2017 2018 complete

Write Eye: art and literary magazine 2017-2018

“When you look at the world, the world isn't just one palette. It's a beautiful rainbow, and why not have someone to represent that rainbow?” –Joan Smalls

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Write Eye: art and literary magazine 2017-2018

Robert R. Lazar Middle School 123 Changebridge Road Montville, NJ 07045

“When you look at the world, the world isn't just one palette. It's a beautiful rainbow, and why not have someone to represent that rainbow?” –Joan Smalls

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Table of Contents

[Art]

Noelle Howar

Front Cover

[Art]

Arya Yarlagadda

1

Are we okay with this?

Sarah Tubbs

1-2

Why Me? [Excerpt]

Isabella Gillioz

2-6

[Art]

Isabella Gillioz

4

[Art]

Anahatt Virk

7

[Untitled]

Courtney Pizza

7

Keep Going

Elizabeth Bazhenov

8

[Art]

Halima Niazi

8

Kenya’s Elephant

Yasmeen Sharipova

9-11

Sahana Vaidya

[Art]

Yasmen Sharipova

10

Sahana Vaidya

[Art]

Katy Gao

12

[Art]

Katy Gao

12

Nameless Souls:A night at a Bar

Isabella Gillioz

13-15

[Art]

Katy Gao

14

Beautifully Eerie

Isabella Gillioz

16

[Art]

Eman Albukhari

17

Fear.

Mihika Anjoo

17

The Cage

Annahatt Virk

18

[Art]

Elizabeth Bazhenov

18

Dreams Really Do Come True

Sarah Tubbs

19-21

[Art]

Khushi Mehra

20

[Art]

Isabella Gillioz

21

She Noticed

Brooke Haltmeier

22

[Art]

Sarah Tubbs

22

[Untitled Art]

Elizabeth Bazhenov

23

Not a House, But a Home

Annahatt Virk

24

Safe & Sound

Isabella Gillioz

25-32

[Art]

Megha Rameshkumar

26

[Art]

Megha Rameshkumar

27

[Art]

Megha Rameshkumar

30

[Art]

Nicole Eisenhauer

33

[Art]

Julia Montano

Back Cover

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4

scratch board Arya Yarlagadda

say how sad, shocked and appalled we are, and then we’re going to move on without having done anything. Then when it happens again, we’ll express how sad, shocked, and appalled we are when it happens the next time, and the time after that, and so on. It doesn't matter to me what action is taken, I just know that something needs to happen, and soon, so no more tragedies occur before our government realizes that something should have been done. In our government, some politicians and the NRA debate that guns are a right that

Are we okay with this?

Sarah Tubbs

Today is March 14th, 2018. A month after shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. There are seventeen, dead and many more injured. How are we doing America? Is everyone ok with that? Apparently, the answer is, in fact, yes because we have done practically nothing to stop it. We all know what is going to happen now, don't we? We’re going to

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cannot be taken away, but isn’t life a more important than a right? Don’t we have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Democrats and Republicans both have children, they both have to send those children to school every day wondering if possibly they won’t come back home. They need to put aside their differences and do something, do

anything. Anything that will make progress. Donald Trump tweeted “...No child, teacher or anyone else should ever feel unsafe in an American school.” I agree with him, but everyone needs to turn that statement into a reality because how can I feel safe in my school when our President says that no child “should” ever feel unsafe. I should feel safe, but how can I be. So are we ok with this America, or not?

Why Me? [Excerpt]

Isabella Gillioz

change my mood so quickly. I shook my head at the thought. Would I see him after this? I wondered at that moment. It would truly be a devastating loss if I didn't. I looked back at him, half expecting him to just disappear, leaving me with yet another pain in my chest. My breath stumbled as I thought of how it would feel to lose this beautiful miracle that was brought into my life once again only a few short hours ago. His eyebrows pulled together, confusion spreading across his face. How was it that he noticed every small thing off about me? I asked myself. “Sorry just a… just a thought,” I muttered. His eyebrows loosened a bit, but did not return to their normal state. “Okay…” he replied. “You know, everything’s alright,” he added hastily. I nodded my head, still not completely convinced. Just then, there was a noise from behind a house. The soldier who silenced both Roy and I peered behind a building to check what the source of the sound was. I looked over at Roy.

When the troop received the order to get our weapons ready and walk around the perimeter, I slung the M16 over to my front. I kept the nozzle low, so if it was to malfunction and a few rounds shot out, it wouldn't be lethal to anyone. I risked a glance at Roy, who already had his weapon fixed in his hands. I felt the distress on my face, and tried my best to hide it. His expression was calm and serene, almost… bored. His dark brown eyes suddenly turned to mine, and I quickly looked away, fearing that my mask hiding the distress was on the brink of destruction. I noticed from the corner of my eye that his eyes were rooted to my face. I felt my cheeks grow hot, not because of the burning sun. My knuckles turned white because of my grip on the M16. I heard him laugh under his breath, and I couldn't help but smile. My grip on the weapon loosened, and I attempted to cover up the smile, but couldn't. I fell to the urge to look over at him, and found that a wide grin was stretched across his face. I rolled my eyes at him, and turned back to facing forward. It was fascinating how he could

