* * * This collection of writing contains themes and descriptions of events that might be difficult and/or potentially triggering for some individuals. Please take time for yourself before, during, and after reading. * * *
Editor-in-Chief Madi Filber Assistant Editor Emma Storley Treasurer Autumn McDonnel Editorial Assistants Kara Sinar Dylan Grundstrom Layout Kenna Smith Faculty Advisors Pen Pearson Patrick Whiteley Lynn Klundt Print Shop Coordinator Ryan Schwab Editorial Staff
A Letter from the Editor-in-Chief To our contributors, sponsors, community members, and everyone else who supports our annual magazine: I would like to thank you for everything you do to keep the Northern Lights magazine an annual occurrence. Without our contributors, we would not have anything to publish. Without our sponsors, we would not have funds to create a print version of the magazine. Without our community members, we would not have nearly enough support to acknowledge that we are making an impact on people outside of the Northern campus. Each and every person who interacts with Northern Lights helps the magazine succeed and, more importantly, gives our authors and artists a voice and a place to be heard. As my final year as Editor-in-Chief comes to a close, I’m beyond grateful for the experiences, friends, and life lessons I’ve gained. Northern Lights has helped me in more ways than I could have imagined and I will always be thankful for the time I spent with the organization. Ending my reign on a great issue is something I will take with me as I graduate in just over a month. Thank you for continuing to support Northern Lights and all of its members! Madi Filber Editor-in-Chief
1 Table of Contents Campbell, Grace String of Lights.................................................14 Tilted Perspective...............................................15 Reaching Through a Window........................................16 Christensen, Olivia Stress and Me....................................................25 Eleutheromania...................................................38 Filber, Madi The Silver Set...................................................15 Maria’s Grove....................................................21 If you were still here . . ......................................33 I never called...................................................48 Grundstrom, Dylan high light........................................................3 I................................................................49 Open Weather.....................................................54 Hermans, Tucker Marisol..........................................................19 Place............................................................47 Hinman, Kasey Looking for Light................................................10 Huppler, Ryleigh Life’s a Bitch...................................................56 Kessler, Christen I Kissed Leah Jones..............................................11 To You, From Me..................................................24 Ode to Hyperfixations.............................................61 Klundt,Lynn Shot at Redemption . . ..........................................35
2 Kurtz, Ethan Out for Delivery..................................................51 Lahammer, Ash Ophelia and Her Willow............................................5 Larson, Maray Pale Romantics....................................................4 Rain on the Window...............................................16 Bigger than Myself...............................................23 Beautiful Death..................................................26 McDonnel, Autumn Eyes..............................................................9 Doomsday.........................................................30 Grapes...........................................................61 Scheuring, Abigail Eldest...........................................................32 Gumball Girl.....................................................50 Gwendoline.......................................................53 Sinar, Kara And His Footprints Are Lost in the Snow..........................17 Haunted Heart....................................................27 Alice............................................................44 Storley, Emma Perfectly Fine...................................................39 Thorson, Miranda Inspired.........................................................20 Rosekey..........................................................34 Knife............................................................38
3 high light Dylan Grundstrom He read the pages of his life carefully, turning each page slowly, As he indulged in every word. They were written precisely for him. Though possible to read without understanding, He chose to value the letters in front of him— There was no other choice. For him, the soul of the novel jumped out of the pages. He took a highlighter from the desk in front of him. Removing the cap, he gently put the bright ink on the page. In one smooth stroke, he set some lines apart from the others. Appreciative of the true beauty of the novel for the first time, A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped his nose on his wrist. Memories replayed in his mind. Life grew brighter in that moment, Not because they were the first thoughts worth highlighting, But because it was the first time he had done so. Satisfied with his reading, he set the book down in front of him. He closed the text and read the title over and over. No matter how many times he did so, the title remained the same.
4 Pale Romantics Maray Larson
5 Ophelia and Her Willow Ash Lahammer Once upon a time, in a village hidden within the woods, there lived a fair maiden. There were rumors of a strange courting ritual that involved a key and fox near the fair maiden’s hut at the edge of town. Ophelia wasn’t quite sure if the rumors were true, nor was she sure that the rumors were about her Willow at all, but something in her chest—the something deep and ancient— pulled her toward the village, so she thought she should at least go and investigate. When she arrived in the village, it was nearing dusk. The evening sun cast a soft light against the buildings—all quiet and cozy. The liveliest building in the otherwise quiet village was near the center, and Ophelia assumed it to be the tavern. She made her way over, hoping to find a place to rest as well as to gather some information about the trial at hand. Upon opening the door to the tavern, Ophelia was greeted with a cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells. Within the tavern, there were people of all shapes and sizes drinking and laughing and talking. Making sure her cloak was secure, she slipped through the crowd as effortlessly as if she were flowing water. She approached the person whom she assumed to be the innkeeper, inquiring about a room. Once she had secured a room and some food, she sought out the answer to the question that had brought her to this village. “Excuse me sir, might I ask about the fair maiden that lives just outside this village and the quest that befalls her suitors?” she said, her voice like the quiet of a babbling brook. “Ah yes, you must be here to win the heart of the fair maiden. Though I warn you many have tried, and none have succeeded so far.” He paused, chuckling, before continuing, “The fair maiden has laid out a task for anyone that wishes to court her: they must get the key off of the fox that lives just outside her house and present it to her within three days’ time. Only then will she accept their courtship.” The innkeeper smiled at her, pityingly, before saying, “Hunters and trappers have tried—the best in the land—to capture the beast. Pipers and bakers alike have tried to tempt it, but none have succeeded. Not sure how a lil wisp of a thing like you could succeed but you are welcome to try.” The group of men at the table next to her started mocking her. She smiled simply—the smile of someone who knew more than they let on—and stood, checking her cloak and dusting off her dress. “Thank you, good sir. I must be off now, to secure my start if I am to be successful in my attempts,” she said, pointedly, before making a quick and quiet exit. She walked quickly to the hut at the edge of the village, which lit up upon her presence. Still quite unsure if this was her Willow, but unwilling to let this opportunity slip through her fingers in this lifetime, she took a deep breath before stating her purpose to the open air. “Fair maiden, I wish to court you. I know of the requirements and I will do my best henceforth to complete them. Please accept this as a token of my appreciation,” she said, before placing a locket as near the door as she dared. A voice, barely a whisper on the wind, replied, “So be it. Good luck, milady,” before the hut went dark and Ophelia knew that she had been dismissed. She went to the inn, residing next to the tavern to rest.
