The Sky is as Blue as -- after “Empreintes” by Abdellatif Laâbi by Rebecca Snyder
I cannot find another way to tell you how blue the sky is. A million writers have set their pen to paper long before I have, claiming a million ways to describe it -- the sky is as blue as her eyes, the vast Pacific Ocean, the wings of a Morpho butterfly.
I have been left with fragments of cliches, notes scribbled in workshops. I’ve heard this before. Doubts growing in the back of my mind as I turn my gaze to the sky and see only eyes, the ocean, butterfly wings, and I am left to wonder if I have come too late.
Maybe all of the ways to tell you just how blue the sky is have already been taken. Maybe there are no words left for me to call my own.
And I wonder if I should stop looking.
Taps on a Window in the Evening Translated from Batsheva Dori-Carlier by Tyler Hoffman
Like rain, my father came back from the other side. At an open seat, I prepare an empty plate, a fork, a knife and I sense he will not stay for long. The dead are not known for their love of white rice and lentils. As always, he’ll prefer to read Naguib Mahfouz's Lovers in the Rain Which he bought in paperback in the Old City years ago. Memories collect at this table like hearty dishes. The broad hands of my father grip my hands, my sister’s hands, grip the string of beads, his pipe, the books, with that same fragile restraint for shattered things.
1, 142.7 Miles by Patrick McCarthey
The reasons I’ll miss you when you leave: Because you are the only sibling I have. Because we both listen to “Radio Gaga” by Queen at max volume. Because I hate my nose in the same places you hate yours, and we both scrunch them when we’re secretly judging people. Because we both hate history and love math. Because I learned addition and subtraction and multiplication with you, sitting on the carpet in your room using grape-scented markers. Because we can both eat our weight in mint chocolate chip ice cream. Because you don’t eat mayonnaise, or olives, or tuna, or pizza with any toppings, and I don’t either. Because in 1st grade, when I told you I was being bullied, your first thought was to beat up a seven year old. Because after every fight we have, you are the person who apologizes first. Because I’ve spent my entire life looking up to you, even though you’re half a foot shorter than me. Half of the music on my phone was on yours first. I’m learning French because you speak it fluently. Parce-que nous aimons tous les deux la couleur jaune. Because we’ve never played an entire game of Scrabble without one of us storming off. Because I watch all of your favorite movies, even though I know you won't watch mine. Because you love all of my poems, even the really bad ones. Because you are the only person I’ve ever slapped. Because we didn’t have many friends when we were younger. Because when I helped you pack your suitcase for your thousand-mile move, we were zipping up the life we spent together. Because one of the blankets you took to college with you was once the roof to our pillow fort. Because you gave me all of your furniture that couldn’t fit in the car: the big, blue chair in the corner of my room used to sit next to your window. It’s stained with mint chocolate chip ice cream and grape-scented marker, and it’s empty without you.
Source of Illumination by Elizabeth Anders
1. I loved you quickly, briefly, fleetingly, an eclipse that obscured my light. 2. When I tried to touch you, you disintegrated into ashes that covered my hair like snowflakes. 3. I could see the fire outside my car window. The smoke clouded my nostrils, made me forget how to breathe. The window felt cool against my burnt hands. I could hear someone calling my name, and I opened my mouth. A snowflake landed on my tongue. 4. I heard the colours of the sunset 5. like the Louis Armstrong records that spilled onto the New Orleans streets the night we were conceived. 6. I loved you ceaselessly, continuously, agelessly. 7. I fell asleep on the couch last night and dreamed I was in a library. 8. A biblioklept once told me that because we are all human, 9. we should know better than to love. 10. Everything happens for a reason, you know, 11. but we knew better than to trust the crumbled architecture of fate. 12. We climbed up stairways to Hell, 13. asked Hades for forgiveness, slept in the river Styx. 14. She forgets her own name, spells what she knows of it against the moon: L - I - Z. 15. I will forget your name, too. 16. You held your helpless hand out to me 17. and I told you I would put out the fire, take us back to the day it started. 18. I tried to remind you that Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine, 19. but your eyes told me goodbye before your lips did. 20. It snows every time I see you now. I let the snowflakes melt on my skin.
Elizabeth Anders is a seventeen-year-old senior Creative Writer at Barbara Ingram School For the Arts. Girl with a love for open car windows, milkshakes after 2 A.M., summer nights at the beach. Believes plants, postcards, and pineapple skies are the recipe for happiness. Forgets to pray but trusts that God is listening anyway. Drives too fast, cries too easily, laughs too hard when she’s tired. Has learned everything happens the way it’s supposed to. Doesn’t know where she’s going, but she’s on her way.
For Her by Mina Foutch
Because when your parents’ close friend dies, you don’t expect to feel a loss. And I am still mourning the death of this stranger. Thinking about his unexpected exit. And how it settled deep into my veins. How I’m addicted to this sadness. Still pray for his family. Keep a “lucky-little-elephant” in my back pocket for him tucked in the fold of my jeans for good luck.
Swallowing cooked broccoli and corn and last night’s dinner when mom told me he had passed. Burying seeds of sadness and guilt into the soil along with my late grandma. Because like him, she passed suddenly. Because I didn’t say goodbye to either. Jumping over the grief that came with my brother’s leukemia. The same grief that came with the first time I said I don’t like myself. And the grief that came with my mother's disappointment. And instead I plant it here. Instead I use it now. Because it’s easy to mourn the things you can’t control.
Kissing his wife good morning. White sheets and golden sun rays seeping into their bedroom. His coffee. Black. Telling her he loved her. Morning breath and quiet words. Wishing whispers. On his way to take a shower when the sand in his hourglass stopped. Falling. Just like his heart. A cold cup of coffee on the bathroom counter. The water running.
So easy to die. So I ask God how his children are. How his daughter is. Since. And I picture his wife, Sara, the way she must have screamed bloody-murder when she found him on the tile. The way her daughter stood behind watching Mommy try to wake Daddy up. The way her son was sleeping in the crib just down the hall. Too young to know anything other than touch. So I wonder if he can feel the figure of his father as he passes. And I hope. For an easy recovery. Because I know that angels can mend wounds even if it takes time. Even if it takes throwing the coffee pot away but keeping the mug. Closing the curtains for a while.
