read the rules? Crops gotta stay in their counties once
they’re gonna be harvested. And you’re just about twenty minutes outside the Benton County line, Mr.
Robinson. That’s you, ain’t it? The last-minute Crop everyone was talkin’ about.”

“The proper term is a Controlled Euthanasie.”
“Talk back again and see where it gets you.”
Zayn’s parents were trying to get him to sit back down. Milo was watching the police’s guns in
horror. Zayn didn’t dare look at Mystery Girl. Instead, he shrugged. Shrugging always put everyone off,
mostly because he’d shrug when shrugging wasn’t needed. Such as now. It was the best thing he could do

to use to his advantage what everyone saw him to be: a rebellious teenager. So he shrugged this Cropper
off like he was a math teacher asking why you couldn’t distribute the exponent.

“Who reads the rules nowadays?” Dad tried to get Zayn out of it. This was his fault, after all. He was
the one who wanted to go to the restaurant. “And last I checked, there wasn’t even a rule about that.”

“There is now,” Cropper Number One said. It was unclear whether that suggested that this was an
actual rule, or this was him being a jerk who felt the need to come up with his own rules to ruin people’s

lives. What was clear was that Zayn was going to be dead by tomorrow anyways. Why not go out with a

bang?
He pulled the second card he’d learned to use in his

years of trouble. “Do you have kids? Anyone my age you
care about?”

Both stayed silent.
“Okay, I guess you’re both heartless.” At this point,

Zayn decided to just sputter nonsense to rile them up, buy

him time, and buy Mystery Girl time. Card number three.
If the others didn’t work, acting ignorant always did,

because adults always seemed to think teenagers were
more ignorant than they were. At least, with Zayn’s

experience they did.

A series of mild slip-ups paved the way for disaster.

First, he looked at his mom, who looked terribly ashamed.

Her eyes pleaded with him to stop digging a deeper grave

for himself. It was too late now. Zayn looked to his dad,
who didn’t look surprised. In fact, he seemed to have

expected a letdown. And those two reactions were enough
to make Zayn’s heart drop. He wasn’t just making matters

worse for him. He looked to Milo, now trembling in fear

at seeing him standing up to policemen and doing
everything that annoyed Zayn’s parents and teachers.

He was digging a deeper grave for all of them. Mom

would be remembered as the woman who raised the kid who caused a riot in a restaurant. Dad would

receive dirty looks at work after bragging about his son all these years. Milo would be known as the
troublemaker’s little brother. Everyone would expect him to turn out the same, and those expectations

could easily be enough to make him eligible for harvesting. And all for some girl who looked like she was

about to spontaneously combust of fear.

The final error took place after realizing this in the form of a subconscious glance in the direction of a
sudden movement as Mystery Girl stepped out of her booth, trying to blend in with the chaos. It didn’t

work. Cropper Number Two followed his gaze, swung his weapon towards her, and both were trapped.

She crossed her arms defiantly.
“Do it,” she commanded. “Shoot me.”
“Hood off.”
“Or what? It’s not like you can do much to me. They need me for supplies, don’t they?”

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Mystery Girl took her hood off anyways. She looked familiar, but she also looked like the average
looking person his age. She could blend in with the crowd while still wearing a clown suit. She looked so
average, all he could remember was that she went to his school. Maybe she had been in Zayn’s history
class. Nevertheless, he doubted they’d ever spoken. If Zayn could see her, then the cops could too, and
they seemed to register who she was right away.

“Cecilia Timberland. You’ve been a Reaper for quite the while,” Cropper Number One said. He took
a menacing step forward. Mystery Girl, rather, Cecilia, stood her ground.

“Only a month, Eddie.” By the look of shock the cop betrayed, Eddie wasn’t just on a nametag
clipped to his jacket, and Zayn could only wonder how she managed to find out his name. “Don’t look so
shocked. I have friends who have friends who have friends who can easily join your wimpy little radio
signal.”

“Miss your brother?” Unnamed Cropper Number Two snarled. This entire conversation was starting
to sound more like a high school debate prior to the call for a fight behind the dumpster rather than a teen
girl standing up to two policemen who wanted her dead.

“Absolutely. Might as well take me away to see him again.” Cecilia’s outstretched arms met the sight
of the two Croppers. “But I won’t put up a fight if you let the other guy spend the last few hours he has
left with his family.”

Eddie and Unnamed Cropper Number Two exchanged a skeptical glance, gave each other a shrug not
unlike the shrug Zayn had given them a few minutes prior, and shared a nod.