6 The next morning, she went back to the clearing by the hut. She sat a decent distance away from the opening of the den. All she had brought was a simple lunch and a journal. The journal was an ancient, yellowed thing that felt like it was almost as old as time itself. She carefully cracked the book open before beginning in a steady, clear voice. She spent the whole day reading the journal, until her voice was raspy and hoarse. She only paused to eat lunch, leaving a bit of food next to the opening of the den for the fox. The journal told the story of a knight from the Fae court, a beautiful selkie, and a forbidden, cursed love. It told of how they met one night when the curious knight ventured to a stream (something from which court-level Fae were forbidden) and saw the beautiful selkie sunbathing on the beach. It told of their tentative friendship, of their whirlwind romance, of the stolen kisses and empty promises. Finally, it told of the curse that had befallen their love, and that a messenger of the Fae court had seen the two and reported to the Fae Queen. The Fae Queen, smile full of deceit, had called them before the court to give them a blessing. They would be allowed to be together in exchange for their immortality—they could be together in this lifetime and any others that may follow. But, as all Fae blessings have, there was a hidden curse to this choice, one they did not realize at first. Each time they were reincarnated, one of them lost all their memories of their past lives. Though it alternated between the two of them regularly, each time they started their new lives, one of the two was doomed to wander the world, in hopes of finding the other. Once they found each other, they could get the other to remember their past lives, but sometimes they weren’t as lucky and thus they spent their whole life in that lifetime looking for each other. Their only solace was a magical journal they both shared, tied to whoever had the memories that cycle. Through it, they chronicled their journeys, their love, and their hardships. As night began to fall, Ophelia got up off of the ground, dusted her dress off, secured her cloak tightly, and returned to the tavern. As she ordered some broth to soothe her sore throat, she heard the group of men from the night before jeering at her—mocking her for returning empty-handed. She steadfastly ignored them, choosing to make small talk with the innkeeper whenever he was near. From him, she discovered that most suitors gave up on day one or two of the trial, and that he didn’t expect her to make it past day one. As she retired for the night, she felt the determination burn in her soul. More and more she was becoming certain that this was her Willow, but regardless, she would complete this trial—if only to prove to the people of this village that she could. The next day she went back to the clearing, settling a little closer to the den, and began to read again. She read of the adventures of the Fae knight and the selkie, of their heartbreak and centuries upon centuries of falling in love. Each story was as unique as the two who were experiencing it. As she read, she saw the fox out of the corner of her eye. She sat as still as possible and did not react. All day long she read and read, and the fox sat outside the opening to its den. At lunch, she made careful, slow movements, ate her food, and left some as near to the fox as she dared. The fox was quick to dart over to get it, before settling back down to eat—nearer to Ophelia than it previously had been. After lunch she continued to read, until her voice went hoarse yet again and dusk began
7 to settle over the clearing. At this point she carefully put her items away, securing her cloak yet again, and left the clearing. Looking back only once, she saw the fox’s eyes peering out from its den—golden like honeysuckle. Back at the tavern she ordered some broth yet again, and as she watched the crowd, she realized that the group of men that had been there the past two nights seemed to be betting on her success and, based on the amount of gold that was being passed to the elderly woman at the end of the bar, most had bet against her continuing the task. She smiled to herself as she ate her broth, knowing that she only had one more day to succeed and unworried that she would fail. The next day, the final day, she went to the clearing and sat right next to the foxhole. She opened the final pages of the journal and read the more recent events. She did not react when the fox came out of its hole, nor did she react when it curled up on her lap and peered at the journal, seemingly reading along with her. Since there were so few pages left to read, she finished the journal shortly before lunch. She shared her lunch with the fox in her lap, not once daring to reach for the key that hung around its neck. After lunch, they dozed together in the afternoon sun, lazing about. When she woke from her nap at dusk, the fox was long gone, but in its place was the key, nestled very carefully upon her lap. She grabbed the key, securing her cloak yet again, and went to the tavern, grinning to herself the whole way. The jeers that she was met with upon entering the tavern did nothing to dampen her spirits, though she did not show it. She pretended she had not succeeded in her task, as she knew her Willow would come to her. She always came to her eventually. The tavern drew silent upon the opening of the door, as the most beautiful maiden entered. She seemed to float across the tavern and the crowd parted at her mere presence. Ophelia had already eaten and paid and was making her way toward her room; she seemingly had not felt her presence yet. She felt a tap on her back and turned around. Her breath caught in her throat. Any trace of doubt that had been left, what little there was, vanished in an instant. There was her Willow, with her fiery orange hair, her sharp features, and her beautiful golden honeysuckle eyes. She smiled at Willow