Trying to understand something so simple. Sometimes I don’t think I ever will. Because in a way, I know how Sara feels. Know how she’s being hit with waves of insomnia and regret. Know how she has learned to pick things back up off of the ground and comfort herself. Know how she sits and wallows in the unexisting future, the opportunities that will never come. A sunny weather forecast now a thunderstorm. But I will never feel this as greatly as Sara. Never to the extent that she feels daily. Drinking sadness like water. Three gallons a day. Because when she asks me how I am, I say good. And I regret never asking her back. Because I know that she would give me an answer that she can’t even convince herself to believe. Grief hanging on her like perfume. A scent I’ve worn before. We all have.
But Sara’s is different. Because her grief’s name is Kane. Because her grief looks like waking up to an empty bed. Looks like keeping the bathroom door closed. Asking her daughter how school was. Knowing her baby will never know his father the way he was supposed to. Looks like snow in January. Another day. Because life will continue with or without the things it’s lost. A reckless bulldozer in the flesh. Sometimes, I think of telling Sara I wrote about her husband. That heaven is glad to have him. As heaven is glad to have my grandmother. And all of my mistakes. And all of my tragedies.
Mina Foutch is a woman/lover/pisces/healer/lipstick-wearer/reader/postcard-collector/yellow soul/junior creative writer who focuses mainly on poetry and prose and the beauty in dusty corners.
Stairs by Gabriella Snyder
I’ll never forget the scream she wretched. The slim strap of her red dress had been torn. Her mascara left black trails on her cheeks, her smeared red lipstick mixing with the dark streaks. She held her black stiletto heels in her shaken hands. Her body quivered, although she remained still, quiet. Her eyes were hard and empty as she fixed on her thoughts, staring past the looks of concern. She stood alone, her feet grounded on my front porch cement stairs. She stood on the third step, as if she had almost got away, almost made it. People say that she was gripped by her ankles and then was dragged down the stairs by him. They say she was one step away from reaching the door. She was one step away from being safe, the difference between being a survivor of rape rather than a victim. I never knew her name, she was one of the many guest that attended my families parties. When I grew older my mother never sat me down and talked about her rape, not how, or why, or who. All I know is that I saw her for a passing second, cemented to the stairs of my front porch, before being shoved up the stairs with the rest of the kids.
I think I’ve found the boy I love. A boy who makes me smile on accident. One who has made me want to get out of the comfort of my bed to see him. Our schedules work on two different clocks but still, we manage to see each other, we make it a priority. High School soccer games are our meeting spot. I often find him sitting alone on the steps of the bleachers, staring out at the sky waiting just for me. Sometimes I believe that I’m the only one he has. When we meet I make sure to spend each passing second like we’ll never see each other again. We never actually watch the soccer games. We spend our time racing up and down the rows of stairs on the bleachers, laughing and giggling harder than we ever have before.
It’s because of the stairs isn’t it?No. I know a lot of people drop out of this school early on because of the stairs. That’s it, isn’t it? No. Climbing up the stairs everyday isn’t that bad when you get used to it, just give it time. No. That’s not why I wanna leave. I don’t mind the stairs.
My dad used to play guitar for me and my brother. My favorite song to sit and listen to was called "Stairway To Heaven." Each pluck of the string would cut his fingers open, blistering the wound with gentle and calm love. These were the moments I cherished these times with my father, one of the only times his voice flowed with a smooth beauty. She’s buying a stairway to heaven. I sing this to myself everyday, just as my dad once did.
My brother told me they found you on the stairs. He told me that it looked like as though you were sleeping. I hope you awoke to a paradise of your dreams. My dad told me you stretched across the stairs like a child sprawling out in bed, searching for comfort. I didn’t believe them when they told me you overdosed on fentanyl. Sometimes when I walk down the stairs I imagine you lying on the bottom steps, you look like you are sleeping, just like they had said.
One Whole, or, A Collection of Randomized Statements by Joshua Snyder
I am going to be great. Tomorrow will be as clear as glycerin soap melting in a measuring cup. All of my writing will bind itself into a Holy thing. All of my thoughts will flow from me like Athena from Zeus. My God will take me between his palms and cradle me as if I am a child once again. He will study me intently, and ask how I have found consistency within this ribcage he designed to be so restless. And I will say back to him, simply, as if I have known the answer my whole life, I found a pencil, Father. I learned to write.
I write for my tomorrow. For me. For those I love. To understand that this is how I love, with too many words and not enough blank space. I am writing to everyone I have ever loved. I am writing to everyone I have ever been. And to everyone I will be. There is absolutely no way for me to know what my future will sound like. But I am whispering love letters between the breaths of wind, feeding myself into the air and watching the words tumble in time until I lose sight of them. I am building a clock out of poetry. A time capsule.
One day I will die. And this will be all that is left. I write because it is my legacy. My shadow. My foreword, my story, and my epilogue. Waving to you. The soft hum of a forgotten voice dancing over and under the leaves falling off of the trees. Nobody will remember this face, or this body, so I write to take space on a shelf and this will be the only memorial I request, as if I should be important enough to deserve one— and one day I will die but today I am alive and today I can write and someone somewhere someday will pick up a book with my name on the cover. And they will skim their fingers across the printed words and study the blind trust I have put onto the page. And maybe they will feel something similar to the things I felt. And maybe they will take me home.
I write because I am alive. Because I am breathing and warm. Because I am a vessel. Yet I am full. The rain is getting so much louder. Clarity is found within wisdom, and experience, and Windex. Sit with me. Tilt your head back and let the water collect on your eyelids. The future is blue and purple like a bruise. There are such things as ghosts, and they are looking for homes just like you are. I will be a ghost. A memory. Bound into a few collections of poetry. I will not die with a puff of smoke. A creaking noise and nothing else. I will die with a whisper. My God will reach down and weave my soul between his fingers and kiss the backs of his knuckles. He will say to me, How was your trip? And I will tell him, breathlessly, as if I have air or lungs, I loved it, Father. I learned to write.
Josh Snyder is a senior Creative Writer at Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. He is a poet in his own right, using words to accomplish what he feels he can’t alone, and has dedicated his mind to weaving them into something others can find beautiful. He enjoys storms, hot chocolate, and wearing sweaters. He’s a Capricorn.