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He inched over to me behind the woman soldier’s back, and said softly, and close to my ear, “It’s probably just noth-” but was cut off by the blood curdling sound of a gun being fired. Behind Roy, I saw the woman fall flat on her back, a bullet hole between her two dagger eyes. My heart dropped, my jaw flew open, and I suddenly felt sick. A pool of red blood began to surround her head. The sunlight danced and shimmered on the liquid surface. Roy turned his head away from me, and gaped at the body. A soldier to the left of the lifeless woman gagged, and vomited onto the ground. One hand was grabbing his abdomen, and the other supporting him up so he wouldn't fall in his own puke. Just a few seconds later, I was encompassed by the horrible sound of gunshots. I blinked to get my head straight, and tightened my grip on the M16 in my hands. I pressed the stock to my front shoulder, and leaned my cheek on the surface. I knelt down on one knee and saw that others were already doing the same. I glimpsed to my left at Roy, who had his weapon in place. We were then hurriedly given the order to fire at any person that we knew for sure was an ISIS member, armed with a weapon or suicide belt. My breaths came in short, shaky bursts, with fear coursing through my veins. All of a sudden, from behind homes and other buildings, men emerged with black balaclavas, and large jackets, probably stuffed with a bullet proof vest and ammunition, maybe even a few grenades. Shots were fired from both sides. I was about to shoot some rounds from my own M16, but somehow, Roy was in front of me. “Roy! Get out of my way!” I shouted at him. “No,” he said shortly over the shots. A low growl-like sound escaped my lips. I wouldn't let him do this- not for me. I wasn't worth it.

“Move!” I yelled as harshly as I

could manage.

He turned his head slightly around to see me, both surprise and determination etched on his face. I took my chance, and ran straight toward him. I rammed my shoulder into his with

My breaths came in short, shaky bursts, with fear coursing through my veins.

all the force that I could muster. He stumbled from his half crouching, half standing position. I was now in front of him, and I began firing at the black-clothed

ISIS members. I felt the steady pop pop of the M16 against me. A rush of eagerness to protect Roy overtook my senses, although my fears of losing both him and Claire were not diminished. From the corner of my eye, I saw a man in black take out a grenade. He pulled out the pin, and threw the thing toward our soldiers. However, it hit a house. before it exploded, that hitting the house was exactly his intention. The explosion sent me barreling into Roy, who was behind me. My helmet flew off and my mouse brown hair was undone from its low bun, causing a chaotic mess. Shrapnel slashed into my bare arms, easily ripping through the skin in a jagged way. A burning sensation filled me as the pain raced through me. Roy hit the ground hard, and I did too, falling on top of him. He let out a cry of pure agony. The wind was knocked out of me and dust was a caught in my throat, but I quickly rolled over to see what had happened. I hastily tucked my loose hair behind my ears. I scanned his face and arms. He had a couple gashes, but nothing serious. I looked over at his legs, and my breath stopped in my dust coated throat. Poor aiming. I thought to myself. But then, I realized, the moment

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Blood in the Rain pencil and crayon Isabella Gillioz

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Okay, I told myself. One...Two...Three:

It looked like one of those movie special effects. He had landed on a rebar, and it had impaled his leg. Blood began blooming from the rusty bar in his thigh. It stained his camouflage uniform pant leg. I looked around me for something to compress the wound. I looked down, and quickly removed the brown polyester belt from around my waist. I fastened it a few inches above the wound to stop the circulation. Roy stirred from his shocked state, and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked from the rebar in his leg to me, with a crazed glint in his eyes. “What, what hap-” he began, stuttering. I interrupted him, saying as soothingly a possible, “Nothing, you're fine. Everything's alright.” I wasn't completely positive that I convinced him. “Now..uh.. listen, I've got to get this piece of metal out of you so please… please sit as still as possible.” I said, trying out the extent of my control. I saw his eyes widen. I noticed that in his dark brown irises there were flecks of green and gold. I was so transfixed in those hypnotizing eyes that I forgot the sound and problem that I was faced with. Once again, I had to blink to get my head on right. I looked back at the rebar. I really wasn't ready to take the bar out from his leg. I actually felt like vomiting, just thinking about it. I cleared my throat, and told him, with my suddenly hoarse voice, “Um… you should probably look away.” I surveyed the piece of metal, and swallowed hard. The stain on his pant leg and the rocky ground’s surface was spreading gradually. I wrapped my fingers around the slippery bar, wet and warm with blood. I took a deep breath. I glanced at Roy’s face once more, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut, with his eyes fixed on me.

Burning [Epilogue]

And that's when I broke, when I burned; when I saw her fall. Fall in slow motion; two bullet holes piercing her perfect self. She was already on her knees. Already surrendered. But no, that wasn't enough. Nothing was. The first bullet passed through her chest, causing her back to lunge forward in an abnormal

way. I did nothing. I stayed in my sitting position. I didn't

And that's when I broke, when I burned; when I saw her fall.

believe what I was seeing. I refused to. She still held the limp girl’s body in the safe enclosure of her arms. Blood began staining her uniform, and she neither yelled, nor cried out. When I saw the distress, the pain, the confusion, the sadness, the anger, and the determination in her face, I knew it was real, for only she, herself, could have that largely spanned variety of different emotions in one expression. I yelled, I called out. She didn't hear. Instead, she placed a hand on the wound, and took it off to inspect it, probably. It was shining with deep red blood. Then, she looked up to the Heavens, and shouted something. No, she screamed something. I tried to get up, but my body refused to. A pain shot through me when I moved my leg, but I didn't care. Lily was worth the pain. Still, I could not get up. I tried shouting her name, but she did nothing to show me that she heard me. Then, the second bullet struck her, and I burst into flames. The bullet hit her square in the head. She collapsed limply, slowly, to her left side. The body of the burned girl fell from her arms onto the rough surface. At that moment, I paid no attention

