REVERIE 2021

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REVERIE 2021

Transcript of REVERIE 2021

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REVERIE 2021

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Staff

Overseer: Jason Taylor

Editor in Chief: Allison Silver

Art Editor: MaryBeth Sullivan

Staff: Rachel Fonder, Aubrey Klarman, Angelina Mussini,

Joshua Rozmiarek, Faith Sweeney

Table of Contents

Seasons of Relationships by Bhawanveer Dhaliwal

september is here but you’re not by MaryBeth Sullivan

America Was Never Great by Isabel Bray

Motel in the Mesa by Jonas DeWulf

figure skating, fall, and You by Emma Beltowski

Solo in F Minor by Angelina Mussini

Counting Our Breaths by Anonymous

february 14th by MaryBeth Sullivan

Blame by Daniel Gaughan

Between Us, Around Everyone by Jonas DeWulf

Footsteps by Katie Fecik

Woodland Dancer by Angelina Graziano

Gems, Myths, and Flight by Jonas DeWulf

Portraits by Angelina Mussini

The Songbird by Juliette Redding

Out of the Tower by Beth Dallaire

Scrambled Breakfast by Max Hinkle

Spotlight by Daniel Gaughan

The Tightrope Walker by Beth Dallaire

Deserted Mindscape by Rachel Fonder

Downtown by Allison Silver

The Real America by Beth Dallaire

The Most Dangerous Mirage by Kylie Nitz

Roman Dog by Jonas DeWulf

Request by Rachel Fonder

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6-7

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9-10

11

12

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13-14

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16-17

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19-21

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27-28

29

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31-32

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Seasons of Relationships

by Bhawanveer Dhaliwal

3rd Place Winner for 12th Grade Poetry in the

2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (County Level)

You were the bud I found

and watered till it grew.

Once it bloomed, I picked it

and marked it as mine.

You became the sun of my sky,

wrapping me in your warm and brilliant rays.

Fireworks of passion going off

on the Fourth of July.

Beautiful leaves bidding farewell to the trees,

crushed on the ground under the stomping of feet.

The warmth seeping out of me,

as you drop bombs of sickness with every word.

The battering gusts shook the walls of my heart,

our memories in frozen bloom.

A gentle hush cloaked around me broken only by your words

piercing through my ears like shards of glass.

Every cleansing, beautiful rainfall,

every passionate thunderstorm,

every gust of wind,

every erasing blizzard must come to an end.

So, I walk towards the sun,

through the brutal winds.

The only true direction

leading out of the raging storm.

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september is here but you’re not

by MaryBeth Sullivan

1st Place Winner for 11th Grade Poetry in the

2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (State Level)

you were so dynamic it made sense

your favourite month was september.

it wasn’t because of your birthday or

how your favourite number’s nine. there

was something you found magnetic in the

seasons changing. honestly, i think you just

liked the start of something new, something

short but perfectly timed; it was a kind of

euphoria. you used to love it when

the fading summer breeze turned crisp

and you could wear those baggy sweatshirts,

you know, the ones with sleeves that went

for miles. remember how we used to

dance under the falling leaves and

go apple picking? you held my hand

when it got too cold, and i had to remind

myself it was autumn because your touch

was so warm it brought me back to summer.

maybe you had the right idea about september;

how a small amount of time can mean more

than an endless supply. maybe that’s the point

of love too. for it not to last. tell me, is that why

you liked september the best?

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America Was Never Great

by Isabel Bray

America was never great. You really want me to believe

that a country where people are shot

and murdered by those who were “trained”

to protect us is great?

It’s “legal”,

it’s “self-defense”

to shoot a black child

holding a nerf gun

on the sidewalk in front of his own house.

It’s legal to

fire someone based on their sexuality.

The assault and murder

of LGBT people is justified

by claiming you were “scared”.

It is okay for

terrorists to raid government buildings,

(white led, president approved)

but it’s not okay to peacefully protest

the murder of innocent black people?

Blue Lives Matter, right?

Yet, you assault them when they

protect what you want to destroy.

I guess blue lives only matter

when they’re killing black lives.

You say you’re for democracy,

that you just want to follow the Constitution.

But when laws in place are killing people every

day,

suddenly it’s an infringement upon your rights

to regulate gun ownership.

While elementary children are taught how to

evade

a stranger who wants to shoot them,

(“turn the lights off and stand against the wall,”)

you fight to keep your assault rifles,

legal and unregulated.

You fight so hard to criminalize abortion,

yet when children in foster care

and adoption centers are being

abused, mistreated, starved,

you turn a blind eye.

You say that retail workers

and kids flipping burgers

shouldn’t make enough money to eat.

You expect respect from these teenagers

who you expect to starve?

You want to stop people

from paying for food and bills,

from leaving their house with no fear of death,

from being themselves,

from living.

Yet you continue your impudent chant,

“Make America Great Again!”

You want to fix a system

that was corrupt from the start.

America was never great.

Artwork by Taylor Braun

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Motel in the Mesa By Jonas DeWulf

1st Place Winner for 12th Grade Short Story in the 2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (County Level)

I feel like a character in a black and white movie, being a travelling salesman. My suit jacket slung over

the backrest of the motel reading chair, rubbing the ache out of my feet, the invisible bruising of fatigue clearly

shown on my face, this is not how I imagined spending my summer. I had come out west for a job as a fire

lookout at some national park. After finding out I wasn’t made of the same stuff as Lewis and Clark, I fell in with

the rinse and repeat of selling insurance door-to-door with Walter, a buddy of a buddy from high-school who was

zig-zagging across the country, playing music in desolate towns like this one.