Written in the Margins by Ali Clingan
I am from treehouse headquarters and spying on neighbors, playing tag with cousins and arguing about who was It. I am from pink helmets and biking around the block, because that was as far as my brother and I were allowed to go. I am from treasure-hunting in the alley behind my house, from empty root beer bottles and railroad spikes and old, tin mint containers that I filled with shiny, spotted pebbles.
I am from chalky feet and airplane arms, balancing on tip toes. I am from handstands against the couch and teaching backbends at recess. From the sweaty smell of the gym, but I never minded it. I am from callused hands, practicing my bar routine over and over and over, even after my palms began to bleed. I am from striving for perfection, striving for a 10.0. From sparkly leotards and black knee braces. From ignoring doctors when they tell me I need to rest. From I’m fine, Momand pain that never quite leaves.I am from learning the difference between stubbornness and strength. From the nervous jerking in my stomach and my shaky hand resting on my heart as the National Anthem plays. I am from silver metals, never gold.
I am from music. From The Killers and Coldplay, from broken earbuds and too-expensive concert tickets. I am from dance parties with my dad and brother, always to the same songs by U2. I am from weekly piano lessons for seven years and the regret after I quit. From blaring music during car rides, but only when I’m with my dad, because everyone else gets annoyed by my favorite songs. Listen to this one, I’d command, and when the song was over, I’d ask what he thought it was about. He was always thoughtfully silent before answering. When I thought he was about to finally answer my question, his only response was, Well, what do you think it’s about? I am from questions, from truly listening to answers.
I am from bowls of buttered popcorn and juice boxes and the sparklers that our neighbors offered us on the 4th of July. I am from rooftops, from crawling out the window, from watching the fireworks over the tips of the trees, from the way they lit my little brother’s awe-struck face in red, green, purple light. From dragging my telescope through the window later that night. From watching stars appear as my eyes adjust to the darkness. From the crescent moon, large and lonely, like a sticker pressed into the sky.
I am from tiny bonfires in the backyard, holding out our hands near the heat. From sticky marshmallows and smooth melted chocolate dripping down my finger. From the smell of burning wood. From choosing to stay outside instead of warming up inside the house. From ticking clocks as I fall asleep and careful, whispering voices as I wake up. From long conversations when my dad tucked me in at night-- about space, and God, and life.
I am from windchimes and rainbow-colored kites on windy spring days, from ice cream shops at sunset and melty cones of cookies n’ cream. From riding scooters in the street and the various, ridiculously complicated handshakes my friend and spent hours perfecting. I am from 11:11 wishes. I am from No, honey, you can’t wear makeup yetand You don’t need a phone. What would you even use it for?and You shouldn’t need likes on social media to know you are beautiful.From learning not to worry about what other people think. I am from the angry cries of fighting cats out my open window. From windy nights that shake my house and thoughts of my towering pine tree falling that keep me awake.
I am from bundles of papers piled under desks and stuffed in a plastic box in my closet. From locked journals, the key hidden among unworn necklaces and earrings in my jewelry box. From the notes on my phone, brimming with sudden inspirations and light bulbs I stole from above my head. From the handmade journal my dad got me, the one I haven’t used yet. My words are not worthy of the brown, parchment-like paper and the soft, blue leather wrapped around the pages. I am from my characters. Sometimes I feel more connected to them than I do with my own family. I am from stacks of used notebooks. From writing in the margins when the page became full.
I am from climbing up playground slides in the summer and building snow forts in the winter, biking in the spring and jumping into leaves in the fall. I am from the joy when I got my ukulele and the sadness when my cat, Nelson, died. I am from fear as I stood at the top of the long zipline at summer camp and anger when injuries forced me to quit gymnastics. I am from happiness. From pain. From learning who I am and who I’m not. From jealousy and pity, trust and resilience. I am from both cheerful memories and painful ones, but they made me who I am, and I don’t regret any of them.
Ali Clingan is a sophomore creative writer at the Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. She likes many different genres of writing, but her favorite is fiction. In her free time, Ali enjoys reading, playing her ukulele, and stargazing.
I Cannot Explain My Wanting (after A Papatya Bucak) by Aevin Mayman
I cannot explain my wanting. Wanting riches. Wanting opportunity. Wealth. Silk. Perfume. Thread counts in the thousands. My dreams where I stroll through houses worth more than I am. Quarterly vacations to the Bahamas. To Hawaii. Greece. Anywhere I want to go. Anything I want to do. My wanting of more than I could ever need. Of more than I could ever want. Of endless hallways and in-home spas. Of mansions and cars and things and things and things. Wanting security and excess. Wanting retail therapy and shopping sprees and not having to worry over budgeting for money I don’t have.
I cannot explain my wanting of simplicity. I cannot explain my wanting of bright colors and the smell of lavender. Of rosemary across my pillows and dandelions pressed in old books. Of sun against my skin. Dancing through the hallways in mismatched socks and sundresses. Wanting of hand-woven throws and plush pillows and birdsong drifting in through the windows.
I cannot explain my wanting of freedom. Of quiet and nature. Of watching the sun rise from 3am to midday. Of vast, open skies. I think of the wide, Virginian skies where I first saw the sky filled to its brim with starlight. Stars spilled out across the night sky like children’s marbles. Like dandelion puffs blown out across the cosmos. Like beauty that I could never have anywhere else.
I cannot explain my wanting of safety. Of security. Of locked doors and barred windows. Wanting of darkness and quiet and monotony. Wanting of isolation and regularity, the cool dark of my rooms washing over me.
I cannot explain my wanting of dirt under my fingernails. Of long walks down trails that I make up as I go along. Of mist across the mountains after rain. Of dancing with fireflies. Of starlight in my hair. Of moonlight across my cupid’s bow. Wanting to not be beholden to anything or anyone except myself and the grass beneath my feet.
I cannot explain my wanting of solitude. Solitude that I can pull around myself, a protective shawl of unknowing. Wanting to be somewhere dull. Somewhere where nothing happens and no one knows my name. Somewhere I can disappear.