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wide smile on her face. Her face with only a few scratches and no bullet holes. “Good mor-” she started but stopped, and checked her watch. “Good afternoon, sorry,” She corrected herself, still smiling. I looked down at myself, and my pant leg was rolled up. There were bandages wrapped around my thigh where the rebar had been. I blinked, and I was suddenly in another scene where we were both standing. She was in faded blue ripped jeans and a light gray cotton shirt. I looked down at my own self, and found that I was wearing jeans and a plain shirt as well. We were walking through a flower filled meadow, with long stalks of grass that tickled you every time you brushed against them. In one hand, she was holding a few different colored flowers. She was humming a small tune, and holding my hand with her free one. One more scene flashed across my closed eyes, and Lily was laughing, and her warm chocolate brown eyes were crinkled at the edges from the laugh. I studied her face, with no scratches or bullet holes in it. The tiny freckles on her nose were more recognizable in the lighting. She was wearing an indigo dress that brightened her stunning eyes. Her long bangs were pinned back with a simple silver pin. She was beautiful. That's all I thought. She suddenly snorted from laughing, and tried to cover up her smile. She shook her head, and tried to fight the hiccups that were now coming. I found myself laughing with her. And then, the scenes were gone. I smiled slightly at what could’ve been, and whispered, “I'll see you on the other side.”

to that girl- my eyes were focused only on Lily. A pool of blood began spreading out from her head, and a choked sound emerged from the pit of my heart as I ogled at her limp body. The blood surrounded her like one of those old halos surrounding a saint. I knew she was gone. Taken from this world. Taken from me . My breaths came in angry and lost wails. What was I to do? How would I live? I thought through sobs. It almost felt like someone had torn something out of me. That something was missing. That something was gone. That's what a lost love does to you- what Lily did to me. She had changed me, had woken me up from some forever sleep eight years ago. And now...now she was gone. I was nothing without her. Nothing. I looked once more at her lifeless body, and snapped. It was hard being burned alive. It hurt too much. I had to stop the burning. I searched around me, and something shiny caught my mad eyes; a pistol. I began to drag myself to the weapon with only my hands and arms. My legs once again refused to move. I desperately moved to the gun, afraid it would disappear. The fire licked frantically around me, and I gravely needed to put it out. When I finally reached the gun, I took it into my hands. I heard the click as I loaded it, and put the cold thing against my temple. I wrapped a finger around the trigger, and looked back over at Lily. No miracle occurred. She did not rise. She lay still as a stone. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I saw her face then. I was looking up at her. She was in her uniform, and had a

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scratch board Anahatt Virk

just Some guy

Courtney Pizza

When I walked inside, our eyes immediately locked. I stared deep into his crystal blue, ocean eyes. I eventually snapped out of what seemed like a trance. The feeling I felt towards him was indescribable. The love was electric. My cheeks became rosy and red every time I looked at him, and I smiled without realizing I was. My heart yearned for him, to grab him in a heartfelt embrace and never let go. He made me nervous, but he also made me feel a way I have never felt before. I loved everything about him, his hair, his eyes, his personality, and even the tiny scar on his arm he got from when he was little. My brain was scrambled, and my mouth was unable to form the right words to say. I wondered if he felt a love as passionate as I do. Did he feel the same way? My heart needed to know, and I encouraged myself to find out. But I will never know because I walked past him as if he was just some guy, yet he was not some guy to me. He was my world, but I couldn’t tell him. My heart wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection if he didn’t feel the same way, so I went on my way and walked past him. I will never know how he feels for real, but I’m content with knowing that in my mind, he shares that same feeling of electric love as I do.

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Keep Going

Elizabeth Bazhenov

Where does everyone go in this world? A question that always remains, Through peacetime or constraints. In the cities and countries, On mountains, in deserts, in plains. The people, the creatures, The clouds, and the roadway, Asking, day after day: Where does everyone go in this world? And why can nothing stay?

No matter what each day brings, The rivers keep flowing, And people keep going. Moving quickly or slowly, Life is just something ongoing.

chalk pastels Halima Niazi

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Kenya’s Elephant

Yasmeen Sharipova and Sahana Vaidya [story and illustration]

Johari sat criss cross on her mat beside her father and was about to begin praying. “ Baba, who is this woman?” she asked as she pointed to the small statue in front of them. “This woman’s name is Kenya. Although wood is the most common medium used for sculptures, other mediums include copper alloys, ivory, pottery, clay and rarely stone. Did you know that small figurines of clay were excavated in a mound at Daima near Lake Chad in levels that date from the 5th century BCE and earlier! This shows that African sculptures and art were important even long ago.” “Wow, Baba! How old is this statue?” “Well, it has been passed down from my great grandmother’s grandmother. So it must be very old.” “It sure is. How did this girl become a goddess?” “Let me tell you a story, my binti . “It was a very hot day in Mali and the scorching sun was hitting Kenya’s back. She was looking for the right sufuria to bring so that she could fetch water from the river. Sweat glistened on her forehead. “ Jambo, Baba ,” she said to her father. “ Jambo, Kenya. You must set on your journey to collect water from the river. Be back before the sun sets.” Kenya simply nodded. “Remember,” her father started, “Collecting maji is a very important task. You are going to be fourteen next month. You will be married in a couple years and collecting water will be essential for your family.”