Walter, sitting on the edge of the bed, grunted in approval at the volley of cannon fire that erupted on the

T.V., his face illuminated by the hazy amber glow. Glancing over to the clock that read eleven-thirty-five p.m., I

clumsily swung myself up and stumbled over to the door. My leg had fallen asleep at some point. Gripping the

doorknob, I turned around and gave a half-wave to Walter, signaling my retreat to my room for a few measly

hours of sleep.

“Wait, wait! You’ll miss the best line,” words bursting from Walter’s lips. He now stood in the center of

the room in anticipation. “General Pickett, sir, you must look to your division,” he said, changing his voice to fit

Lee’s southern twang. Then, echoing Pickett’s drawl, Walter said “General Lee… I have no division.”

I stood in the doorway awkwardly, the cool breeze of the night leaking through the ajar door sent shivers

up and down my spine. Slowly, after a moment, I retreated out into the motel parking lot and closed the door

behind me. Yawning, I surveyed the small surrounding town and the eerie mesa behind. Coyote silhouettes raced

across the highway. Off in the distance, clouds formed a wrinkled brow over the pale moon

Hugging the rough corridor wall, I ambled over to my room. “Seven-o’clock sharp,” pronounced the

authoritative voice of Walter from behind me.

Turning around, I saw him standing, hands on his hips in an assertive pose. He wanted a response. Saying

back with little effort “K,” I try to match his sophomoric imperiousness with my own brittle nonchalance. Walter

shifted his weight to his back leg, peering at me for an instant before turning back.

Stale air greeted me as I staggered into my room. Shutting the paint-chipped door behind me, I toyed with

the thought of stealing the car and riding off into the night. Part of me would gladly strand Walter. I waved this

fantasy from my mind; I probably wouldn’t be able to make it twenty miles in that piece of rusted junk. Gazing at

my backpack filled with hiking equipment, I stood wondering if I should’ve continued pursuing a job as a fire

lookout. I probably would’ve already been eaten by a bear.

The realization that I had to wake up to this same lousy day in the morning panged in my head. I couldn’t

just flop onto the bed and sleep until four in the afternoon. My defeated expression deepened. My eyes becoming

somehow more dead-fish glossy. My brows angling slightly inward in vain frustration. My lips, scarred from

biting at them, pursing.

Walking into the bathroom, my hand apprehensively reached for the light switch, while I mentally

prepared for the inevitable jarring fluorescent lights. With my eyes closed, I flipped the lights on, only seeing a

dim red through my eyelids. Slowing opening my eyes, I saw how silly I looked in the mirror, hand still gently

hovering over the switch with my body turned towards the darkness of the other room like some frightful child in

their parent’s work-clothes.

Straightening myself out, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in my face, a symbolic way of

showing I was kaput from the day. My suit collar caught some of the splatter, becoming uncomfortably damp and

clingy to my skin.

Suddenly jerking my head up, I was seized by the sound of muffled voices coming from Walter’s room,

on the other side of the seemingly paper-thin walls. He’s watching another movie. I let out a forcibly long sigh,

followed by a “Goddammit,” like a defeated parent.

Striding over the door, whipping it open angerly, I gave a stony look towards the car.

Its dull, metallic beige color looked slate in the night. Again, for a moment and a half I considered slipping away

into the night and riding off into the sunrise with it.

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Instead, I turned towards Walter’s room. With a moseying gait, I imagined myself as a cowboy, hand dancing

over the butt of a gun, ready to execute some western justice on an outlaw. The amber glow of a streetlight

winked on and off, across the highway. Stopping at Walter’s room, my knuckles hovering over the dry, faded-

red door, I shot a look back down the corridor.

“Not tonight,” I whispered to myself, tiredness swallowing me up again “Maybe tomorrow, or

tomorrow’s tomorrow.” I sauntered back down to my room. I need to muster as much sleep as I can.

figure skating, fall, and You

by Emma Beltowski

3rd Place Winner for 11th Grade Poetry in the

2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (County Level)

You came to me in a dream last night.

i saw you standing,

hair fuller,

eyes brighter,

skin opaque;

You look so different now.

your arms slunk around me

and lifted me into the air.

in that moment i was a figure skater,

graceful,

elegant,

and loved;

not by many but by You.

your words had become so rare to me that i savored them like honey,

letting the sweetness rest gently on my mind.

You felt like fall,

comforting,

beautiful,

short-lived.

i awoke to the emptiness of my hollow chest

desperately trying to fill the You-shaped hole

left from august.

You were just here and,

like the leaves,

the trees,

the fields,

You died

and left me in the frigid winter air.

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Solo in F Minor A duet

Is not meant

To be played alone.

Nevertheless,

I sit to play

At a piano

With ivory keys,

But from

The first notes

I hear it has

Yellowed

Into a sour tune.

Echoing

Through the chamber,

It is a song

So strong,

Yet so empty played solo.

I pay no heed

To the pages of music,

For I know

This tune by heart.

But today,

I consider the sheets once more And in ink as dark as death, I mark the page

With a fine.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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Counting Our Breaths

by Anonymous

I see, now:

that your footprints were right inside of mine,

tracks on a snowed-over path

leading into the unnatural quiet of the still, icy brook.

How could I have missed it?

Your lies were in sync with mine,

your patterns, rhythms,

a cycle of wind currents that carried you away with it.

You took ice from the freezer and pressed it

to your warm, vanilla hands,

and when I saw you, each day

I never considered

that you were feeling as I had.

I never questioned why

you so desperately needed that cold

in mid-December.

I suppose we’re both too good at lying.

It’s fine.

Stretch out the rubber of my heart,

swollen with feelings I’ve yearned to feel for so long;

but

not like this, not like

this?—

With a needle you have taken me

right back to where I started.

Sew your skin to skin in stitches

rows lining your arms in reds

to match the whites on mine.

have I passed my pains on to you?

I’d take them back, every one

every burn,

every scar;

even knowing how it feels,

even knowing where I’ll go.