and tilted her head in question, knowing that she still had no confirmation that Willow remembered her yet. “Excuse me, milady. I do believe you forgot this at your table. It looks like a very valuable cloak, so it would do you good to keep it on you, Willow said, smile intimate and knowing. Ophelia realized with a start that she had indeed forgotten her cloak at the table and that that Willow was currently returning it to her. There was no way she did not know what that meant—not with the way her eyes lit up with mirth. “May I have your name, milady?” Willow asked. “You may not have it, but it is Ophelia,” Ophelia replied, shyly smiling, before she reached into her pocket and pulled out the key. “I do believe this is yours, fair maiden, for I was gifted it by the fox that lives near your house,” she said. Willow laughed and grasped the key, lingering on Ophelia’s hand as she took it. She looked at Ophelia like she always did, so full of love and joy and mirth that she was minutes from bursting with it. “That it is, milady. It seems I have found the one I was looking for
8 this whole time. I may not have known who you were, but my soul has known you for a long time and it will continue to know you forevermore. If it is not too forward of me, milady, I do believe we have somewhere to be,” Willow said, offering Ophelia a hand, which she took readily. And as the two left the tavern, laughing at the disbelief on the villagers’ faces, they knew that this lifetime would be okay. No matter what, their love would prevail, through trials, through lifetimes upon lifetimes of wandering and hardship. They would love each other in this life and any life after—for so it was destined to be and so it became. A blessing and a curse, a lifetime of pain, a lifetime of love.
9 Eyes Autumn McDonnel Great-Grandpa Gene loved your eyes, Great-Grandma Millie always told me, growing up. She said this every time I visited her. The biggest, darkest brown he had ever seen, She spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then my sister would make dirt pies, In the backyard several feet away from me. And she’d scoop up a handful of Brown dirt and wriggly worms. The dirt looks like your eyes, She spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I had my first boyfriend Who said he fell in love with me The moment he saw my eyes. They’re the most beautiful brown I’ve ever seen, He spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I looked in the mirror On a Sunday morning getting ready for church with my dad. The sunlight hit my irises while he watched, And my eyes went from brackish brown to glittering gold, Like homemade honey in a pot. You don’t get those brown jewels from me, He spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I turned 20 And I noticed everything about me changed overnight, Except for my eyes. My dirty brown eyes, That somehow retained their beauty, And were the first thing that people noticed. My eyes were assigned their beauty By people that loved me most, I spoke. This meant everything to me.
10 Looking for Light Kasey Hinman
11 I Kissed Leah Jones Christen Kessler I kissed Leah Jones. Part of me can’t quite believe this is happening, I can feel her lips on mine—so soft and delicate. I wasn’t even planning on doing it. We were just hanging out at the lake as usual and she was lying on the dock looking down at me in the water. A piece of hair fell into her face and I pushed it away and we were so, so close. And I kissed her. She suddenly jerked away and I looked up at her in shock. Neither of us said anything; my mind was still reeling. The look on Leah’s face, the shock, the horror, wiped away that brief moment of euphoria that I felt. “I have to go,” Leah mumbled, while scrambling to her feet. She was halfway to her bike before I could even call after her. I knew she heard me when her shoulders tensed but she didn’t bother to turn around. I cursed silently, dragging myself to dry land. My towel had my clothes and phone wrapped up in it; I dried my hands before picking up the phone. Despite the bright sun making the screen nearly impossible to see, I managed to click the call button next to Leah’s name. Straight to voicemail. I royally fucked up this time, I thought to myself before heading home. * * * Walking into the school building the next morning, I could tell that something was wrong. The whispers were the first hint: as I walked down the hallway their hushed voices followed me. The second hint was when my softball team was not waiting for me by the gym doors—we always caught up together in the morning before classes. My heart jumped to my throat and I shuffled my way toward my locker. The whispers got louder, followed by a round of snickers. I forced myself to keep my back straight and head high as I walked to my locker. When I rounded the corner to my locker I saw why everyone was laughing. Someone had covered my locker in graffiti. Slurs and insults covered nearly every inch of the door. Tears sprung to my eyes but I held them back, opening my locker as if I did not see the cruel words. Laughter doubled behind me as I came face to face with a picture of the kiss at the lake—hundreds of copies were plastered all over the inside of my locker. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying and shut the locker. The bell rang and as the other students all dispersed. I was frozen in my spot. When I finally thawed and turned around, I was face-toface with Leah. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Suddenly, all the tears that I withheld from the crowd came rolling down my face. I turned away from Leah and ran to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall and letting the sobs tear through me. My whole body shook with anger and sorrow. Snot and tears dripped down my face and I wiped them away with my sleeve. I don’t know how long I was in that position, curled into a ball next to the toilet, but eventually there was a knock on the stall door.