Kenya began her journey to the small river with her large sufuria. She panted for breath and Still, her heart was pounding, and her palms

wished she did

became sweaty. She peered into the brush. Another pair of sad grey eyes were staring back at her!

not have to collect water on a day like this. Yet she knew it had to be done one way or another.

Kenya decided to take the shortcut to a smaller river near her home that nobody knew about since their clan had just settled here. Another advantage was that none of the other mean girls would be there to harass her and the path was mostly protected by the shade of the trees. One foot in front of the other, a sufuria on her head, and a pep in her step. Kenya was almost there. To keep herself company, she sung the famous Bambara tune: “Fanga alifia, a she-e, a she-e Anga amefariki. Bado litakuja Kupanda kwa mali, kupanda kwa watu Kenya walked along the river, slowly, quietly, when she heard a noise in the bushes next to her. Then another one. This time it sounded like her uncle’s horrific trumpet playing. If it was a lion, it would have pounced already, so it must be something else. Still, her heart was pounding, and her palms became sweaty. She peered into the brush. Another pair of sad grey eyes were staring back at her! A baby elephant. Unfortunately, Kenya had noticed that the mali”

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elephant was malnourished, thirsty, and sadly, alone. “This elephant could not have gotten to this state if it still had a mother.” Kenya was determined to do something. She was not scared of the baby elephant, and knew it wouldn’t hurt her. She took her sufuria and gently pushed it

towards the elephant. The elephant was so weak, it couldn’t raise its trunk all the way up. Kenya gently took a hold of it and placed it inside her sufuria, full of water. In five seconds, it was all gone. Kenya did this three more time until it decided it had enough.

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Then Kenya gave the elephant some food that she had in her pocket. Once she noticed it wasn’t enough, she went looking for berries and fruits in the bushes. Suddenly, Kenya noticed the sun, it had started to set. “Don’t worry my little tembo , nitarudi. ” The elephant nodded its head, as if it seemed to understand. This was Kenya’s daily routine, saving some of her food to give to the elephant, and volunteering to go fetch the water every day. Soon enough, it had been a year, and her secret had still been safe. So was Kenya. Kenya was growing tired. Her father had married her off less than a year ago. She was exhausted from carrying her sufuria all the time. But she knew she had to keep seeing the elephant. Until, one day in April, more specifically, April 17th. Kena had walked down her usual path, right towards the clearing in the bushes. Something was wrong. Nothing was there. Where did he go? Kenya searched

around, hoping to find her elephant. She even whistled, hoping he would come. Unfortunately, her whistle brought something completely different. Kenya finally gave up and turned around-a lion, a young one, but still a lion. It was running at her from 300 meters away. Kenya quaked in fear, her throat dry, losing the ability to speak. There was nothing she could do. Closer and closer it came. Suddenly, a flash of grey appeared directly in front of her, block the lion off. It was Tembo! Immediately, the lion turned around and sped off. Kenya couldn’t believe it! The elephant had just saved her life! Gratitude washed over her face. She immediately hurried toward her tembo and gave him a big thank-you hug. He trumpeted in return, as if saying, “No, thank you.” “Is that really what happened Baba?” Johari asked. “That doesn’t matter binti, what matters is, what do you believe?” “I think it was definitely real,” Johari answered with a smile on her face.

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photograph Katy Gao

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Nameless Souls: A Night at a Bar

Isabella Gillioz

She sits at the corner of the bar covered by a veil of loneliness. She drinks the first glass, all the while her face unreadable. Staring down at her empty cup, she holds a finger up to call the bartender. A shadow appears across her and she murmurs, “I’ll have another please.” With a sigh, he walks away to get her the drink. When he comes back she solemnly slides the glass across the table. It makes little to no noise as the bartender fills it to the brim with more whiskey. The lights are dim in the grim setting. She drags the glass back to her. As she drinks, the liquid slides down her throat, covering her with stone cold grief. She chokes on the last gulp of whiskey, and slams it down. The grief burns her. When the coughing stops she closes her eyes. I see them. I see the woman in the tight red dress and dark lips. Her vivid green eyes shine with her laughter. And she’s with him. My love. I stop in my tracks when I see them. Perhaps she’s just a friend . I thought. But then I saw the ring. The beautiful diamond ring on her finger. I feel a lump in my throat. I shake it off quickly and let anger swerve around my mind as I realize I’ve been played. Played by him. Fists in balls and face red I storm away from them. Tears of anger fall down my cheeks. Now only tears of somber pour down my front. She opens her wet eyes, wanting to erase the images they project every time she closes them. Hot tears stream down her cold face. They cloud her vision. She does not want to close them. She does not want to see them . But she must make the tears go away. She squeezes her eyes shut and wipes the streaks on her face. Although trying not to,

she sees the woman in red with her magnificent ring. “Excuse me!” she calls out.