I’ve felt the same pains that weighed on your chest,

I’ve felt that same breathless emptiness you feel;

the way your lungs absorb cool air,

the way it passes through full-to-bursting veins

like the ice pressed against them,

pushing at the edges

trying to erupt back into space around us.

I know how

painfully the heart beats

in the wrist and fingertips.

I say now that I understand.

I wish I had understood before.

I should have warned you

not to make the mistakes I did.

Now your bedroom sits empty

with curtains still hanging open,

filtering dim light onto messy sheets

that nobody can bear to make.

Your phone still sits on your dresser.

A thousand people have texted since you were gone.

Your clothes still hang hopefully

as if they expect you to come in any moment

pull on a jacket, some ripped jeans,

laughing like you always do; I mean,

like you always did;

or were you even really laughing?

I don’t know anything about you anymore.

I come down at breakfast expecting

to see you there.

In the evenings I’m halfway up the stairs

calling you down to dinner

before the silence drifts down the hall,

cool air slithering to my lungs,

poisoning my blood;

choking me,

and I grasp at my throat dreading

this feeling I thought I’d finally gotten rid of,

the frigidness of fear and desperation and

a dull, creeping emptiness.

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I see you through the ice,

but no matter how hard

I pound, scream,

it refuses to budge,

and my breaths begin to run out.

My head was not always this fuzzy.

I remember the last time we called.

Your voice was not yours.

were you already dead?

Over that phoneline I wondered what to say.

I was your older sister; I was supposed to know these

things,

and yet I found myself speechless

listening to your ragged breathing,

and the nurses telling me

how your meals went untouched.

The air felt so cold on my lips,

pressed numbly to speakers,

lost.

In my head I counted

each second, every moment

of that drowning, winter lake’s silence,

silence almost worse

than the silence you left

in your wake.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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february 14th

by MaryBeth Sullivan

i keep a box underneath my bed filled

with paper hearts i used to press into

the palms of your hands when your face turned red;

you said anxiety always knew you

best, but i was there and i was never

just your february friend. so i’ll let

you use our conversations to forever

hold against me, playing like a cassette

tape in my mind as i find a way to

let you go. my love, with your smile so

sickly sweet and your laugh—oh to lose you

would be heartbreaking, but you need to go,

and find another february crush.

maybe you’ll want them for more than just lust.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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Blame

by Daniel Gaughan

You’re tired of trying to pull through.

You told us last night that you couldn’t do it anymore.

How could I even blame you?

You’re sick of waking up every day trying to make do,

using all your strength each day to fight a one-man war.

You’re tired of trying to pull through.

The moments of happiness have become so few,

replaced by that fear and exhaustion we all abhor.

How could I even blame you?

You claw every day towards happiness (or at least you used to)

but you never get any closer to that peaceful shore.

You’re tired of trying to pull through.

After all this time you’ve realized there’s nothing to look forward to,

every day will be the same laborious chore.

How could I even blame you?

You can’t wait any longer for something new.

You’ve fought so long, with such valor,

but you’re tired of trying to pull through.

How could I even blame you? Between Us, Around Everyone

by Jonas DeWulf

I try

to walk everyday

between day and

night – or people,

ideas, interests.

The places in-between

do not separate

but connect.

The teal twilight

Sky washes away my anxiety.

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Footsteps

by Katie Fecik

1st Place Winner for 10th Grade Short Story in the 2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest

(State Level)

My whole life I’ve seen footprints.

Everywhere. On the sidewalks of downtown. Up and down the stairs at school. Through the YA sci-fi

aisle of the bookstore. Each one is a midnight-blue, vaguely foot-shaped smudge, as if their owner were wearing

sponge shoes.

In kindergarten, my teacher lectured us on the importance of neatness. That afternoon, I ran to her as

recess ended, prepared to tattle.

“Somebody left foot marks on the playground.”

“Did they?” She craned her neck to look back at the wide expanse of mulch and swing sets, still guiding

my classmates toward the door. “Where did you see that?”

“On the slide,” I said proudly. Standing on the slide was unsafe; everybody knew that. I was certain I was

about to either save someone’s life or get them in huge trouble.

“I don’t see anything,” she said, squinting at the blue-splotched yellow plastic of the slide.

“But they’re all over it!” I protested.

“Aria,” she said patiently. “There aren’t any footprints. The class is going inside now. Could you please

go join them?”

I was too busy scowling because she’d gotten my name wrong to argue any further, which, looking back,

probably saved me some complications later.

No one calls me Aria. I’m Ari.

And don’t you dare say I only took off the last letter.

On the bus ride home that day, it occurred to me that no one else could see the footprints. It was a too-fast

conclusion based on too little information, but it was correct anyways.

Some part of my six-year-old brain eagerly decided to never talk about the footprints again.

In first grade, I convinced myself they belonged to a ghost. In second grade, I stopped believing in ghosts

and decided they belonged to some sort of long-lost best friend. By the time I’d made it to the August before

grade nine, I’d settled on the idea that they were just there and didn’t belong to anybody.

And then one night I was riding my bike down the street, following a new trail of footprints down a wide,

grass-scented street lined with townhouses and scattered with slush-grey paint chips from someone’s unfortunate

car. The sun was setting, but the streetlights were still dark. Nothing moved but me and the crickets.

I was starting to think that if it got much darker without the lights coming on I could crash into someone

and only know it from the bruises, and then I looked up and there was someone there, barely ten feet away,

blocking the footprints.

Wait, no.

When she whirled to face me, one of the prints bloomed around her left foot as she set it down. She was

making them.

I braked as fast as I could and somewhere in the depths of my indignity made the split-second,

subconscious decision to jump off the bike altogether. The ground flew at me at an awkward angle, but I barely

noticed the way my right knee scraped across the pavement as I landed.

The footprints came from a real person.