12 “Harper are you okay?” Dr. Teal, the school counselor’s voice called out from the other side of the door. “Why don’t we go to my office and have a chat?” “I’m fine,” I sniffled. “Please just leave me alone.” “This doesn’t seem like ‘fine,’ Harper,” she responded. She hesitated. “I saw your locker. I already have the janitor cleaning off the marker from the door.” Peeling myself from the floor, I unlocked the stall door and pulled it open. Dr. Teal gave me a look of understanding and took me under her arm to guide me from the bathroom. I hesitated before leaving the safety of the ladies’ room, wiping my face again to be sure that no snot or tears remained, before following Dr. Teal’s guiding arm to her office. Plopping myself on the couch in her room, I let the silence cover me like a comforting blanket. In the distance, I heard the bell ring and the halls flooded with students once more. I covered my face, hoping that I would wake up and still be in bed. No such luck. “Can I call my mom to come pick me up?” I asked, still not fully uncovering my face, peeking at Dr. Teal through my fingers. “After we talk about what happened.” “Nothing happened.” “I think we both know that’s not true, Harper.” Dr. Teal gave me a pointed look over her glasses. “How long have you liked Leah?” “We’ve been best friends since daycare,” I said, purposely ignoring the point of her question, hoping she would take the hint. “Harper, I can’t help if you aren’t going to be straightforward with me.” I uncovered my face and met her gaze head on. I felt like she could see straight into my traitorous heart. She didn’t say anything else—just waited for me to be ready to confront what I was going through. My stomach tightened thinking about what I would have to face once I left this room and before I knew it I had told her everything. I told her about when I realized I liked Leah as more than a friend, and I told her about the kiss at the lake, and how, just a month from graduation, I ruined my reputation. Dr. Teal listened to everything without judging. She just sat in her chair listening to me talk and occasionally jotting down notes. When I finished my rant, I felt a drop land on my arm and realized that I had started crying again while talking. “Your reputation is not ruined, Harper,” Dr. Teal began, speaking slowly to ensure that I was listening. “Being gay doesn’t change who you are. If anyone says differently, then they never saw the real you to begin with.” “Everyone keeps laughing at me,” I said, in a voice that sounded too close to a whine for my comfort. “How am I supposed to face this when my best friend can’t even talk to me?” “People will move past this; the only question now is if you can.” * * *
13 I could hear the music pounding in the gym from the parking lot. It had been a week since the kiss and people had moved on like Dr. Teal had said. My team started waiting for me again, but they asked me to change in a stall instead of in the locker room. No one had written anything else on my locker and things went back to normal. However, a couple people still gave me dirty looks in the hall and Mike called me a dyke in homeroom yesterday. That is nothing compared to the fact that Leah still hasn’t spoken to me since that day at the lake. A couple wearing a matching prom dress and suit walked by giggling at something one of them said. I had to fight back the urge to turn around and drive home. Smoothing down my blazer, I tuned out the rest of the world as I walked into the gym. The music lulled as it switched from a line dance to a slow song—people were too busy pairing off to notice my entrance. I made a beeline to the snack table, hoping that a few chips and a cup of punch would help ease my nerves. Dr. Teal was the staff member in charge of making sure that no one spiked the punch. She gave me an encouraging smile. I tried to return the smile but it felt more like a grimace. When I finished my snack I knew I had no choice but to do what I had promised myself and Dr. Teal to do. It wasn’t hard to find her. Leah was like a magnet: I could find her anywhere. She was surrounded by a group of people—most of them from her debate team. Her dark green dress that we chose together months ago looked stunning against her red hair. My breath caught in my throat. I froze: I was physically unable to get closer to her. I knew that at that moment I was not going to keep my promise. How could I possibly go up and talk to her and apologize for the kiss when all I wanted to do was kiss her again? As if she could sense my thoughts, Leah’s eyes suddenly met mine from across the room. Panic bubbled in my chest. Leah turned and said something to the person standing next to her, then she started toward me. Every muscle in my body stiffened. My brain said run, run now, but nothing happened. She was just five steps away from me when I figured I should probably say something. I opened my mouth to apologize, but before a word could escape from me, her lips came crashing down on mine. Whatever I was thinking of saying flew from my mind in an instant. Leah Jones was kissing me. She was kissing me. And I kissed her back.
14 String of Lights Grace Campbell
15 The Silver Set By Madi Filber The ornate pieces The tarnished silver The shiny, small creases Its purpose blurred From the wives of NSC To the students from any sea To the shelf in the archives Engraved by lovely wives The beloved tray The chipped spoon The coupons arranged in a bouquet All celebrated under the moon No longer loved Maybe now forgotten But not by me The silver set Served with green tea Tilted Perspective Grace Campbell
16 Reaching Through a Window Grace Campbell Rain on the Window Maray Larson I watch as the sky cries its heavenly tears. I watch as the falling diamonds become trapped on my windowpane, forbidden to see the ground that they long for. I must only tap the beautiful droplets free to send them racing toward the earth. Tell me how to save these diamonds from disappearing and dying on the pavement below. Tell me how I can capture the beauty of the rain.