But I also want peace. Community. A small house with a cat and a bay window. Waving to the neighbors. Being invited to barbecues. Leaving all the windows open all the time to let my home bathe in the sunlight. Leaving the door open in the spring. Leaving the door open in the rain just to hear the sounds it makes.
I cannot explain how I want anonymity and fame. How I want thrill and adventure and safety and calm. How I want nothing and everything. No one and everyone. How I want the world, and none of it.
All at once.
Aevin Mayman is a junior creative writer attending Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. They specialize in poetry, but enjoy dabbling in every type of writing they can get their hands on. They enjoy books of all genres, but prefer reading more science-fiction-based, fantastical styles of writing. When they aren’t writing, you can find them surfing Netflix with their cats or getting over-invested in a late night session of Dungeons and Dragons (which, albeit sounding nerdy and all around uncool, provides endless material for any upcoming novels).
Scrap Paper Will By Sara Malott
I, Bea Hernandez, am of sound mind and body at the time of the writing of my last will and testament. Unfortunately, it is not likely that I will be able to afford an attorney in the near future. Because I don’t have legal documentation of my assets, this should be treated as such. I have listed my things and what I wish to be done with them. My belongings are as follows:
Quart-sized zip lock baggie. Contents include three red paper clips, seven yellow ones, four different toothbrushes, floss, and a plastic straw. All items were brought from my last job at Dental Value a few years ago. Take all of this back and tell them I sent you. I still haven’t found my old name tag. If I do, you can deliver it with the bag.
TJ’s baby blanket. Return to his home in Cincinnati, with the following message: I will love you forever. Look at how far you’ve come. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. He’ll know who it’s from.
Christmas card from 1996. The one in which I am holding TJ. The one with a bright red border covered in cute little christmas balls. I’ve kept it in mint condition. This was the last picture taken of the family before we fell apart; therefore, I’d like to be buried with it in the ground.
My four different outfits: A set of scrubs, the red sundress, a brown bulky turtleneck paired with acid-washed jeans, and my winter coat with my sweat pants. All clothing can be given to Sharon, who sleeps with me under the bridge. She isn’t doing so hot at the moment, so if she has already passed, take to the nearest Salvation Army.
Two pairs of shoes: brown flip flops, and snow boots. Both were gifts from strangers and I would like to return the favor. Hand them out to someone who looks like they could use them.
Ceramic vase I found at a flea market. I only got it because of the frogs. I was missing daddy something terrible that day and frogs were his favorite animal. Smash it and take all the pieces down to New Orleans. That was his favorite place to go in the summer. See if you can find the good shrimp place and scatter the pieces there. I don’t remember what it’s called, but I know when I was 13 years old he took me to the best shrimp place in New Orleans.
The tie I stole from TJ’s daddy on the day he left. I’ve written MISTAKE on the front of it in permanent marker. That’s the last thing he ever said to me: You’re my mistake, Bea. Light that tie on fire and watch it burn. I felt too much for him to ever do it myself.
An empty water bottle I fill when I get my periods. Give it to one of the young girls at the shelter. Maybe make up a couple more, if it isn’t too much trouble. It helps with the cramps. Tell them to use hot water.
My tube of toothpaste. People are always looking for toothpaste on the streets. See what someone will give you for it. Sell it hard enough and you might get a dollar.
The jar I use for my begging. Throw it away. I don’t want to be remembered like that.
The hair brush shaped like a fish can go to TJ’s wife. We never met but I think she would appreciate the sentiment.
The bright orange hammock I found can be left in my spot. Someone will come along and pick it up.
My letter detailing the entirety of my life is written in my journal. It talks about everything from my childhood in the sticks to the foreclosure of the house I bought back in the sixties. The journal should be given to the town hall museum to be displayed. I’ve grown up in this town and I’ll be damned if they let people forget about this life I’ve lived.
My primary beneficiary will be my son TJ. Any cash left at the time of my death should be given to him immediately. That boy most certainly doesn’t need the money, but it is all I can do to provide for him at this point. DO NOT inform him of my homelessness. With the kids and his job, he’s already got enough to worry about.
Finally, instead of having me a service, plant some daffodils in my spot beneath the bridge. It has always been so drab. I think a few flowers would do it some good.
Sara Malott is an 11th grade creative writing student at Barbara Ingram School for the arts. She lives in western Maryland where she was born and raised. Her work has been published in both Post Script Magazine and The Washinteenian Magazine. She enjoys exploring all genres of writing. Sara finds herself frequently trying new things, in her writing and otherwise.
Heads Will Roll By Olivia Teague
When I was younger, I always wanted to be in Prayer Management. Those angels were cool, collected. They got to do things for people, got to help them. But being a Guardian? That was literally on the bottom of my career list. Here I am, though, sitting in a goddamned court about to get my next assignment. “But Auren,” you might say, “being a Guardian sounds so awesome!” Not if everyone you’ve had to guard was a suckup. Gary? Please. Just because he was a priest didn’t make me care about his mugging. Linda, the social worker? She had at least thirty Pomeranians. Too bad rabies spreads as fast as it does. I could keep going, but the list is so long I’d never cover them all. I tried to focus on ways to get out of another court verdict, but was interrupted. The guards grabbed me by the arms and dragged my ass into the court. All brawn, no brain if you ask me. Once they chained me into the same chair they use for interrogations, I could feel their stares on me. Upper Management. Ew. I tried to recline in the chair, but it was bolted to the floor.
“Guardian Auden, we have called you here to discuss your current assignment,” the head honcho, Tabbris, said. “Care to explain this last ‘accident?’” he showed the court a photo of the last person in my care, Benny.
“Not my fault!” I said, poking a finger at Tabbris. “Like I said in my incident report, not my fault that a damn car was speeding down the street.”
“He wasn’t even a teenager, and yet you let him die.” I rolled my eyes. “He wouldn’t have lasted long. Who the fuck keeps a pog collection nowadays? It’s 2018, wake the hell up.” Tabbris sighed, putting the photo away. “Language, Auden. Also,” he said while handing my folder to another angel, “What is a...pog collection?”
“It’s a game from the 1990s, played with milk caps?”