“Whoa,” the girl said as I scanned her dusk-blurred features. “Are you all right?”

She was not wearing the fluffy shoes her prints suggested. She was wearing black lace-up boots. Her

baseball cap threw shade over a face at least two years older than mine.

“Um,” I said, with the utmost bravery.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“Nnnnooo,” I mumbled.

“Thank goodness. I’m a mess at first aid.”

“You were returning a library book,” I blurted. I’d started following the footprints—her footprints—at the

book drop.

She froze. “How did you know that? The library’s closed.”

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Awesome. Now she thought I was some variety of creepy person.

I scrambled to my feet and extended my hand. “Sorry—I’m Ari Strayer. I live on the other side of the

neighborhood. Please don’t think I’m a stalker.”

She rolled her shoulders back, her mouth pressed hard in a way that I hoped was holding back a smile.

“What am I supposed to think you are, then?”

“Extremely, unintentionally unusual.”

The streetlamps flickered on, spilling liquid amber across both of us. Amber that I was sure was going to

harden and leave the moment stuck as a gemstone forever.

Forever only lasted a second, though, and she smiled. “I’m Laurel. Unusual’s good. I’d rather not tell you

where I live.”

“No hard feelings there.”

“How did you know I was at the library, though? Were you there and I didn’t see you?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“’Kay. Ah, are you at the high school this year?”

I nodded. “Starting this year.”

“I’ll see you there, I guess,” she said, and waved in that way that says, “this is not a life-changing

conversation by any means.”

And left.

I did not follow her brand-new trail of prints, which were brown in the warm electric light. I climbed back

on my bike and bolted home, forcing the energy boiling behind my thoughts into every push of the pedals.

See you there, I guess.

A long-lost best friend.

Maybe I could prove my second-grade self right.

Maybe—possibly—I’d even be able to tell Laurel the real reason I knew where she’d come from. Someday.

Woodland Dancer

by Angelina Graziano

She dances through the night

losing herself among the trees

the stars her ballroom light.

The river calls her name

as the frogs croak a symphony

and the wind howls an encore.

She twirls and spins

as the night consumes her

her heart in tune with the crickets

chirping beyond the glossy lake,

her eyes as bright as the moon.

My hands rest on my burning cheeks

my breath leaving small clouds

watching the woodland dancer

and my childhood fade from me

like a memory of the night.

Artwork by Betty-Jean Fitzgerald

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Gems, Myths, and Flight

By Jonas DeWulf

2nd Place Winner for 12th Grade Poetry in the

2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (State Level)

We see each other,

in emerald and pearl letters

or windows of blue silver.

Some indigo evenings,

when the sun sleeps and stars stir,

with amber exhibits shining the only light,

we go on strolls.

The stygian gravel trails

become streams of

swirling sapphire beads

under our stride.

A canopy of crow feathers shroud

giggles morphing into laughter,

like caterpillars into butterflies

that caper across the zephyr

of friendship.

We sing along with the trill

of nickel and copper shaded robins,

and cavort down the carmine ropes

of cackling crocottas

into nirvana.

Artwork by Amanda Zorzi

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Portraits

by Angelina Mussini

When I first

Heard that word

It was ugly

Dirty

Tainted.

My mind

Could not

Conceptualize it,

And so it painted

A picture instead:

With angry streaks

Of red,

Brushstrokes

Like an accusation,

Like flames

To sear the skin.

It swept the canvas

With black,

Like crusted over

Brimstone wounds,

Like a secret, relegated

To the shadows.

Those pictures,

They charred

Through my brain,

And left cinders

In their wake.

How do

I paint

With only ashes

On my palette?

That is

A very bleak

Portrait indeed.

So

Ever so slowly,

I washed

My palette off.

I picked

New colors,

Because my brain

Still can’t conceptualize

The word

For it is too beautiful

Too divine

For definition

Now I see sunsets,

Soft strokes

Of orange

And pink

And white,

A gentle sky

With all the hues

Of peaches

And strawberries

At a picnic

And a lover’s lips.

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The difference is that

This time

I let myself

Say the word aloud

I let myself sing it

And I love the way

My portrait looks

Artwork by Amanda Zorzi

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The Songbird

By Juliette Redding

1st Place Winner for 10th Grade Poetry in the 2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (State Level)

As a child I listened to you.

Humming and singing to yourself as you fiddled with your coat zipper.

You were everything I wanted to be.

Music flowed through you like a rushing stream. Your song like gold, you were rich, and

I envied your wealth.

I would sit and listen to the warm embrace of your tone,

the pure joy brought with each word. Your song enriched those around you.

You sang as if it meant nothing,

as if those around you did not slowly settle into their chairs,

relaxing when they heard your chirp.

The songbird in your chest began to lose its feathers as you aged.

I grew up going to your concerts, hoping, to see you soar.

But there you stood, secure on your branch, silently mouthing the words.

The fear you felt had gotten to your core,

and it made you slowly stop spreading your wealth.

You closed your doors to the rest of us,

and went silent.

The struggles you dealt with quietly,

surrounding you, like a trapped nightingale, unable to call for help.

I grew resentful from the abandonment, A child without her sister.

Missing the stranger who lived just across the hall.

Music was our lives.

Always in the background of our memories, fluttering around our consciousness.

Years later in this house I hear you.

The songbird had taken flight,

and your song filled the kitchen once again.

Soaring around the house,

calling to those of us that had almost forgotten,

the song of my sister.

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Out of the Tower

by Beth Dallaire

Gothel shoved Rapunzel into the wardrobe, the one made of cherry with frosted glass panes on it. It was

somehow perfectly positioned so that Rapunzel could see everything happening at the window but wasn’t visible

to anyone on the outside.

