REVERIE 2021
Transcript of REVERIE 2021
REVERIE 2021
2
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
Page #
3
4
5
6-7
7
8
9-10
11
12
12
13-14
14
15
16-17
18
19-21
22
23
24
25
26
27-28
29
30
31-32
3
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
9
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
12
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.”
14
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
15
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
16
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
18
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.
19
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
20
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.
21
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
22
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
23
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
24
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.
25
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
26
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
27
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.
28
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
29
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
30
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
31
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?”
32
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.”
33
Artwork by Carly
Svoboda
Artwork by Maya
Feick
34
Front Cover Artwork by
Taylor Braun
Back Cover Artwork by
Carly Svoboda