Minnetonka High School Issue #8: Winter 2022
MUSE Magazine 2022 Editors: Ming Wei Yeoh and Mahdi Khamseh Advised by Stuart Pease All works featured are original contributions from Minnetonka High School students. Powered by Marq
Writing
4 5-6 7-24 25-27 28-33 34-51 52 53-54 55-56
57 58-64 65 66-68 69 70-73 74-81 82 83-85 86-90 91-93 94-96
Table of Contents
Sasha Cox Clara Curry Archibald Haddley-Morris Chloe Heffernan Rose Leary Jack Nelson Emma Nevala Brody Sorensen Silas Srnec
Music
97
Ruby Martin
Genevieve Dampier Keira Davies Isabel Foerster Ellen Ingham Emilia Malet Harvey Savanna Larson John Marquardt Emma Nevala Lucy Snow Julia Srnec Ming Wei Yeoh Mahdi Khamseh
Art
11th
Sasha Cox
9th
Clara Curry
10th
Archibald Haddley-Morris
Chloe Heffernan
Rose Leary
Jack Nelson
Emma Nevala
Brody Sorensen
Silas Srnec
Genavieve Dampier
A Poem of Pain bending backwards hurts i would know because i’ve been doing it my whole life for those who have always stood up straight like giants with their heads so far in space they can see stars up close travel miles without fear of losing hope while i’m stuck bending over backwards my back pinched with aching pain choosing to do this so i can simply be of service to those taller than me simply so i can have some of their hope some of their care and love simply so i can be desired i do this even though i know it hurts gives me an aching feeling that tells me i will never admire the stars they get to see so close i won’t ever fly to space instead i’ll be staring at the dirt staring at my shoes easily pushed over my feelings bruised i guess the one thing i have learned is that the flaws between us folks are often unspoken and those who bend over backwards often appear as though they’re not broke
Marcella had never really believed in ghost stories, but she was always looking for a true one. She was paid for these endeavors, whether or not they yielded a good story, so that was something. Marcella honestly didn’t know how many more made-up stories and dashed hopes she could take. There was only one place she had ever been that she could say without doubt had the kind of activity she was looking for, and she didn’t come by that information easily. It had been a manor a few hours north of where she lived now. Hidden in the woods and now broken-down, perfectly spooky. God she had hated that day. Today promised to be no better. Her boss had given her an address for some crackpot shop on the lower east side. She had looked the place up online, supposedly it specialized in seance supplies and haunted objects, but given its location in the basement floor of a nail salon, she wasn’t going to get her hopes up. At least it would probably give her something good for an article. It had been a while since she had driven somewhere herself, she didn’t like it. Cars were entirely different now than the ones she had learned with, and they kept changing. Normally she wouldn’t be responsible for driving anywhere, especially since her license wasn’t exactly in date, but Jason had ‘things to do’ and had said he’d meet her there. Which he did, after Marcella spent 20 minutes trying to find decent street parking and getting honked at, he found it very funny. “You’re not allowed to make me drive anywhere anymore.” Marcella grumbled as she climbed out of their SUV, stumbling as if she had just spent the night with a bottle or two of the fancy wine she liked. “Yes ma’am.” He spurted out through muffled laughter. The moment she regained her balance, she took the opportunity to throw the keys to the imposing black vehicle at his face, which to her dismay, he caught. He turned to face the building behind him, or the stairs that led down to the basement floor of the building. “This is seriously the address Mike gave you?” He gestured to the rundown black and white sign dangling from a pole that protruded from the wall above the door. She had seen photos of the place online, but seeing it now she realized that they must have been from a couple years ago. That or they had been very very doctored. The photos that had been online mostly depicted close-up photos of shelves and one shot of the sign, now she knew why.