She shifted her arms and legs, both tightly bound with her own rags, into a less painful position. Gothel

heard and went over to the wardrobe, giving it a hard, swift kick so strong the enire thing almost tipped over.

Rapunzel felt her head knock against the back of the wood, unused to the sharp pain it caused her.

Of course, she had bumped her head before. Gothel would even playfully whack her on the crown of her

head sometimes, unaware or uncaring of the flinches that Rapunzel learned to suppress. But this time she didn’t

have the soft cushion of her hair to act as a barrier between her head and the cherry wood. Her hair had been

unceremoniously shorn not minutes ago by Gothel, who had since secured it to their hook mechanism near the

window.

She tried to cry out, her head throbbing, but her cloth gag muffled her yell into a dull “ugh”. She heard

Gothel clumping over, her heavy boots and slight limp making her steps unmistakable.

“Now, none of that from you. You directly disobeyed me and you know your actions must have

consequences,” she said cheerily, “so consequences there will be!”

She gave the pane of glass closest to Rapunzel’s face two quick taps and stalked back over to the window.

Rapunzel could tell from the position of the sun that it was nearing the time that her Prince would come

visit her. She felt a sob building up, wishing she could warn him. But she was stashed away in a dresser, bound

and gagged, with nothing to do but watch and wait.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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His visits had started when he followed Rapunzel’s voice, singing songs of bards and minstrels long gone.

She couldn’t believe her eyes when she first saw him. He was the first person besides Gothel or the occasional

traveler that she’d ever seen. And with his wavy brown hair and deep amber eyes, he looked like something out of

her fairytale books.

They started talking and Rapunzel eventually found the courage to invite him up. She fastened her hair

around the window hook and he climbed up, his horse staring curiously up at him.

She showed him around, the Prince gazing in awe at the view Rapunzel had. He told her about the outside

world, what people were really like, and about his family. She listened with fascination, as everything he said was

vastly different from what Gothel had previously told her.

One day, while they were sitting on her bed, the Prince asked if he could meet Gothel.

“I want to ask if she would allow you to come back to the castle with me. You could meet my family, see

the town, even- even meet my cat!” he exclaimed.

Rapunzel knew that Gothel would never let her out of the tower, let alone with a boy that she had never

met nor given Rapunzel permission to speak to. She didn’t want to tell him this, of course, so she tried to come up

with a solution.

“Gothel isn’t too,” she hesitated, unsure of what to say, “isn’t too keen on visitors.” She saw the

anticipatory light in his lovely eyes dim.

“I’ll try to ask her tonight. Stay here, out of sight. If she says yes, I’ll leave one lantern in the window and

meet you in the morning. If she says no…”

Rapunzel trailed off, unsure of what she would do if Gothel said no. But her Prince looked so eager, so

hopeful.

“if she says no, I’ll leave two lanterns in the window. I’ll wait for her to fall asleep, pack a small bag, climb

down, and meet you at the backside of the tower. We’ll return before sunrise and she’ll never even know I was

gone.”

The Prince, satisfied with her plan, bid her farewell and began his descent.

When Gothel returned, Rapunzel prepared her favorite meal, mutton and mashed potatoes, and planned

how to word her question.

“Mother Gothel,” she began, “I have a teensy, tiny request for you.”

Gothel motioned for her continue, mouth full with the food Rapunzel prepared, and sat back in her chair.

“I was wondering if, tomorrow morning, I would maybe be allowed to go outside and into town? Now that

I’m eighteen I know how to hold my own, you’ve taught me so well. And, well, I’d like to meet some people my

own age.”

Rapunzel sat back and exhaled, preparing for Gothel’s answer,

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Rapunzel looked at Gothel, crestfallen.

Gothel began with her usual spiel of how everyone would want to kill Rapunzel for her luscious locks.

Rapunzel tuned her out, having heard this same argument at least four dozen times.

Gothel patted her on the cheek and told her to clean up the dishes.

Rapunzel lit two lanterns and placed them on the windowsill.

When she finally heard Gothel’s snores coming from the next room over, she quietly packed a small bag

with a brush and ribbons to tie her hair with. She looped her hair around the hook and swung down, relishing the

feeling of grass beneath her feet when she landed.

She looked around at the world on the ground for the first time and felt tears prick in her eyes. Everything

was so beautiful up close. Remembering her purpose, she trailed along to the back of the tower to see her Prince.

He was waiting next to a thorny plant that must have been a rosebush at some point, his horse tied to a

nearby tree. She embraced him, tears threatening to fall, and she found herself never wanting to let go. They began

their journey into town.

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When Rapunzel returned the next morning, right before sunrise, she still felt exhilarated from her night out.

Everyone was so kind and lively, offering her different trinkets and bits of unfamiliar food at the Prince’s request.

She met his cat, Tucker, and saw a portrait of his parents (they were fast asleep). They sat in the palace garden and

watched the stars glimmering in the night sky, the Prince pointing out and naming the different constellations. It

was pure bliss.

She forgot to plan on how she would get back up into the tower, so she started climbing up the stone side

of it. It was difficult but she still had a little bit of her adrenaline rush left from the night before. She climbed into

the window, closing it quietly behind her, and...

Gothel.

Rapunzel inhaled sharply, knowing there was no way to hide what she had done.

Gothel was holding a knife, looking at Rapunzel with fury in her eyes. She said but one thing.

“Who were you with?”

Rapunzel forced out that she was alone, her throat closing with panic.

“I saw someone with you when you returned. Tell me who it was and your consequences may be less

severe.”

She panicked, trying to think of a way to protect her Prince, when Gothel put the knife to her throat.

“If you tell me the truth, it’s your hair,” she said, gesturing with the knife as she spoke, “if you lie, it’s your

throat and then theirs.”

Rapunzel felt the prick of tears in her eyes but for a vastly different reason this time.

“The Prince,” she whispered.

“Speak up.”