17 And His Footprints Are Lost in the Snow Kara Sinar The sky was a peculiar shade of grey—almost blue, but not quite light enough to be beautiful. There was a mercurial breeze that served to whip around the last of the autumnal foliage, blowing a small collection of golden leaves through Centennial Park. There was a man seated at a bench on the right side of the park, in a soft grey coat with a hole in the left pocket and a crooked black cap. His eyes had a glazed-over quality as they focused on the pavement in front of him. He was staring so intently, but it was clear to even a casual observer that the sidewalk was not his true object of study. He let out a breath (shakier than he had thought), and unwrapped a red plaid scarf from around his neck, crumpling it between his hands. He studied those hands, turning and flexing them. His fingers were crooked, and long, indigo veins snaked their way beneath his wrinkling flesh—stretched around fragile bones: hollow, like those of a bird. These were the hands of an old man and he struggled to recognize them as his own. There was a smooth, military-straight scar along his left wrist from the surgery. When had he had that done? He could have sworn that it was still on his to-do list. “I should call my doctor about that.” He had just been to the doctor, though. His carpal tunnel had been taken care of years ago, so he must have gone for something else. What was it? He furrowed his eyebrows as he pursed his lips. He couldn’t remember. He folded the scarf neatly and picked up his coffee to place the garment underneath—for the wind. He always took his coffee black with two sugars. He was about to raise the cheap, styrofoam to-go cup to his lips when a young couple walked past with their two dogs. A Bernese Mountain Dog and a Scottish Terrier walked side-by-side, making for quite the odd pair. Beautiful dogs, though. The shadows on the sidewalk had deepened, and the wind suddenly felt colder. There was a murky, blue aspect to the light now. The old man squinted to look up at the sky, gradually opening his eyes as he perceived that the grey had intensified, hiding the feeble rays of sunshine that just barely had strength to be seen. “A bit unseasonable for fall.” He leaned forward (his lower back protesting) and watched as the dogs moved past, the terrier bouncing comically as he discovered a delightfully asymmetrical stick at the edge of the sidewalk. He and Emmeline had had a dog—an Irish Setter named Lucy—the sweetest dog in the world. She could do any number of tricks and walked so well without her leash. She would ask permission to come up on the couch, and Emmeline couldn’t help but indulge her. Soon, she had migrated to the bed, leaving a trail of fine, copper hairs in her wake. She had invaded their space in the best way possible, trading snuggles for snacks as she listened intently with her head in her lap when Emmeline would vent about her day.
18 “I should look into the animal shelter; I think I’d like to have a dog again,” he thought to himself. But wait, what had the doctor said? Something about how it wasn’t safe? The woman gave a firm jerk on the leash, “Heel! Come on, Henry!” The man’s eyes widened and he set his cup down with tremoring hands. “Henry!” a woman in a green coat called out and he looked up. He was younger now, dressed in a school uniform with a messy tie; missing a front tooth, with a pale face full of freckles. All he could see was the green coat—the woman’s face was a blur. Who was she? His mother? Emmeline had also worn a green coat. He’d come here with her too, hadn’t he? Before she died. He wanted to see her again, to walk their dog in this park and to hold her hand inside of the pockets of her green coat because he had forgotten his gloves again. He was always forgetting things. A snowflake landed gently on his cheekbone and he turned his gaze upward. The clouds had thickened and snowflakes were just beginning to fall, making their first descent of the year. As the snow fell, a kind of cloudy veil was lowered over his eyes. The old man reached for his coffee cup again, but he made a peculiar face after the liquid passed his lips. “Why is there cream in this?” The man turned and found another coffee cup on his left. That must be his. Yes, this time he was greeted with his black coffee: two sugars. He must have drunk Emmeline’s by mistake. He stood, noting the quickly disappearing footprints from the other pedestrians in the park. It was snowing harder now and he needed to go home. After all, Emmeline would want her coffee, and it was about time to feed the dog.
19 Marisol Tucker Hermans I see her brown eyes, umber as an ironbark forest. I wander there, no escape no need to. Here I could pitch my tent, roll out my sleeping bag and live. Water runs just a few yards away. Sometimes I sit cross legged and watch it swell. This stream, a gentle landmark just above her chin. The delicate, subtle curves of her lips as they creep into a smile the only spark I need to light a campfire, beside which I sleep. Beyond my bedroll, beyond my tent deeper she lets me in guiding me along her trails, holding my hand. She leads me to a cave it takes weeks to get there. She points and says, there’s monsters in there. Some I’ve slain and some who slay me. I look back. Her eyes dart away, her lips part and close. She lets go of my hand I sense I’m not the first. Her arms wrap around her torso a one-person hug. A rivulet winds its way down her cheek, she thinks I won’t like what I see, maybe I’ll break camp and leave. I pull her in close, her heart mere inches from mine, our lips almost touching, Her breath quivers. So do I. Her eyes peek at mine. I say, my cave’s got monsters too. Some I’ve slain and some who slay me. I blink, dewdrops down my face. I tell her: I see your eyes umber as an ironbark forest I see your river as it gently swells I see the trails we’ve walked together I see the cave and the monsters inside. All of you is beautiful.