Keira Davies
The second she opened the door, the smell overcame her. Incense sticks were burning on different shelves, together forming a scent that reminded her of a woman wearing too much perfume. The shelves lined every wall of the L shaped space, with the occasional glass display table filled with half burned candles and sage, and what looked like costume jewelry. She spotted the shopkeeper squatting behind a glass case that doubled as a counter, with more random tchotchkes inside. The man was unkempt to say the least. If his appearance was anything to go off of, she was sure he was going to be another whack job trying to convince people his products would save their souls. The man popped up from behind the case the second Marcella and Jason came into his line of sight. He had no doubt been told a reporter would be coming, but he seemed to take special notice once he met Marcella’s eyes. She took notice of this. It was relatively common for the people she spoke with to recognize her from one place or another. As long as he only recognized her from the newspaper, there shouldn’t be any problems. She smiled at him while she continued to browse the shelves, she always made it a point to look at the whole place before asking questions. She had a routine for these interviews. Everything that lined the shelves seemed to be fake, used, or useless. From what she could see half of the store's inventory was made up of shiny rocks whose benefits varied by color. Other than that, the usual. Several different decks of tarot cards, white sage in poor taste, clothes with pentagrams, and the odd ‘potion’. And they were odd. One promised the ability to mind read, to those that believed that is. There was however, one thing that genuinely caught her eye. One curious little box on the shelf behind the shopkeeper that stopped her dead in her tracks. She approached the counter behind which the man still sat. “If I may, sir, that box up there” She pointed. “I’m curious, what is it?” She asked using an abnormally high tone of voice. She never did things this way. This was not a part of her routine at all, but she didn’t care. She would know that box anywhere, one of a kind. Now she just needed to know its contents. “Oh that?” He grinned. As if he had expected her to ask. “It contains the supplies used during the last- ritual conducted by Allan Clark.” “Allan Clark?” She asked with a certain doe-eyed naiveté. He raised a brow. “You don’t know? He’s a famous serial murderer from around this area. They caught him about 150 years back.” 177, not 150. She cocked her head, urging him to continue. He leaned in closer. “Apparently his rituals were experiments to him.” His eyebrows raised in excitement at that last word.
Disgusting. “Experiments?” She mused. He nodded. “From what’s written in his journals, many think that he was trying to give his victims immortality!” He was practically jumping up and down by this point. Wrong though. “May I see it?” Marcella asked, stronger than she had intended to. He retrieved it from the shelf, placing it in front of her. She fiddled with the latch briefly before it opened. Silently, she thanked whatever gods may be at play that it had contained what she had hoped. It wouldn’t look like much to anyone else, a small black candle, a silver handled blade, and a piece of lace rolled in the corner, but to her this was everything. “And this is authentic?” She asked the shopkeeper without looking up. He didn’t speak for a moment, as if he needed time to ponder. “Sadly no, the real one was left by investigators to the family of his last victim. They never found her body.” Wrong again. Well half wrong. “I see.” She said disappointedly. She almost gave it back to him, but she had to be sure. Ever so carefully, she lifted the lace from the box and held it by its end, allowing it to unroll. She took it in both hands, examining each of the corners carefully. She had seen replicas of these things before, but there was one detail that was always missed, no one knew about it. She almost choked when she saw it. Hidden on the hem in gray thread, a set of initials. Her initials. And over top of it, a small pale brown circle. Blood. Her blood. She didn’t speak a word as she rolled the fabric back the way it had been, placing it back in the box and closing the lid. “How much?” She asked firmly, finally resuming eye contact with the shopkeeper. “Hmph.” He let out as if in laughter. He tapped a finger against his chin for a moment. “750 dollars.” He finally said with a smile. Marcella nearly choked when he said it. “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?” She asked when she finally regained her composure. He grinned again. “Well I suppose that price could be negotiated, but that'll be up to you.” She gripped the underside of the counter to avoid slapping him. “Go on.”