“The Prince!” she yelled, collapsing into tears.

She heard as Gothel made the cut and it was the sound of her heart breaking.

Rapunzel raised a shaking hand to her head, somehow feeling both lighter and heavier than she ever had

before. Gothel tied the hair to the hook, bound and gagged Rapunzel, and shoved her into the wardrobe where she

now sat, robbed of her hair, her freedom, and her dignity.

After what seemed like hours of waiting and watching, Rapunzel heard the tell-tale clopping of hooves that

signified the Prince’s arrival. He knocked three times on the stones of the Tower, their special signal for Rapunzel

to let down her hair. She felt her gag getting wet and realized that she hadn’t stopped crying.

Thump. He landed in the window.

Gasp. He saw Gothel.

Clump. Gothel stepped forward.

Crack. Rapunzel whacked her head against the frosted glass, breaking it. Both looked at her.

Whump. Gothel turned pushed him out of the window while he was still caught off guard.

Rapunzel screamed through her gag, mustering enough strength to break the lock on the wardrobe. She

tumbled out, broke her bonds on the hook near the window, and turned to face Gothel.

Still satisfied and gloating to herself, Gothel didn’t even think to consider Rapunzel a threat. With tears

streaming down her face, Rapunzel said one thing.

“You killed him.”

Gothel rolled her eyes, beginning to explain that no, he probably wasn’t dead, the drop wasn’t that high,

when—

Clang!

Rapunzel hit her with a cast-iron skillet. Gothel dropped to the floor, facial expression slack.

She made her way over to the window and saw her Prince slowly, very slowly, sit up and rub his head in

the thorns below. She felt a wave of indescribable relief come over her. She climbed down the tower until she was

about five feet off the ground, looked around, and jumped. That was the first time her Prince caught her.

Artwork by Amanda Zorzi

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Scrambled Breakfast

by Max Hinkle

2nd Place Winner for 12th Grade

Poetry in the. 2020-21 High School

Young Author’s Contest (County Level)

Jolting awake at dawn,

Scrambling like eggs in a pan,

Finding myself in a kitchen.

Ingredients fly out at me,

Milk, eggs, butter,

Mixed up into one,

A yellow broth, clear as day,

I need to get moving!

Butter spreads in pan,

Insert batter into buttered pan.

This is taking too long.

Heat is cranked up to 11.

The batter gets bubbling,

I start scrambling it,

Reminds me of myself.

Yellow fluff begins forming,

The family smells it,

Rushing to the kitchen like wolves.

Eggs have been corralled,

No longer free range scrambled.

Everyone gets their two scoops.

Complementing their nature, they gnaw.

Yellow egg froth at the mouths,

Some crimson hot sauce,

Bleeding down the eggs,

Brains scrambled from scrambled eggs.

Then it’s all over.

Nothing left except scraps and plates.

A sign of eggs well cooked.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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Spotlight

by Daniel Gaughan

The decrepit spotlight hung from

a lofty branch in the only tree

that populated the otherwise vacant lot.

“Wow,” my dad mumbled.

“It’s still there.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, neck craned

upwards towards the rusted fixture.

“I hung that thirty years ago

so I could see my basketball hoop when it got dark,” he continued.

“I can’t believe it’s still here.”

Somewhere in that lot was a small home.

My grandmother when her hair was still red.

My grandfather when he was still alive.

The aunt I have never met.

And a sandy haired boy

dribbling a basketball down the driveway

lit by a single spotlight.

Now the rusted spotlight

and the sandy haired boy

who was now bald,

with a grey beard,

stood facing each other.

The only evidence that the home

and the family that once lived in it

had ever been there at all.

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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The Tightrope Walker

by Beth Dallaire

Everywhere you go, you are a

tightrope walker. Graceful and

unafraid, you whirl through life,

rarely seen without a dazzling smile

and lovely outfit. Even when the

rope is far too loose, ladders far too

high, and safety net suddenly gone,

you pirouette and leap across, always grinning.

You once told me you loved fire, the

gleam in your eyes matching the glow of

your dollar-store lighter. You see,

fires can warm you, comfort you,

but they can also bring destruction,

ravaging towns and reducing people to

ash. You keep your flame small, contained,

only dancing when you call on it.

One day, be it sooner or later, I fear that

your beloved blaze will betray you, burning

through your tightrope as you come tumbling

down, still smiling as you hit the ground.

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Deserted Mindscape

by Rachel Fonder

In this barren expanse I will forever wander,

nothing but desert reaches my sight.

Loneliness makes the heart grow fonder.

With no one around, it gives me time to ponder

that perhaps we are amidst a terrible blight,

in this barren expanse I will forever wander.

Wind howls over by a hill far yonder,

and daytime begins to turn into night.

Loneliness makes the heart grow fonder.

Cold sets in, chilling and somber,

Darkness looms and brings me fright

in this barren expanse I will forever wander.

Trapped in an endless cycle of pity and dishonor

and trying to make sense of this meaningless fight.

Loneliness makes the heart grow fonder.

I’ve cursed myself to this bitter end, for I was stronger

before. But now, consumed by my own spite

in this barren expanse I will forever wander,

loneliness makes my heart grow fonder.

Artwork by Emilia

Oleska

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Downtown

by Allison Silver

under the calm cover of night, one

may turn their attention, their affection, toward

the blossoming hope that is the nightlife.

lose yourself in the vivid imagery,

in the small bright lights wrapped around

worn wooden pillars, guiding the way toward life.

trust in the majesty and simplicity

of the paths carved in the dark, those that

disappear when the sun emerges from slumber.

immerse yourself in the hum of chatter,

in the pulse of the muffled melodies

blasting from a stereo no one can identify.

remember the journey that led you to this

lively yet hushed cityscape, to the traditions

made by those who thrive in the moon’s embrace.