The bar is radiant with life so her uprising is not noticed by those around her. However, the bartender comes up to her for the call was to him. He arches a brow to her. “I need something stronger. Please” she says in almost a rush. The bartender nods and walks away to get her a new drink. He comes back with a shot glass. He places the drink in front of the woman and leaves to serve others in need. She stares down at the clear liquid. With her fingers, she slowly turns the glass

thinking if she should take it. And there, in the glass swims the memory of the beautiful

She opens her wet eyes, wanting to erase the images they project every time she closes them.

laughing woman. She grips the shot glass and in one swig drains it. The strong taste fills her mouth, her mind, her senses. The sour taste is causing her head to swirl. Again, she looks down upon the empty glass in front of her. A piece of hair falls to her face. She leaves it hanging there, blocking half her vision. After all she’s done, the memory of her love and another woman still finds a way back into her sights. She pulls the loose hair back and tucks it behind her ear. She looks up and calls the bartender anew. “Can I have mo-” she begins, but is interrupted by a lump in her throat. She blinks fast as more tears fog her sight. Two escape and descend down her face. “I’m,

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pencil sketch Katy Gao

I’m sorry,” she cries quietly. She rests her head in both her hands, shielding her face from the man in front of her. She shakes it softly as salty droplets glide off her arm and fall to the tabletop below. She sloppily wipes the tears away from herself and takes a deep breath. In her best effort to sound fine, she mutters, “Another one of these.” She says so shaking the empty shot glass.

The bartender looks surprised by her sudden outburst. He has pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She reaches out and lightly touches the man’s hand that is settled on the table. “Listen,” she starts. “I’m sorry about all the distress I’ve caused you. I honestly am. You see I’m just...just going through something. Something truly… disgusting.” she looks off, away from the bartenders

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ocean eyes. “I really am sorry,” she whispers.

I serve these people. These nameless

souls.

She pulls her hand away from him and brings her eyes back to his. He flushes. “Yeah, Yeah it’s fine. I’m sorry for whatever it is you’re going through,” he stutters. She gives him a small smile. “Anyway, I’ll go get that drink now,” he adds. As he walks away, her smile fades into oblivion. He comes back with her shot and places it in front of her. An almost pitied expression fills his face. She looks up at him and gives her fake smile once again. He gives one in return. He is handsome and his smile is simply gorgeous, but it does not reach his ravishing blue eyes. Once again, he leaves her to help the rest of those souls. She sighs silently to herself. With trembling fingers, she slowly brings the glass back to her empty self. She picks up the shot filled with the remedy. She touches the cold glass to her lips and drinks. Drinks down her sorrows. Drinks down her feelings. Drinks down her heart. He drinks away everything. He sits on his bar stool with his beer in hand. The lights flash across his unmoving face. No joy comes to that. Not a single smile has overtaken his forever solemn gloom. This is his home. Here.

Some are filled with a thrilling air. They dance like nobody's watching. Those are the souls I admire. They show no pain. Perhaps they chose not to show it, or simply forget it. I see those who suffer as well. I pity those souls. They show nothing. Nothing at all. I want to help them. Yet I cannot. It was their choice to come to this bar. Sit at the stools in front of me and I must serve them. I wish I did not have to. However, I need this job to pay for college. It’s actually ironic that I work here, as a bartender. My mother left my father for he was, and still is an addict to alcohol, which I so graciously distribute to those around me. A man here reminds me of him. He comes here every night to drink. He drinks till he’s gone. I turn and look at this man. He’s almost finished with his beer. The man never talks and I don’t make an effort to let him. Although I see him every night, I do not know his name. I turn my head to a new soul. She’s never been here. I must admit she’s charming. She wears a black dress and a jacket rests on her lap. Her angelic face stares into nothing with a permanent somber expression. But her eyes say different. They tell me a sea of emotions. She is distressed, agitated, baffled, crushed, and even infuriated. I want to talk to her. I want to comfort her. I want to help her. But I can’t. She’s just another nameless soul that I cannot save.

Here is where he forgets. Here is where he lives. Here is where he hides.

Every night I come here. Every night I see what goes on here. But I do not want to see this. See this pain.

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Beautifully Eerie

Isabella Gillioz

Beautiful the flowers and fruits may be, But not to touch, only to see.

Beautiful as they are, they are slowly dying With the short time flying.

Beautiful they may seem, but also quiet lonely. And that is true, for they Sit in a room watching Death take away the frail old Lady, while small blue birds coo.

Beautiful things must rest, Before Death finds their nest.

Beautiful waiting in the frail Lady’s room. They wait and wait until they grow somber and see Death loom

Eerily into view, And that is their cue.

Eerily Death swept Them into his cold, boney hands and had them kept.

Eerily they were in his layer mysterious And quickly became delirious.

Beautiful and Eerie they were in his domain, Which made them sorrowful and put out their last flame.

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spray paint and foil Eman Albukhari

Fear.

Mihika Anjoo

Fear. It’s captivating. Everyone lives with it. But somewhere, I envision a world without fear. A world with nobody to judge me. A world where I can be free and be myself. A world with everybody being loved for who they are, not what they pretend to be. If I weren’t afraid, those whispers lurking in the dark wouldn’t bother me. If I weren’t afraid, I wouldn’t have to think 100 times about whatever it is I’m going to do next. If I weren’t afraid, I would swim in the ocean of opportunities and possibilities, yet fear is like stones tied to my feet, drowning me each time I try to come above the water. Fear is like a gun, shooting me down each time I try to soar. Fear turns my colorful life into a black and white movie, nobody wants to know about. Yet somehow, fear is the only thing that keeps me going, making me fight those stones tied to my feet. Helping me soar, no matter how many times I get shot. Guiding me to show others that my black and white movie can be fun. There is only so much you can be afraid of; but I know I’m in the middle of an ocean of possibilities, and no matter how heavy those stones on my feet become, fear is never going to drown me.