No response from the court. “You get milk caps, called pogs, and they have decorations and shit on them,” I said before giving up. These idiots were so thick it hurt to even talk to them. Tabbris pulled another file out of his ass, and had it delivered down to me. I opened it to a photo of an ultrasound. “Y’all know that I don’t do babies, right?” I said, snapping the folder shut. “Don’t even try.”
“I’d give you another assignment, except for the fact that this will be your last.”
That smacked me in the face.
“It will only be your last, however,” Tabbris said, a look of smug satisfaction on his ugly-ass face, “if you kill your human, yet again. Do everything right, you get to keep your job. Do it wrong, and you’ll be booted into hell. I’d suggest you look at that file now.”
With that, I found myself outside the courtroom, file in hand.
“Damn!” I said, rushing to the courtroom doors. “Let me back in, you feathered fuck-ass!” No response came from inside, and I was left alone in the stark white hallways of Heaven, a folder in one hand and a crushing weight on my shoulders.
Twenty-seven years later, I found that I didn’t suck at my job as much as they thought I did. Not only was Nikolai Reznik alive and healthy, he had a successful job as a private chef in London. I had wondered why he picked London of all places, but I suppose the dark and dreary weather matched his nighttime hobbies well. For being a cannibal, he seemed to be a decent guy, only eating other killers. Don’t get me wrong, I still hated him. His fashion sense consisted of either Hawaiian shirts and khakis, or some garish mix of polos and plaid.
Fashion aside, I was still pretty shocked when I realized what he was. When he was younger, I noticed some...oddities in his behavior. He’d eat anything if you put it in front of him. I guess I wasn’t exactly paying attention when he started killing birds and small animals in order to eat them. Maybe I would have stopped him. What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for birds. He’d always cook them. He was a fat little boy. When he moved on to people, I ended up having to work extra hard. Not only did I have to fight other Guardians, I had to help that gluttonous fuck.
Now, I watch as Nikolai prepares his knives for the night. He’s planning to kill someone new, a Frenchie, I think. He first pulls out the meat cleaver, then his signature knife, and then he pulls out a different one. A salmon knife. That’s new. I’m sure he’s going to end up torturing this Frenchie, killing him slowly. It’ll be entertaining to watch, at least. I’m about to look away when I feel myself being dragged away from the Earth. I find myself back in the courtroom. Shit. I hadn’t reported in on Nikolai since before I found out about his cannibalism. They probably thought I killed him.
I sit down in the chair prepared for me. This time, Tabbris isn’t there. It’s some paper-pusher. They push their glasses up their nose, and shuffle their papers.
“Guardian Auden to Nikolai Reznik?” they say in a nasally voice.
I nod in response, and the paper pusher sneers at me.
“Your report was due when Nikolai turned 17. He’s 27.”
“I get it, boss.” I say, waving a hand in their direction. “He’s fine.”
Wrong thing to say. The paper-pusher starts lecturing me on when I should turn in my reports, how detailed they should be, yada yada. Eventually, I manage to sneak out while they’re busy looking under the desk for their pencil, which they dropped. After shutting the door behind me, I run right into Tabbris.
“Tabbris!” I say, adding a cheerful tone to my voice. “How’s it going? The wife? The kids?”
Tabbris doesn’t respond to my jests, just leans in close enough for me to count the flecks of blue in his gold eyes. I suddenly realize just how tall Upper Management angels are, and I’m hit with a wave of...something. The oppressive energy threatens to make my knees buckle, threatens to drain all the color from my face, as Tabbris speaks right next to my ear.
“Hiding something, angel?” he hisses, standing up straight again.
I can’t answer. Obviously, he’s doing something to control me, because even if I was being threatened, I would have a witty comeback at the ready. But I can’t say anything. He just hands me a clipboard with the report papers on it, and leaves. I feel something on the back of the clipboard, and turn it over.
There’s a knife taped to the back, a snake etched into the dark handle. As I look into its polished eyes, the feeling of being watched creeps up my spine. As soon as I get out of the courtroom, I throw it somewhere far, far away. It gave me the creeps.
I turn in the report early. How did Tabbris know? Upper Management never looks at actual humans unless they’re dead. I sigh, looking down on Nikolai again. He’s busy butchering up that Frenchie. Disgusting. I’m supposed to report about whether or not a person has gone “darkside”, but I just can’t turn Nikolai in. When I watch Nikolai, I get a sense of deja vu. Angels don’t have deja vu.
As the days and weeks pass, I can’t help but notice that Nikolai’s life is getting worse, for lack of a better term. It seems like Upper Management has been sending more and more goons at me to try and trip me up. I try to think of it as a game, but right now, this game sucks. Nikolai is on the run. I guess after killing so many people, the police were going to take notice and do something about it. He’s got it easy. All he has to do is hide, while I take out the Guardians.
Pro Tip: When being chased by multiple six-foot-tall, surly angels wielding Holy Tasers™, do not drop your weapon, and shriek like a four-year-old. So don’t do what I did, basically. I hear the other angels yelling behind me, and I take to the sky. Getting the hell out of dodge seems like the easiest option. Once far away from the ground, and away from Nikolai, I pull out my butcher knife. Guardians are armed with whatever relates to their assignment’s profession. Believe me, carrying around a goddamn doggy dish was not a useful weapon. Rest in peace, Linda, but knives are where it’s at. The angels are getting closer, and I prepare myself for a bloodbath.
Instead, I find myself holding the tip of the knife to Nikolai’s throat. I can’t move.
“Well, isn’t this interesting!” someone says, the sound crawling into my eardrums like a spider.
“Tabbris,” I say, trying to hold back a snarl. This disgusting motherfucker. What is he planning?
“You didn’t tell us you had a cannibal! Not to mention,” he says almost happily, “we’ve found our little angel-killer!” A beating of wings resonates from behind me, and I realize, with a sense of dread, that the rest of Upper Management has arrived..
“What do you want me to do, Tabbris?” I say. I try to move my blade away from Nikolai’s neck as I speak. It doesn’t budge. It almost feels like Tabbris has the knife at my throat.
“It’s obvious, Auden, you thick imbecile. Kill him.”