Photo taken by Aubrey Klarman

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The Real America

by Beth Dallaire

Whenever a domestic disturbance occurs,

whenever voices join together

to shout their dissent at glaring

injustices, one phrase always gets pulled out of its case, waved around like a white flag.

An excuse. A cop-out.

“This is not who we are.”

Isn’t it, though?

A nation built on the backs of

enslaved Africans, stolen from indigenous people who had

already staked their claim. Where the

wealthy profit off those who can barely make ends meet.

“Well, they should work harder!”

“They’re choosing to be lazy and are profiting off of the system!”

“Pull yourself up by the bootstraps!”

cry the trust-funded, six-figured people

and their devoted lower to upper middle class fan base.

Little have they realized, no one can pull themselves up by the bootstraps.

It is quite literally impossible. Try it if you don’t believe me.

The grossly rich sit in one of their many houses

with more money than they could use in five lifetimes while the underprivileged just have to try.

Try to get the education they deserve. Try to both eat

and pay the bills. Try to balance three jobs that still

won’t cover rent. Try and try and try some more until there is nothing left to try

and no one left to listen.

Law enforcement become judge, jury, and executioner

and innocent lives are taken for no reason other than their skin tone. Taken while playing with a toy gun, while carrying a sandwich,

while buying candy.

While sleeping.

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Children as young as five have to learn how to avoid active shooters in school. Kids learn

“run hide fight” and map out what windows to smash,

where to run, and what classroom supplies

could be used as weapons. “If” becomes “when” in safety PowerPoints.

Kids as young as 18 go off to war, fighting for

who-knows-what-anymore. Freedom? Oil?

Money? Just for the sake of it? Some come

back injured and traumatized, earning unwanted medals

and getting little else than a pension, discounts, and “thank you for your service”-s.

America for the low and middle class is

not the same America of the rich, white,

cisgender, heterosexual, Christian male.

Some say “facts don’t care about your feelings”

until they don’t like the facts. They twist holy

verses to fit their own rhetoric of prejudice

and hate. They go on and on about democracy and their rights until they don’t like something, then they storm the capital and plot to kidnap senators.

If “this isn’t who we are,” then what exactly are we?

Artwork by Carly Svoboda

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The Most Dangerous Mirage

by Kylie Nitz

You used to appear and my fears would dissipate,

lost within the beauty of the sight of a

glistening stream and those

vibrant, sweet desert fruits.

That wandering I had spent so much

time on did not matter anymore.

The exploration of those expansive dunes ceased,

the want for something more a distant memory.

You were always my sip of cool water

after days of overwhelming heat,

you warmed my stomach

with your decadent fruits.

Slowly, your refreshing drink turned to sand,

tearing and closing my throat.

Your trees that once gave the sweetest fruit

produced now only a sour paralytic.

As I grew closer to you

the façade started to fail--

the true nature of that uninhabitable land

was finally coming into focus.

While your sand engulfed me,

as you suffocated me slowly,

you molded my thoughts to make me believe

I was the safest I had ever been.

Even as this bitter poison was being

poured down my throat and drained me,

you still convinced me

it was the sweetest nectar I would ever taste.

Your words kept me in this trance,

making me believe that the impossible climate

I was choosing to suffer through was

my only hope at life.

Artwork by Betty-Jean Fitzgerald

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Roman Dog

by Jonas DeWulf

Lazing beneath the balmy sun,

tongue panting softly,

wagging its tail to the rhythm of a dozen street musicians,

a dog sits next to its owner.

A panoply of colors stitched together

form a vibrant umbrella.

Droplets of the morning drizzle

still hang on,

bespeckling those that pass

in rainbows.

Wayward olive trees grow where they wish,

trunks like the gnarled faces of old men

laughing at their own jokes,

and bark the color of worn leather,

with roots rising from the ground

like waves in a tempest.

A legion of cypresses,

their sage canopies

shading the road

into a piano of gravel.

Paths meander past statues

to rusted benches

where families lounge

in a bell curve of smiles.

Swans flow under a lichen spotted stone bridge

spanning a pond dotted by lilies.

Snow white feathers stand stark

against the ripples

of the brackish water.

Ancient walls of marble drape the park,

like a wedding gown left to the dust.

The cities whirlwind of noise locked out,

only the jovial chirping of birds

and other tranquil noises

linger in the air.

The benign bruise of the sunset,

splashing clouds of smoky grey and lavender

on the backdrop of a fading sky

the color of cornflowers,

its last wave of goodbye.

Stars rise,

like a thousand gleaming bells

heralding night.

Resting beneath a rusted park bench,

surrounded by the ivory glow of dry bark

in moonlight,

eyes bouncing to and from closed,

a dog lays under its owner.

Artwork by Rachel

Fonder

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Request

by Rachel Fonder

3rd Place Winner for 11th Grade Short Story in the

2020-21 High School Young Author’s Contest (County Level)

I may had overestimated how hard the journey would be. When I had angrily stalked into Lady