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photograph Elizabeth Bazhenov

The Cage

Anahatt Virk

Fingers run across my keys. Feet push on my pedal. And eyes glare.

As enjoyable as it seems, I grow tiresome of it all. Too many notes fill my head.

The little girl plays in the living room. Not alone, But with me.

I am overworked. I yearn to be set free. Rid of the living room once and for all. Alas, I am stuck. The little girl will not let go. She will continue to play, day after day. This living room will be where I spend the rest of my days. This living room is one I will not miss. This living room is my cage.

For numerous hours a day, She stays put, and lets her fingers Take control. I hum the melodies. I sing the songs. Beethoven, Mozart, Ed Sheeran, you name it.

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was a child of divorce living with his mom where she would constantly blame his beloved father for everything bad that happened in their lives. He wanted to be closer to his father and wanted to know more about the man he knew so little about. George Westwood and his father, Sebastian Westwood, never had a meaningful relationship. On paper, they were father and son but in real life, they were strangers to one another. His father was always locked up in his study. The only time they ever spent together was when Sebastian was on his deathbed legally handing off his multi-million box company to his son. Many years after

Dreams Really Do Come True

Sarah Tubbs

A hoarse cough punctured the eerie silence filling the midnight air. You could hear the dragging of a metal suitcase on the brick pavers. Another cough followed the first leaving the man's handkerchief with blood stains. He approached the fountain that was in front of City Hall. He couldn't help but notice the shimmer of silver coins that lay at the bottom of the fountain (for God knows how long). His arm slipped into the water causing a ripple to encircle his wrinkled freckled arm. A few dozen coins emerged from the water within his grip, and he laid them down beside him. What he didn’t know is how many lives he had changed by releasing trapped dreams and wishes. Most people think that throwing coins into the water is the thing that causes their wishes to come true, but, in fact, it is when the coins are retrieved for no reason in particular. That is when dreams and wishes really come true. One old grime encrusted nickel had once belonged to one of the wealthiest men in all of Oakwood North Carolina, George Westwood. He tossed the nickel in when it was shiny and new, just like he was at the time. He was a very spoiled child when it came to material items, but emotionally he was dirt poor. The only people that he ever spoke to were tutors, servants, cooks, or relatives that only showed up when his father's company made money. He

Most people think that throwing coins into the water is the thing that causes their wishes to come true, but, in fact, it is when the coins are retrieved for no reason in particular.

George had been put in charge, his wish to be with his father more often came true in the most unpredicting way imaginable. He woke up with the feeling that he wasn’t in control of half his body. He sat up out of bed and looked over to his wife who was still sleeping. He stroked her forehead lovingly to try to capture her attention. He felt an unsettling pressure overcome him. His wife opened her eyes and let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Your face, what happened to your beautiful face?” She started backing away slowly her shaking hands were out to defend herself. His

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wife was now backing into the bathroom and George followed. He found himself in the doorframe. George froze and looked at himself in the mirror. Half of him was his normal self and the other half…made him want to jump out of his skin. The skin that he was now sharing with his father who has been dead for 13 years. Martha Rivers waddled herself to the fountain's edge. She let her wrinkly tan hand one last time glaze the cold sand colored rim. Her shaking hand reached down into her pocket and grabbed a penny concealed within a shell of green. She tossed the penny in and watercolor Khushi Mehra

wished to be immortal. She walked away, her oxygen tank clattering on the brick pathway with the Grim Reaper not far behind her. In the middle of the night, she passed away after losing her long battle with lung cancer. Forty-five years later, she awoke in her grave six feet under, her pale flesh barely clinging onto her face. With no way out and no way to end her misery, she lay in her coffin, for there was no way of escaping the box of death, and she never will. Just a week ago, ten years old Robert Simmons and his parents had just announced that they were going to get a divorce. Tears were coming down his cheeks by the dozen, and he just

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wished that he had known earlier that something was wrong. He ran all the way to the fountain and laid there for hours on end until he realized that he had been holding a coin in his hand the whole time. His grip tightened and then let go and wished for the ability to read minds. And he did get his wish and at first, he was ecstatic, but what he later found was much more terrifying than he ever could've imagined. At first, he

loved the gift and always listened to the thoughts of those around him. But then he realized that there was no way to turn his power off. Hate and insecurities were always pushing themselves into his head until the only voices he could hear were those of others. Even after death, the devil's thoughts were funneled through his mind.

photograph Isabella Gillioz

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She Noticed

Brooke Haltmeier

On the floor, a girl sat she noticed that beneath the doors many lights were in sight. The ceiling was longer than imaginable and the floor had many different colors bursting out. She noticed a tag on the floor. Does the tag know? Did the tag see everything?

All day she waited to see her friends all day, down the halls, she walked, she noticed the floor is above the door She noticed the lights that she could not see.