“Fine,” Eddie said. “He’ll be ours anyways.”
“And how can I trust you?” Cecilia asked, as if she knew the answer and the others didn’t.
“You can’t.” Eddie snapped the handcuffs on her wrists. “But it’s worth a shot.”
“Indeed.” Cecilia spared a sly grin over her shoulder at Zayn that everyone seemed to miss but him.
Perhaps they’d both be dead by tomorrow, but she seemed to have a plan to make it the worst final hours
of her life for the Croppers. And he was down for chaos on a Sunday afternoon.
As Cecilia was dragged out, Zayn realized something. He could very well be facing Death, but why
dread it when he could go down saying he looked Death in the eyes and told him off? He knew what was
coming. Cecilia seemed to know what was coming and what would come after that. It was either waiting
for your fate or doing something about it. And he was gonna do something about it or die trying.
Eddie and Unnamed Cropper Number Two sauntered back in to break their promise to Cecilia. Zayn
could’ve fought. He could’ve kept digging a grave to the very core of Earth itself. He could’ve given the
Croppers exactly what they wanted. Or he could’ve given them disobedience in the form of obedience.
Because nothing was worse than making a big deal out of nothing, than overreacting over no one. Instead
of putting up a fight, proving himself to be who everyone thought he was, Zayn gave Milo a brief hug
goodbye, gave a respectful nod to his shocked parents, and followed Cecilia’s lead of holding his wrists
out for the Croppers to cuff. They did it with dissatisfied grimaces and walked him out of the restaurant.
This was a rebellion he could get behind. Careful, calculated, and more destructive than a bomb.
Zayn had tried doing just about everything to be anyone but a no-one. Now he understood why he out
of all his friends was chosen to be harvested. Being a no-one was the best because you would blend in,
something his friends never understood, and that made him more dangerous than his friends could ever
dream to be.

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34

ELM #02
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I’m Me

By Anastasia Antzoulis

I’m not pathetic.
No matter how many times
The devil in my head
Has whispered it in my ear.

I’m not a doormat.
No matter how often
People walk all over me,
As if “Welcome!”
Is written on my chest.

I’m not ugly.
No matter how big and bold
The letters swirl around me
When I look at my reflection
In the foggy mirror.

I’m not fat.
No matter how undefined
My stomach may be,
Or how many stretch marks
Are scattered across
My un-gapped thighs.

I’m not stupid.
No matter how loud
The perfectionist part of my mind
Is screaming at me
For getting an 83 on a quiz.

I’m not lazy.
No matter how nagging
My brain is
When I take a short break
From working.

I’m not weak.
No matter how many tears
Escape my eyes,
Or how many labored breaths
Flee my lungs
When things start to get too much.

Despite the devil's ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Menacing whispers,

35

SOMETHING NEW
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

I puff up my chest,
Cup my hands around my mouth,
And yell back,
"I'm admirable!"

Despite the years of caked up dirt

Littered across my chest

From years of letting people

Walk all over me,

I stand up tall,

Dust off my shirt,
And say, “No,
I’m assertive.”
Because I’ve finally learned
That I’m allowed to

And will say no

To people who ask

Something of me.

Despite the harsh words
Floating in and out of my sight
Attempting to hurt me,
I swat them away,
Wipe the mirror,
And write in big, bold letters,
“I’m beautiful!”

Despite the B
Mocking me from my computer screen
Where we meet face to face
Just begging to make its way
Under my fragile skin,
I take a deep breath,
Close my laptop,
And get to remediating
Making sure to remember
“I’m intelligent.”

Despite the crowd of neurons
Chanting in my brain
Urging me to get up and work,
I remember all the stress aches
And the headaches,
Recline further in my seat,
Kick up my feet,
And announce to the invisible crowd
“I’m hardworking.”

Despite how hard
It gets sometimes

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

36

ELM #02
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

To see the bright light
At the end of a dark tunnel,
I push on,
Walking, then running,
Watching the light get closer,
Throwing my arms in the air,
And yelling to the universe,
“I’m strong!”
I’m one of seven and a half billion.
I walk
And talk
And look
And act.
I’m admirable
I’m assertive
I’m beautiful
I’m intelligent
I’m hardworking
I’m strong
I Am Me.
Just as
You Are You.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

37

SOMETHING NEW
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

38

[vii]

See you next year!
[viii]

Made with Love at Evergreen

Community Charter School

[ix]

2021