Olivia’s tent on the edge of town demanding all that she knew, she said I would have to go through

many perilous tests of strength and travel for thousands of miles to reach my seemingly impossible

destination. But now that I could clearly see where I wanted to go, atop the towering hill sprinkled with

downy snow, and had only two days of mild traveling under my belt, anger pulsed in the back of my mind. I had been hesitant to believe it, but the townspeople were right; she was absolutely crazy. I

chastened myself for trusting her judgement so quickly. Fingers hooked over the rocky lip of the crag, I pulled myself up, keeping my eyes trained

upwards. On top of the hill and surrounded by snow stood a small wooden log cabin, smoke lazily

curling from its chimney. It looked so out of place among the white of the snow and the gray of the rocks, like it had just fallen from the sky. I gritted my teeth and struggled to find a foothold as I

laboriously fought my way up the rocky mountainside to get to the top. I kept my mind set keen on the

prize and made myself keep going despite the numbing cold and the blistering wind. I was panting once I heaved myself over the ledge and collapsed in the snow from the effort. My

breath fogged in front of my face, turning into mist and dispersing in the breeze. After taking a quick

moment to recover, I stumbled to my feet, boots sinking into the snow-covered ground, and trudged

forward. Keeping my face downcast to shield my eyes and sensitive nose from the cold and wind, I

noticed that there were no footprints leading up to the house, just a fine blanket of white. Finally, I made it to the cabin, and haphazardly knocked. Standing still, I shivered violently from

the cold, teeth chattering. The roaring of the wind filled my ears, and the door remained shut. “Hello?” I tried shouting. Nearby, snow was picked off the ground and swirled in the air. The door didn’t open. I knocked again, this time harder. “Is anyone home?” I asked, hunching my shoulders to retain

my own body heat. “May I come in?” Again, no answer. Annoyance sparked hot beneath my skin, warming me slightly against the chill. “Hello?” I

repeated, raising my voice angrily. “Don’t you know it’s freezing out here? I know you’ve got to be in

there; open up!” The house stayed silent. I felt my patience snap. “I’m coming in!” I snarled, gripping the freezing brass handle and

throwing open the door. Cold air billowed in, aiding my dramatic entrance, and made the door slam

wide on its hinges. I pushed my glasses further up on my face and glared around the interior. The small

cottage was just a single room with a fireplace blazing on the farthest wall. A stack of logs sat idly by

the brick enclosure, and candle holders dotted the perimeter of the room to shed light on all inches of the house. By the fireplace in a rocking chair lounged a man with a book in his hands and reading

glasses teetering on the end of his nose. He carefully looked up from reading, looking undisturbed by the ruckus I had caused. His

brilliant blue eyes, the color of a cloudless sky, stared back at me through his spectacles. “You’re early,”

he remarked. The cold air chilled the back of my neck, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. I stood dumbly in

the doorway, his casual demeanor unnerving me and making all my previous anger vanish. “Pardon?” “You’re early.” The man repeated. He looked back down at the novel in his lap and gingerly turned the

page. My breath caught in my throat. “You knew I was coming?”

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The man looked up again and closed his book. “Of course. I see all, Jeremiah.”

“So you’re…” I felt like dancing with glee. Lady Olivia had been correct! She had been wrong about

certain details, but she had directed me to my wanted destination with little problem! The man nodded. He removed his reading glasses from his nose and set them into his lap. “I am the

Creator of the universe.” I opened my mouth to answer but was reminded that the door to the cabin was still hanging wide open by

a sharp and freezing gust of wind slamming into my back. I quickly turned around and shut the door, instantly

containing the heat from the fireplace and warming up the space. The man gently rocked in his chair, carefully eyeing me. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?” he

asked. “No one comes to visit me just for simple small talk.” I rubbed my upper arms to chase away the tail ends of the cold from outside, raising a suspicious

eyebrow. “But if you’re the Creator of the universe; wouldn’t you already know what I’m here for? You just said

you see everything.” The Creator chuckled. He set down his book and got to his feet, turning around to tend to the fire. He

grasped a fresh log and threw it on top of the others. Embers flew from the commotion, sizzling on the red

bricks. “That is true,” he laughed. “But I wanted to hear it from you. Why did you seek me out, Jeremiah?”

“Well…” I shuffled my feet absently. The wind on the other side of the door howled. I felt my chest

tighten, my breath constricting in my throat. “Why did you have to make life so horrible? There’s sadness, and

death, and despair, and disease, all things that make people's lives miserable. Did you just want to see us suffer?” He blinked, then sat back down in his rocking chair. His face was disturbingly neutral. “Of course not,”

The Creator responded. “Then why did you do it?” I asked, my impatience rising. The man was annoyingly bland and indifferent,

to the point where I wanted to storm out of the cabin and face the harsh cold again, but I forced myself to stay

put and see through my quest. “Being human is absolutely horrible, do you know that? You are the reason our

lives are full of those terrible things. If you don’t want us to suffer, then why do it? Why not take it all away so

we can be happy?” The man didn’t even hesitate. “It builds character. It gives everyone a story to tell.” “Who cares about a stupid story?” I yelled, clenching my fists and baring my teeth. I lunged forward

slightly to intimidate the Creator and see if he would flinch, but he didn’t budge. “I speak for behalf of every

human on earth when I demand that you fix the monstrous things that you’ve inflicted us with. That’s why I’m

here. I seek justice for all mankind so we can stop suffering in silence.” The cabin settled into quietness. The fire crackled and consumed the newly added log. Wind battered the

walls of the small cabin, making the wood creak and groan. Slowly, the Creator got to his feet again and stepped

towards me. “Is that what you truly want?” he asked. “Because I can’t grant that request completely; I’m no

genie. But perhaps I can aid you in your cause.” “Anything to get people to stop suffering,” I pleaded. “Okay, then.” The man laid a hand on each of my shoulders, and I staggered under the touch. His palms

felt like heavy bricks weighing down on me. “But I must warn you,” he continued. “A great request like this

comes with an even greater price to pay. You may have to suffer so the rest of the world does not.” I rolled my eyes, only half listening to his words. I was so close to achieving what I came for! I could

claim the glory I always wanted, to right the earth of all its wrongs and fix everything that was terrible. I could

finally change the world. “Whatever, old man,” I sneered, excitement making my chest seize. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” The Creator sighed. He pressed harder onto my shoulders and closed his blue eyes. “As you wish,

Jeremiah. May the world have mercy on your soul.”

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Artwork by Carly

Svoboda

Artwork by Maya

Feick

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Front Cover Artwork by

Taylor Braun

Back Cover Artwork by

Carly Svoboda