20 Inspired Miranda Thorson
21 Maria’s Grove Madi Filber In a grove, twenty minutes from the edge of town, was a young adult who struggled with everything ‘adult’ that was happening in her life. Maria had come to this grove ever since she had found it twelve years prior. Twelve years prior, she was eight years old, living in the old farmhouse just over the hill in the distance, and was giving her mother a panic attack because she had wandered to this small section of trees that stood alone in the field of grass and mud. She was a curious child and Willow, her over-hyper childhood husky, had caught a glimpse of something that Maria had to know Willow was following. The grove was like heaven on earth. The trees were perfectly straight, there were no weeds, and a small pond ended the small grove. The grove was the only thing perfect in the entire field. The rest of the field was full of rocks, uneven patches, and even the old farmhouse ruined the ‘image’ of the field in Maria’s mind. Now that Maria had started her third year of college, she didn’t feel the need to come out here anymore. Not that she didn’t need a mental break, she did, but she believed that she was drowning her problems by never being alone. If Maria came here, she would be alone, fearing another human being would ruin the beauty. Willow was the only one to experience this grove. After she had passed, Maria refused to let someone bond over the grove like Willow and she had all those years ago. “One day we’ll have a grove like this all to ourselves, Willow,” Maria would say as Willow’s head rested on her leg. She hadn’t visited this spot in three years, but today she felt the need to. She needed to see the perfection of the forest to remind her of her own perfection, even if Willow was no longer around to experience it. She waded her way from the road farther and farther away from her allwhite vehicle. Her perfect nails and perfect hair were a complete contrast to the imperfect dirt beneath her feet. The contrast between her ‘old life’ and her ‘new life’ was completely black and white. Her old life was what her parents wanted: quiet, non-confrontational, and family oriented. Her new life was loud, protesting, and self-bettering. Maria’s parents were forgiving but unrealistic. Old-fashioned was the best way to describe them. She loved her parents, but their way of life and what they wanted for Maria were out of the question. Her parents wanted her to get married right after college to Spencer, the boy she grew up with from the church they attended once, if not twice a week. Maria had gone to a small school nearby with Spencer. His parents and hers had constantly hung out, so the two kids were destined to spend time with one another. Willow, what do you think about Spencer?” Maria would ask. Willow would give her usual head tilt. “Yeah, I don’t really like him either and you’re probably not the biggest fan of him because he won’t pet you.” He was a nice kid but he was bland. He made vanilla taste like cayenne pepper. He was so ungodly boring. He wore the same two pairs
22 of shoes and khakis every day, and he looked like the base model of a white Midwestern guy. He was great for someone wanting to settle down. At least, for every single religious kid wanting to accomplish a ‘ring by spring’-a disease in that cult they call a college. That wasn’t what Maria wanted. She wanted her life to be perfect like the grove. The closer she got to that grove the more she felt back at home, not the physical home of her childhood—the feeling of home. The grove brought peace, something that her actual house couldn’t. Her parents weren’t the issue; they had been nothing but supportive of her throughout her life. But the taste of freedom when she went into college . . . that could never bring her back to living the old-fashioned life her parents live. When she tasted freedom, her thoughts of becoming perfect were solidified. However, her thoughts of perfection were accompanied by anxiety.She had to be perfect in order to prove to her parents that she could do something other than their ‘get hitched quick’ plan. If there was even one hole in her perfection, she believed it would all come crashing down. A falling leaf pulled her out of her deep thoughts She looked up to see an uneven branch-something she had never seen before. When she looked back to what was ahead of her, she noticed that the trees weren’t perfectly aligned. Her perfect paradise wasn’t perfect? Once she noticed one imperfection, she would see another one and start to question how she could have missed all of these things when she was younger. She picked at her nails—something she started doing because of the anxiety—only to notice an imperfection in her index finger’s polish. She walked farther into the grove and halted at the small pond’s edge. The wind rustled the overhead leaves letting in a sliver of sunlight. A small glare caught Maria’s eye. She knelt down to investigate the glare. As she brushed away the debris, she realized that the glare was a dog tag with a handmade collar, featuring her own crappy attempt at embroidery. When Willow passed, Maria had wanted to bury her here, but that meant that she would have to bring others to this sanctuary that only Willow and she shared. To preserve the grove while still giving Willow a way to be a part of it forever, Maria convinced her parents to let her take Willow’s collar for memory’s sake. As Maria held the collar, she was hit by a wave of emotion. Willow had always loved Maria no matter what. The times Maria had felt loved most by Willow were when Maria considered herself imperfect; Willow had loved her regardless. Maria felt tears sting her eyes and she no longer cared if her makeup remained perfect. Was she having an anxiety attack? No. This wasn’t that feeling-she knew that feeling. Was this feeling . . . relief? She realized this imperfection was perfect for her, and that’s why she imagined this as the perfect place. This was the place where her
23 freedom was born, and it was perfect for her. This grove made her realize that her parents would support her every step of the way even if she wasn’t perfect; they wanted only to protect her, not to force her into anything. She didn’t have to try to be perfect for anyone because she was already perfect in every way. Bigger than Myself Maray Larson