His voice is like a snake, worming its way into my brain. My airway is restricted, and I cannot breathe. My vision swims as I look into the coils that seem to spiral downwards forever, the snakes have always been there, on my peripheral, ever since I signed that damn contract and gave my eternity away to protection, sin, lies, truth, love, hate, life, death, dark, light, lies lies lies lies lies kill. Kill Nikolai. No. Yes. Is this how it’s always been? One or the other? A or B? Yes or No? The dice are rolling and I see the glint of the blade as it presses further into Nikolai’s neck, the blood beginning to bead on the edge of the knife, drops running down its surface as he gasps, and there’s a writhing mass of snakes bubbling underneath Nikolai’s skin.
Suddenly, I find that the coils have loosened and I can move again. I turn around and cut off the
Tabbris’s head falls to the pavement. His body wobbles, glowing blue blood seeping in between the cracks in the paved road. The hooded figures, Upper Management, move Tabbris’s body away. I am alone, and suddenly, I am falling.
Wings burning, body set ablaze, falling into the depths of the Pit, flashes of memory crowd my brain. Contract. Pen. Red ink, too thick. First assignment. Hate. Kill. Second. Hate. Kill. Third. Hate. Kill. Fiftieth. Hate. Kill. Nikolai.
Me. Human me. Memories I shouldn’t have. Me, stabbing. Knives litter the house where I live. Ancient times, when man had just been created. I kill. I was the son of Cain. I was killed by others, others just on the edge of being a murderer like me. And as I fall, with wings of ash and a voice like death, I am no longer an angel.
Olivia Teague is a Sophomore Creative Writer. She enjoys writing fantasy-related fiction, and exploring new ideas she hasn’t thought of before. She also likes using characters that she can relate to in some way.
August by Madeline Marks
It was the end of August. You think it was a Wednesday. You lifted your focus from the sidewalk and saw her walking in a path diverging from yours. Her dress, a river, her lips, a raspberry bush, her hair tied up in ribbons of sunlight. You were on the phone, with your wife or maybe your boss, you don’t remember, but you severed their voice, you had to go. Sorry. Something came up. I’ll get back to you later. If if it was your wife, you might have said I love you. It wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t.
It was a Friday night. No, it might have been a Saturday. She drank red wine that left a crimson streak on her cupid’s bow. She talked about things, so many things, but all you could do was watch as every time she smiled, dimples dented her cheeks. She wore a necklace, the pendant resting on her chest. You ordered a steak that might have been a grilled salmon, and she ordered her salad with seven croutons and extra goat cheese. All you could think about was how you wanted to touch her right where the pendant rested, at the top of her breastbone. The hours sloshed together until the night was colored carmine. You’re way too drunk to drive you whispered into her neck.You lead her to your car. You never asked for the check.
You didn’t know what day it was, you forgot the month, the year. You forgot you were on Earth, you no longer existed in this galaxy. The center of your universe was draped over your body, and she smelled like alcohol and vanilla. Her dress, a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Her lips, spilling all over your body. It, all of it, was the most heavenly thing you had ever done, it burst with all of the juice of the summer, of the strawberry sweet of her mouth and the ripe peach of her body laced into yours. You rolled over her and placed your lips on her collarbone, tracing your way down to the pendant resting at the tip of her heart. She tasted like the rain and like honey, like salt and like raspberries, and you continued down through her center, down under the covers, down into a space where there was only you and her. It was late now, so late the sky was starting to turn pink. You took the subway home. The birds had begun to wake up by the time you made it back to your apartment. You tiptoed as if through honey across the hardwood floor of your apartment, stepping around the creaky spots. The bedroom door was cracked open, and you nudged the door wider. Her back was turned to you. You watched your wife like this, hypnotized by the rise and fall of the covers with her breath. You remembered that you had once fallen in love with this woman. That idea felt so foreign to you now. You don’t know how it happened, but you could no longer imagine that magic you had felt when you first married, when just holding her hand painted your world gold. You walked across the room and placed yourself in the bed beside her. You turned to your wife and put your hand on her back, feeling the rise and fall of her chest. You wrapped your arm around her body, picturing the other woman in her place. You didn’t realize it until later, but you had left your ring on her bedside table.
Madeline Marks is a sophomore creative writer. She enjoys writing poetry and shorter works of fiction and drama. Her monologue was her favorite thing to write this year, and the piece she’s most proud of. She also enjoys playing the piano and volunteering at Meritus Medical Center. She lives in Hagerstown with her mom, dad, younger sister, two cats, and a dog.
SHE by Madeline Marks
(THE GIRL is sitting in a chair center stage, leaning forward, with her legs crossed, and her hands clasped together. She is bouncing her foot and looking at the floor.)
THE GIRL: There was this girl once. I mean, there is a girl. It sounds like she’s dead. She’s not dead, she’s still… very much alive.
(nervous giggle)
Sorry, I… I don’t know what it is about her. I always get flustered talking about her. I don’t know what it is about her, it’s just… but anyway, I met her in bio last year. She’s a year older than me. She’s a junior now, but when I met her, she was a sophomore. She sat in the row behind me, and I would always lean back to talk to her, or begin to lean back to talk to her, but then I would get nervous and I would pull my chair back into the table. She was so funny. There was this one day she brought an entire baguette to class. She just like, waltzed in, set her feet on the table, and just started eating the baguette. She finished it, too. I don’t know, she just… she just makes me laugh like that.
(beat)
I listened to her conversations sometimes. A lot actually. Or when it was lecture time or we were working alone, I just listened to the pen on her paper or the sound her foot made as she bounced it… which is like, really creepy now that I’m saying it out loud, but I wasn’t being creepy about it. I just liked her in a way I’ve never really liked anyone before.
(beat)
It was during the summer that I started talking to her. I sort of… I guess you could say I slid into her DM’s. Wait, no, it wasn’t--it wasn’t… sexual, it definitely wasn’t sexual, we just like, started talking. It was nice. It was… really nice actually. Like, there would be times when we would just text for hours. And sometimes, I would stay up till like 1 just talking to her.
(THE GIRL is smiling softly to herself. Beat.)
I’m really not all that good at reading my own emotions, but I mean… I could tell. I wanted her that way. As… more than just a friend. I never… I never told her. I’ve never told someone that I like them. In that way, you know, like… I guess I just expected her to read my mind? Which was dumb, but… I don’t know. I thought about her a lot, just like thinking about what we could be. What it would be like to have her as my girlfriend. What it would feel like to hold her.