The man had stared at the children as they filled the hallways. The man watched as the children walk quietly into his room. She walked more down the hallway She remembered she once had one of these lockers but she never had a full locker.

photograph Sarah Tubbs

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photo essay Elizabeth Bazhenov

Böttcherstrasse was created by Bernhard Hoetger, who had pro-Nazi views. Hitler decided that his vision was "degenerative" and decided not to destroy the street as he thought it showed an example of bad art.

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Not a House, but a Home

Anahatt Virk

All day she whipped up meals. And as soon as she knew it, guests were crowding the kitchen. Speakers blast and the drapes have been shut. People surround the pool table while others chat on the couch.

My safe haven is where I spend most of my time. The room knows me, just as I know it. The secrets, the tears, they all stay in that room. The walls never tell anyone.

Every morning begins, with the screech of a kettle. Breakfast has been left out for me, just how I like it.

My thoughts get the best of me here. I ask myself, does the trash can wish to be treated more than just garbage? Or even, does the picture frame wish to preserve another family’s memories?

Everyone in my family knows the purpose of the front door. We believe it keeps the negativity from entering. We also know it welcomes people, to our beloved house.

Actually, it is not our house. This place is where, I never let the feeling of love escape my heart. This place is our home.

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Safe & Sound

Isabella Gillioz

The bright sun shines on the back of my neck. It is warm against my skin as I pick the soft clouds of white cotton. With every breeze the stalks sway gently in the ravishing orange light. I work with Papa in the hot field. He always works the hardest out of the two of us. Because of my small size I cannot lift and pick the amount we are meant to. I look down at my basket and see a pitiful sight. It is only half full. Papa’s basket is overflowing with the luscious cotton. He looks up from his work and glances up at the setting sun. His dark eyes glow a fascinating amber. I wonder if my own eyes glow like his. It is almost time to wrap up today's work. He takes some cotton from his basket and puts it in my own. Then he continues picking the plant, and I follow in his path. My tiny fingers are blistered. I tilt my head at them, studying the creases and crevices along my palm. I see a quick movement from my peripheral vision and hear a loud snap. I turn and am taken aback by the sight. Papa is on the ground. “Papa?” I ask. He makes no move. Not a single twitch. His open eyes stare into nothing. They are blank. “Papa? Papa!” I say frantically. He stays where he is. Panic overtakes me and I take a step closer to him. I drop to my knees to be at his side. “Papa! Papa! Papa!” I scream. My eyes swell up with tears. I push them away, needing to see. I shake his shoulder and he falls limply to his back. My tears fall onto his dirty shirt. Through the lump in my throat, I cry out once more, “Papa… Papa!” And the sobs come. They come in short bursts with wet droplets pouring down my burning cheeks.

“Hey! Hey!” calls the overseer on his

high horse.

I turn to him, a flicker of hope turning

on.

“Help him! Help him, please!” I

shout.

But the man turns away from Papa and me.

They come in short bursts with wet droplets pouring down my burning cheeks .

He turns away from my hope. The little flame

crumbles into ash and I kneel there with my ember, my spark that has kept me alive all these years. “Papa… Papa…” I murmur through my sobs. I hear footsteps come from behind me. I peek over my shoulder to see the overseer, Master, Misses, and Abigail the house slave. “The damn negro broke the basket,” Master curses aloud. My eyebrows knit together in both worry and confusion. Misses looks down at me with her own brows pulled together. “Help him… please, Master, please,” I mumble. “I’m sorry, dear but he’s… he’s gone,” Misses says. I turn back to Papa. He is gone. I can’t accept this. I can’t. I shake his shoulder, whispering his name. “Please, Papa. Please… Come back. Come back,” I mutter while tears come flowing down. “Stop wasting your breath,” remarks Master. I place my head on Papa’s chest. No beat. He’s empty. I’m empty.

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A crackle comes from a whip as it rushes violently through the silent air, ringing in my ears. It hits my bare legs. Shock stuns me into keeping still and my face clear. Then comes the pain. The horrible, searing, excruciating pain that runs through my body. I can’t help it. I turn to my side and get on my hand and knees, letting blood spill onto the vivid green grass. The pain causes me to tremble in the shadow of my dreaded master. Another crack,

photograph Megha Rameshkumar

I feel warm hands grasp me from behind. I don’t want to go. I don’t. I won’t. “NO! No! Stop! NO!” I bellow while trying to pull away from the arms. The hands stay strong and pull me back. “STOP! STOP! NO! DON’T LEAVE HIM! STOP!” I wail. I use all of my might to get out of the grasp of these hands. They switch positions and move around my waist. I can’t escape. But I must try. I scratch the arms and kick blindly behind me, all the while screeching. “Please, Glory, please. Moses is no more. We can’t save him,” whispers Abigail. And I give up. I let her drag me away from Papa. I do not move. I stay completely still like the body in front of me. “Let her go,” orders Master. “She’s no longer a child.” His sneers and turns so now his obsidian black eyes penetrate my soul, “Today is your baptism.” Abigail does. I fall flat to the ground. The sun blinds me.