24 To You, From Me By Christen Kessler When you left the diner last night, you had been crying. You had a little pink slip of paper clutched in your hands and mascara running down your face. The night was so cold that your breath fogged the air around your face and the water on your face stung as it froze. Your tears nearly rubbed off the stenciled hearts on your cheeks that you spent forty minutes trying to get perfect before work. The cold seemed to finally cut through the haze of sorrow, a breeze cold enough to freeze Hell rocked you to your core. You sniffled, but from the cold or from crying you were not sure. But it was enough to snap you from your whirling thoughts and zip up your raggedy winter coat. When you get your final check you should really get a new jacket because this one did nothing to keep the chill from reaching your bones. The little pink slip, that stated you were being fired from the diner, fluttered out of your hand with another sharp gust of wind. Grasping after it with frozen hands, you watched as the slip disappeared beyond the building. You cursed under your breath, seeming to wish that you would wake up and realize today was just a nightmare. Giving a frustrated sigh, you turned on your heels and marched off toward your apartment. The snow on the ground did nothing to deter your determined steps, as you were used to snow. You grew up in the northern part of Minnesota, so close to the Canadian border you could see it from the top of your house growing up. Snow was something that you were able to walk through since you took your first steps, so the measly three inches that we have in Virginia right now feels like home. The walk home seemed to help ease your tension, and perhaps it was the cold weather reminding you of home or just the cool, crisp air that gave you a chance to relax. Either way, when you finally got back to your building a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and your tears were entirely forgotten. You climbed the steps to your apartment, feet aching from work and the walk. The landlord said that the elevator would be fixed before Thanksgiving. It’s now Valentine’s Day and the lift still doesn’t work. You are too kind-hearted to raise a stink about it to the landlord, but it doesn’t stop you from cursing his name with every step. Sitting in front of your door is a large box—you freeze when you see it. You weren’t expecting a package today. You approach the box with slow meticulous steps, not getting any closer than you need to. You inch closer until you can make out the words written on the top, “To You, From Me.” Your breathing hitches and tears start fresh down your face. A sob of horror tears from your throat as you back as far away from the box as the narrow hallway will allow. I sat by my computer screens watching you, an amused smile dancing on my lips. When you moved you thought we would lose touch, but I told you when you ran away from me back in Minnesota that I would never let that happen again.
25 Stress and Me Olivia Christensen I can’t keep living like this. Narrowing blood vessels Inside my pressure cooker brain Cause a sharp pain behind my eyes Narrowing blood vessels Create a rhythm as it pulsates Causing a dull, sharp pain behind my eyes My temples dance to the beat My blood creates a rhythm as is pulsates Intestines gurgle and my stomach churns While my temples dance to the beat An electric pain shoots through my neck Intestines gurgle and my stomach churns Last night’s dinner splashes as it hits the water An electric pain shoots through my neck Muscles so tense, they could snap Last night’s dinner splashed as it hit the water My pressure cooker brain implodes Muscles so tense, they finally snapped I will not keep living like this.
26 Beautiful Death Maray Larson
27 Haunted Heart Kara Sinar I was drowning in the sounds of classic rock as I danced through the club. The skirt of my electric blue dress flared out a bit as I twirled, though at a length I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have entirely approved of. I was just tipsy enough. I felt Felix watching me and grew warm because of it. His eyes scrunched in the corners as he laughed and his fluffy blonde hair gleamed like a full moon in the neon lights. I turned to face him, waving him toward me, still dancing. He approached and wrapped his arms around me from behind, nestling his head on my shoulder as I reached back to fiddle with the baby hairs at the base of his neck. This was the nicest I’d felt in a while. When the song ended, he took my hand and pulled me back to the bar counter where his blue Hawaiian and my whiskey and ginger ale had just arrived. Before I could take my first sip, I felt his eyes on me; and that was when I heard him. Well, more like watched his lips as he formed a short sentence. Felix had uttered the three words I had never wanted to hear again. All of the words withered on my tongue, dead and shriveled like the leaves of autumn that clung too long to rough and twisted branches. Winter had come in the gust of cold air that entered my lungs as I opened my mouth. It descended in biting, freezing, numbness as I struggled. Time seemed to slow and run with gelatinous thickness as it passed me by, in direct opposition to the elevated speed of my heart. It was pounding so loud I swear he could hear it across from me. Felix tilted his head and reached a hand out toward me, asking for mine. I think he was asking if I was ok. My ears rang as I crashed back to the moment, and everything was too loud, too big, too real, too close. When had it gotten so hot in here? The music was deafening and the strobing lights assaulted my senses. I drenched my dry mouth with whiskey and ginger ale, relishing the sweet fire in my throat that warmed me from the inside, hopefully thawing me out enough to respond. My mouth felt dry despite my empty glass, so I stretched my face into what I hoped was a smile and I nodded toward the bathrooms, hoping that he would understand. I barely waited to watch him nod and release my hand. Pushing my way through the sea of bodies, I attempted to ignore the sticky squish of the carpetbeneath my heels—God only knows what kind of mystery substances had mixed on the floor or when it had last been cleaned. I squeezed past the pool table and entered the warm, steady, incandescent light of the bathrooms. As the door swung closed behind me, the jumble of big noise was muffled somewhat, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. I glanced around, and seeing no one else, I moved to stand in front of one of the sinks. I forcefully turned both of the knobs to release a harsh stream of water, teasing it with my fingertips to ascertain a temperature—cupping my hands to quickly collect shockingly cold water. I splashed it on my face and rubbed my eyes before I placed my wet hands on the corners of the sink and leaned forward,