(beat)
There was this one time. I was staying the night at her house, and I didn’t really know what was gonna happen. She wanted to watch a horror movie with me, so we climbed into her bed together, we got under the covers, and she set up her laptop. We were close. Like… really close. Our arms were touching. At one point like halfway through the movie, without saying anything, without even looking at me really, she just… slid her fingers in between mine. She put her head on my shoulder, and during the scary parts, she would squeeze my hand really tight. Like I was the one that would protect her.
(beat)
I could’ve… it would’ve been so easy to just lean over and… kiss her. Just to see what would happen. That’s what I thought of doing. That’s what I wanted to do, more than anything really. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently. She could’ve pulled away but she also… she could’ve leaned in closer. (THE GIRL’s smile falls. Beat.) She has a boyfriend now. His name’s Tyler. She talks about him all the time. They’re happy together. They really are. And I’m happy for her. Like, genuinely, truly. When she talks about him… I’ve never seen her eyes light up like they do then. And you know… it’s good. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I mean we never, we never like hang out anymore. I wish I could just… I wish I could just stop thinking about that night and the way things could’ve been. Because they’re not like that. I didn’t do anything. Now, we’ll probably never be anything. I can’t change that. And besides, it’s wrong. She has a boyfriend now.
(beat)
(softly) She…
(BLACKOUT)
Madeline Marks is a sophomore creative writer. She enjoys writing poetry and shorter works of fiction and drama. Her monologue was her favorite thing to write this year, and the piece she’s most proud of. She also enjoys playing the piano and volunteering at Meritus Medical Center. She lives in Hagerstown with her mom, dad, younger sister, two cats, and a dog.
Sunday Drive (scene 9 from On the National Road) By Aevin Mayman & Sullivan McGee
Cast of Characters: Chris Phillips: A man in his early twenties; dating Rosie. Filling Station Employee: A man who works at the filling station. Rosie Carter: A woman in her early twenties; dating Chris.
(We are at a filling station with a grassy area beside it and a view of the countryside. It's the early 1950s,. The filling station has three pumps. There are several cars parked in the lot. There are small triangle flags strung up above the station. It is alongside the road. ROSIE CARTER and CHRIS PHILLIPS are standing together outside their car. ROSIE is carrying a picnic basket and blanket. CHRIS is rolling a tire towards the FILLING STATION EMPLOYEE.)
CHRIS: Here is the flat. There’s a spare in the trunk you can use to get her into the shop. Could you check the air in the other tires, as well? In fact, give her a full tune up for us, since we’re here. I’d do it myself but It’s my day off.
FILLING STATION EMPLOYEE:Of course, sir.
CHRIS: (to Rosie) What do you say we have our picnic here? When these men are through I'll take you anywhere you want to go.
(FILLING STATION EMPLOYEE exits stage left.)
ROSIE: Anywhere?
CHRIS: As long as we're home for Sunday dinner with my folks! (They set up their picnic in the grassy area beside the filling station and sit down.)
ROSIE: Anything exciting happen to you this week?
CHRIS: Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Mr. Williams said I was really coming along! He said that, if I wanted to, I could probably open up my own mechanic shop at some point.
ROSIE: (kisses CHRIS on the cheek.) That’s fantastic! I know how hard you’ve been working. I’m so excited for you.
CHRIS:I’m excited too, darling. I’d love to get my hands on one of those Studebaker Hawk engines.
(CHRIS reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out two slices of pie. He hands one to her.)
ROSIE: That’s homemade, you know.
CHRIS: You baked this? I thought you hated cooking.
ROSIE: Of course I didn’t bake this, silly. My mom made it.
CHRIS: You really had me going there for a second. I thought you had turned over a new leaf.
(beat. They start eating their pie.)
ROSIE: I’m so glad I don’t live with her anymore. She was always trying to get me into baking or sewing or something ridiculous like that.
CHRIS: My parents are pressuring me to get my own place soon.
ROSIE: You can do what I did and move in with a friend. Susie’s an absolute doll.
CHRIS: She works with you at the telephone company, right?
ROSIE: Sure does.. Speaking of that, did I tell you about that man who kept calling to buy frogs from the pet shop?
CHRIS: I don’t believe so.
ROSIE: He must have placed three different orders asking for frogs, but he kept giving them a different name, so they wouldn’t know it was the same person.
CHRIS: Golly, Rosie. That’s pretty out there!
ROSIE: Yeah, it was pretty far out. Oh! Did I also tell you about that lady who asks for the same guy, every night, right at midnight? Susie told me about that one. But get this: she looked the guy up in the public records, and he’s dead.
CHRIS: You sure do learn about a lot of interesting people at your job.
ROSIE: Sure do, and it’s actually kind of fun.
CHRIS: How long do you plan to work at that telephone company, anyway?
ROSIE: Probably not too much longer. I have plans. If I were to pick a long term career though, I’d probably do something more creative, like graphic design or architecture, and write some poetry on the side.
CHRIS: Oh yeah, you’re really into that beat stuff, aren’t you?
ROSIE: Definitely, it’s super groovy. I actually just went to a reading last night. It was really eye opening! It was all about corporate corruption and the horrors of Vietnam. I think all the violence there is pointless. What do you think?
CHRIS: Well, I don’t know much about that, but it does sound pretty groovy.
ROSIE: I heard a piece that I absolutely loved. Do you want me to recite a line or two for you?
CHRIS: Oh, sure thing, Rosie. I’d love to hear some.
ROSIE:(in a lower, more intense tone than her normal speaking voice.)“Crying babies, unborn targets in the shooting ranges of the womb wearing placental headdresses of gun powder and grenades, hopeless and helpless with unmade voices screaming ‘guilty, guilty, guilty.’” (beat, Rosie returns to her normal voice.)
ROSIE: You should really come to a reading with me one night. Won’t you please?
CHRIS: It sure sounds interesting, but I don’t know if that’s for me. A lot of poems sorta go over my head. If you wanted to hang out, though, we could go to that baseball game Saturday.