this time slashing my back. It easily slices through my already buzzing skin. More of the awful pain. My arms give out and I fall to the ground. He hits me again. And again. I begin to feel hazy, and everything becomes a great big blur. I see the grass shining in the orange sky. Some pink shows and golden, too. I barely feel the next strikes. I only hear the crackling thunder of the lighting. Black spots cover my sight, and ringing blasts in my ears. I faintly hear Misses screaming to stop. But the whip still crackles. It is a sound that will never be vanquished. I wake up to the sound of the whip ringing in my ears. I lay on my stomach. I feel weak. I move slightly to get up, but I can’t. The places where the lightning struck burn. But what really burns is myself. I am alone. All alone. I have no one. I open my mind to hear the surrounding noises. Misses is muttering a Rosary prayer to herself. I open my eyes and

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turn my head to her whispers. Her eyes are tightly shut and a beautiful silver rosary is gripped in her hands. “… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” she prays. I stare at her as she shifts her thin fingers to another bead and begins another prayer. She is much nicer than Master, but of course I will never say that out loud. Her blonde hair is down in waves. Her skin is pale and her lips are a blood red. She’s young. Perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. Suddenly she opens her blue eyes and peers over at me. Those ocean eyes look into my own. They seem worried, relieved, and sad all at once. She leans over and breaths, “Oh Glory, you’re alright!” I say and do nothing because I am not alright. Misses gently places a cold hand on my head. “I’m so sorry about Moses. We tried all we can to help him,” she lies. I turn away as my eyes tear up. Her hands strokes the little hair I have. “I’m sorry about my husband, too,” she says quietly. I turn back to her. “Why are you comforting me, ma’am?” I ask, confused. Misses backs away, thinking

Once again she smiles at me. I hear Abigail now calling Misses downstairs. She takes her hand away from me and rises slowly. I hear her soft steps as she leaves the room. She turns slightly and waves while closing the door. The floors creak a bit and I listen to Misses descending down the stairs. I am alone. I lay there, sleeping and shifting positions over the next three days. Misses has not come back to these corridors, but Abigail has. She brings me some stale oats in the mornings and peas in the night. When I am awake I think of Papa, my lost thunder. He used to tell me stories about Mama. He told me how she was beautiful with perfect curls that she tied back with a white cloth. I used to daydream about her. I only imagined our friendship, our love. Then, one unusually hot day, Papa told me that Mama was not sold. He told me she died because of labor. Because of me. On the fifth day of resting Misses enters the room. I had heard yelling outside for two days. It must’ve been her and Master. She closes the door behind her as she walks in. The floorboards groan with every step she

of her answer carefully. “I care about you, Glory. You are only a child and have gone through so much,” she speaks softly. A slave never hears those precious words. I am astounded. I must look it too because a smile cracks in her distressed face. Right there, in the small room, Misses plants a soft kiss on my forehead. I cannot think of what would happen if Master had seen the sign of affection. “Thank you,” I whisper.

photograph Megha Rameshkumar

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takes to the empty wooden chair. She sits down and drags it close to me.

The following day, a new face enters the room. A face that I dread. A face that I fear. A face that I hate. Master. He sneers at my disheveled state. I had been thinking about Papa and Misses’ baby, and could not sleep that night. “Hello there,” he hisses. I sit up and bow my head in the most sincere way I could. “Jane tells me about you. She tells me how you treat her horribly. She tells me how you despise me and are dying to leave this ‘hell.’ Well, Glory, today is your lucky day because you’re leaving here tomorrow morning,” he snarls. Pure horror floods my senses. A ringing starts in my ears and I sway, unable to keep my balance. Despite my terror, I hear him laugh. Laugh. Laugh at my dismay. Laugh at my fright. Laugh at me. He leaves with his smirk spread wide on his grotesque self. When I get my head straight, I bolt from the bed, ignoring my scars to find him. He’s not downstairs. I sprint outside and see him talking with the overseer. I go to them. “Master, master!” I shout, gasping for air. He glances over at me, and a hint of a smile flashes across his face before he turns back to the overseer. “Please, please don’t let me go. I said none of those things! Please wou-” I begin. “Go,” he tells me. And I do. I leave him and return back inside the house, a somber feeling covering me. Tears fall to the grass as I drag myself to the home. I enter and see Misses there, staring out the window. I can’t help myself. “Why?” I ask as tears run down my face. She looks at me and says softly, “I had to. You bring me too many bad

“Hello, Glory,” she croons with a tiny

grin.

I’m about to wish her a good morning, but then I see her eyes. Tears are building up in them. A single one rolls down her

I wake up to the sound of the whip ringing in my ears.

gentle face, but her smile stays still. In a quick motion she

reaches a hand up to wipe the droplet. “What is it, Misses?” I question.

She looks down and shakes her head

faintly.

“I just have something on my mind,”

she answers.

She brings her eyes back up to me

and rests her chin on her hand.

“I’m thinking of someone I lost,” she

whispers.

I see Papa then. His strong self protecting me as much as possible from the dangers in this world. I miss him. “My baby, I lost her,” Misses continues. “I didn’t even know her. She was a stillborn. She was taken from me. I didn’t know what I had done. Perhaps she died because of my sins,” she chokes. Tears now stream down her face, but she doesn’t stop them. “I- I don’t know what I-” she sobs. I sit up, my scars from lighting stinging while I do so. I extend my hand and touch her arm lightly. She looks up and reaches out to me. She wraps her arms around me and cries on my thin shoulder. I am shocked at first but return the embrace. Together the two of us cry silently; me for Papa and her for her unknown baby. I wonder why she does this. Never before has she shown me any affection, other than give me fresher food than the other slaves. But I am soundlessly grateful for this. She is the first to pull away.

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