28 blinking rapidly to rid my eyes of lingering droplets. I glanced up and wiped the last of the droplets from my eyes, to see myself in the mirror; or at least what should have been me. I was startled when I realised that I didn’t quite recognise the face reflected in the glass. The face I saw before me was tired—pale, with startlingly dark mascara smudged around red-rimmed eyes. I was so cold, and my veins showed blue beneath my collarbones and in my forearms. My heart (less loud now, harsh beatings replaced by the rush of water in the sink) was probably frozen in my chest. Or maybe it was just haunted. My whole body was haunted by the ghosts of all the almost-loves that came before. I saw their evidence in my reflection. In kindergarten, Xavier Hendrix, with his flaming crown of brilliantly red hair, had complimented my smile: the way my new “grown-up” teeth had little ridges at the edges. And so, I parted my lips and grimaced in the bathroom mirror: there he was. My hair was not the same as it was in fourth grade, but hiding in the waves cascading around my throat, I could see Andrew Prescott. Between giggles and curious stares, he had told me he liked me and I had said it back. He asked me to wear my hair down instead of in my usual ponytail because my hair was so long and beautiful and he hoped he could see it. My hair was shorter now, more blue than black, but I ran my still-damp hand through the mess of waves and felt him there. My first boyfriend had claimed my first kiss in college. I didn’t want to see him anywhere, but surely his traces remained somewhere and they made me uneasy. My second boyfriend was little better—I felt him in my hands, which he had held and kissed with such smothering tenderness. He had been a gardener who had mistaken my aloe for an orchid and drowned me. My first and only girlfriend had cheated on me after a year. I saw her in the tattoos on my side and my shoulder. We had gotten them at the same time—not matching, but her memory was etched into my skin with the ink. My third boyfriend had gripped my knee as he drove, absentmindedly stroking lazy circles as he suggested Panera and I shot him down in favour of Qdoba. He laughed every time because he knew I would always want Mexican food. My knee hurt the most—it was the most recent wound and I had inflicted it myself. I had been scared and he had been sweet, but the more Henry was convinced that I was the one for him, the more I had become convinced that I was not and would never be the woman he hoped I was. It hurt me to hurt him; the simple fact that I left did not mean that I had wanted to go, but it had to be done. Felix was the latest in this line to say the words to me. The words that I imagine no one really meant except perhaps when they spoke to their dogs or to their magical 2am pizza rolls: “I love you.” The winter that had settled in me began to thaw as hot liquid pooled in my eyes, threatening to spill. Everything always went to shit after they said that. Those words were the harbingers of doom and all of my instincts were screaming at me to run before we had the chance to hurt each other. He was so good for me and he made me feel like maybe I was good for him too. Was our mutual goodness enough? After Felix how could
29 anything feel better? The top is a long way to fall from, but rock-bottom and I are old friends; there is room for my ghosts there, but not here. Had I been waiting for them to leave of their own accord? Or had I been desperately hanging on to them? Maybe the locks of my hair kept a fragment of a fourth-grade boy, when he would rather depart to the past in peace. Perhaps the reason my first boyfriend was everywhere and nowhere is because he doesn’t belong anywhere in me—an obvious fact if I thought about it. Was Felix a ghost? Would he become one? Just then, a drunk girl stumbled into the bathroom on the phone with one of her friends. She was crying and she kept murmuring that she hated him. She shut herself in the handicapped stall, barely registering my presence. I used to be that girl, but I wasn’t her anymore. I turned off the water in the sink and dried my eyes, wiping away the mascara that had smudged as best as I could. I faced myself in the mirror again. As I searched myself, I saw that all of the ghosts could be drowned out. Felix had brushed Andrew’s hair and traced Marie’s tattoos. He had held Justin’s hands and kissed Henry’s knee when I had fallen off of his couch. Despite this, I saw only myself in the mirror, not him. Yes, Felix made me feel more myself than I had felt in years, and more and more like the version of me that I could become if I tried hard enough. He made me want to try. He brought out the best in me with his stupid girly drinks and his quiet understanding, his soft smile and his boundless optimism. I straightened my spine and pushed open the door, moving out of the bathroom and back into the chaos of the club. Felix was waiting right where I had left him, and in the purple, fluorescent light he practically glowed. “What took you so long? Are you ok? I didn’t say anything to upset you, did I?” I smiled softly at him and took his sweet face in my hands. It was my turn now, and my tongue had finally thawed enough to say what I needed to say—what he deserved to hear. Just three words.
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