ROSIE: I don’t know. If I’m being honest, baseball doesn’t really razz my berries these days. Paul Richards isn’t doing the Orioles any favors. They’re on a losing streak! And besides, how can I spend hours lounging around a ballpark, watching a bunch of men strike out and spit when there are so many thoughts floating around my head, so much happening in the real world! I get bored lately, just sitting there, when we go together. Who’s playing, anyway?
CHRIS: The Dodgers and the Yankees.
ROSIE: But we don’t live near either of their stadiums!
CHRIS: We could watch it on my parent’s television. It’s got a great picture.
ROSIE: But don’t you want to go out, Chris? It’s no fun staying cooped up inside all day.
(beat)
Maybe when your car gets gassed up, we could go for a longer drive, a scenic one. I love sightseeing.
CHRIS: Wouldn’t you rather hang out around town?
ROSIE: But it’s always been my dream to explore the country. See the Grand Canyon. Find some big expanse of desert and sleep under the stars. Spend time in Big Sur. Did you know it’s 3,326 miles from here to the west coast? See the alligators in the everglades. I want to see the land, the Rocky mountains, the Redwoods.
CHRIS: Remember our first date? That was at a baseball game. Don Ferrarese was headed for no hitter, and it began to rain but you wanted to stay and watch the last inning, just to see if he’d pull it off, even when it started coming down hard. When we drove home, you said it’d been a perfect day.
ROSIE: It was a perfect day.
ROSIE: Everything here feels so worn out and boring.
CHRIS: Everything?
ROSIE: Sure, don’t you feel the same way?
CHRIS: Not really. I have everything that I need right here.
(nervously)
Listen, Rosie, there’s something that I’ve been meaning to ask you, something important!
ROSIE: (excitedly) Oh, me too, Chris! Let me go first. I was going to wait to tell you until I had enough for both of us, and I’ve finally saved up enough money. I wanted to surprise you.
(Rosie fishes a map marked up with a driving route, out of the picnic basket, unfolds it, and shows it to CHRISE.)
We could take a trip across the U.S. Starting here and going all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Wouldn’t you like to see the sun set over the sea? I think it would be beautiful.
CHRIS: You know I can’t do that. I’ve got my job and my folks to help out. I’m saving for my future, our future.
ROSIE: But don’t you want to see the world before you settle down?
CHRIS: Would it be so bad if I settled down with you?
ROSIE: Would it be so bad if you travelled with me?
CHRIS: Rosie, I’m happy wherever you are, but our life is here. Our family, our friends. We can’t just up and leave!
ROSIE: I already have all the routes planned out. Did you know we could take the National Highway all the way out to Colorado? They have beautiful mountains there. And if we made a stop at Cambridge, Ohio, we’d be close to the Great Lakes. We could stop and go swimming in them.
CHRIS: How far would your money take us? Would it be enough to afford all that gas? Not to mention the cost of hotels.
ROSIE: We could sleep in your Thunderbird, and we can find jobs along the way. If it’s not enough, I bet you have a ton of money from the mechanic shop.
CHRIS: Some, but I was saving up for one of those new Chevy Impalas. My Thunderbird’s getting a little worse for wear. Did you know those Impala’s have a 258 horsepower, V8 engine? They also moved the transmission shift down to the floor. Isn’t that so neat?
ROSIE:(distractedly) Sure.
CHRIS: I could take you for drives in it. I think the gas mileage is better, so we could drive around longer than we usually do. You could see all the sights along the highway, and I could take you to some of those poetry things you like so much. How about that?
ROSIE: (hesitantly) I guess that sounds nice...
CHRIS: Good, because I really do have something to ask you. Something more important than driving around, or going to a baseball game.
(He stands and pulls her with him. He kneels.)
I love you, Rosie. More than anything in this world.
(He pulls the ring from his pocket.)
Rosie, will you marry me? (beat)
ROSIE:(taking his hands.) I love you too, with all my heart.
CHRIS: So is that a yes?
ROSIE:(begins to pace.) No. Not yet. Oh, Chris, I want to marry you. I really do! It’s just…
(Stops pacing, gestures out towards the road.)
There’s an entire world out there that’s just waiting for me. And it’s waiting for you too.
CHRIS: Why do we have to leave for you to be happy? I’m happy here, with you.
ROSIE: I don’t want to be tied down to one place, Chris. I don’t want to be just another housewife.
CHRIS: (a little hurt) You wouldn’t have to be just a housewife. I would let you keep your switchboard operator job.
ROSIE:(sarcastically) “Let me keep” my job? Why, that’s so generous of you. If you behave well, I might just let you keep being a mechanic, too!
CHRIS: No, that isn’t what I meant! Let’s just calm--
ROSIE: No! We’re talking about our future. This is important.
CHRIS: I’ve been working hard to open up my own mechanic shop, and I’m so close. I don’t want to leave everything behind.
(beat)
I just want us to have a good life together, Rosie.
ROSIE: And I do appreciate that, but I wouldn’t be happy with the kind of life you want to have. I can’t settle down with you. Not yet.
CHRIS: What am I supposed to do here while you’re gone?
ROSIE: I won’t expect you to wait for me, Chris.
CHRIS: Of course I’ll wait for you. Why wouldn’t I? No matter where you go, I’ll always love you.
ROSIE: And I love you too, but it seems unfair.
CHRIS: Don’t worry. Travel all the way around the world if you want. And when you come back I’ll build you a house right here on the National Highway, so we can always have a view like this.
(CHRIS hugs ROSIE and they stare outat the highway.)
(BLACK OUT)
(END OF SCENE)
Aevin Mayman is a junior creative writer attending Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. They specialize in poetry, but enjoy dabbling in every type of writing they can get their hands on. They enjoy books of all genres, but prefer reading more science-fiction-based, fantastical styles of writing. When they aren’t writing, you can find them surfing Netflix with their cats or getting over-invested in a late night session of Dungeons and Dragons (which, albeit sounding nerdy and all around uncool, provides endless material for any upcoming novels).
Sullivan McGee is an eleventh grader at Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. She lives in Williamsport with her parents, one cat, and a dog. She started writing when she was young and now attends the creative writing program at BISFA. She enjoys reading about science and history and writing about them, too. She loves octopuses (yes, it’s octopuses) and the color yellow.