“I’ve had people interested in this piece before, but nearly everyone loses interest when they learn it’s not real. Most don’t even look at it further. But you…” He trailed off. “I couldn’t help but notice that you took a particular interest in that piece of lace. You studied it very closely.” “Well I-” He cut her off. “I’ve also studied his case extensively. And I can’t help but notice that you bear a striking resemblance to-” He glanced at his computer screen, which she only now noticed he had done an image search of Allan Clark’s victims on. “Well I think you see where I’m going with this. At this point, she gripped the glass so hard her nails would have dug in if it were wood. “Where are you going with this”? She asked through gritted teeth. He leaned back in his chair and threw his hands up. “Simple.” He smiled. “Confirm my suspicions, and it’s yours.” She stayed silent for a moment, fishing around in her pocket. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about sir.” She slammed down a stack of bills so hard she thought it might shatter the glass. The man let out a sigh that made her think that had been the answer he had expected from her. He took the stack of bills from the counter. “A pleasure doing business with you.” Without another word to the salesman, Marcella latched the box closed and tucked it under her jacket. Her attention turned to her partner, who was idly browsing around. “Jason, let’s go.” She glanced at the box she concealed in her jacket. “We’re done here.” He hesitated briefly, they never left a spot without interviewing the owner. He glanced at the man behind the counter, he’d turned away from them entirely and was touching up the shelves behind him now. Yep, they were done here. Upon returning to the streets above, he noticed the sharp change in Marcella’s demeanor. Something in there had rattled her to be sure, so much so that she willingly climbed into the driver’s seat. “Woah woah, you’re driving?” He opened the passenger side door but did not get in. “What happened to ‘you’re not allowed to make me drive anywhere anymore?’” She glanced at the wooden box she had placed in the back seat, as if to make sure it didn’t disappear. “I’ve got stuff to do.” She shot back, just as he had done on the phone. She gripped the wheel tightly, but extended one hand to him. Not as an invitation, she was waiting for him to give her the keys.
“You’re not a good driver at the best of times, and in the state you’re in right now, I can’t help but think you’re going to hit at least one thing on the way to wherever you’re going.” Just as she had done, his attention turned briefly to the box behind them. “Marcie, come on. Just let me help you.” “How many times have I told you not to call me that!?” She snapped at him as her fist slammed on the dashboard. Her hand returned to the steering wheel, her knuckles now growing white. She still did not speak. She had been like this as long as he had known her. Always so guarded. He had always considered her to be one of his closest friends, but truly he didn’t know much about her, only the generic details. “Fine. I won’t bother you about it, I won’t ask questions, but I cannot let you do whatever you need to do like this.” Marcella yielded. She took in a deep breath and let her head fall on the steering wheel before climbing out. He didn’t say anything, just let her breathe for a minute. She wouldn’t tell him where they were going, she only handed him her phone with the address already set. Ordinarily this would have struck him as odd, but he remembered the place. It had been one of the first places they’d investigated together, a creepy, abandoned mansion north of them by about two hours. The only place she had been sure was haunted. Marcella had told him not to look too deeply at what happened there. The moment they passed under the gate, Marcella thought she might throw up. She hadn’t been back to this place since that once with Jason, she should have visited though. Despite the crunch of fresh snow under the tires, the world felt silent. The snow, aside from their new tire tracks, was untouched, as the rest of the property had been for a number of years. It had once been a tourist attraction of sorts, free for the public to come pay respects to Allan Clark’s last victims, or more likely take selfies. Marcella had closed the place when she bought it 15 years ago. She had never told Jason that she owned the place when they visited, only that she had gotten permission from the owner for them to be there, which was technically the truth. The vehicle came to a stop 20 feet away from the front steps, Jason undid his seatbelt and moved to open the door, but Marcella stopped him. “I’m going in alone. You stay here.” She said sternly. “Seriously Marcie? What do you plan on doing there?” He protested.
“You told me you wouldn’t ask questions, and I’ve told you a million times not to call me that!” She shot back, pushing the door open, setting one foot on the ground. It was true she had told him countless times to not call her Marcie, but it was always in a joking manner, not nearly as harshly as she had said today. He didn’t know what she was dealing with, but he didn’t want to get in the middle of it. He sighed as he pulled his hand away from the door. “Fine. If you’re not back by midnight, I’ll have to assume you were attacked by a vengeful spirit.” She almost laughed at that. “I’ll be fine.” She let both of her boots sink into the snow as she stepped out of the car, taking a moment to adjust to the depth as she stepped around to the other side to get the box. Marcella walked slowly up the front steps of the house, clinging to the cold iron railing. She braced her feet on the ground as she pulled on the heavy wooden doors into the building. Each of her footsteps echoed through the empty rooms while she walked through the house as she made her way to the room at the back of the house that had been closed for nearly two centuries. She pulled an ancient looking key ring from her purse and inserted the silver metal into the small hole just below the doorknob. With a bit of effort, she got it to turn. She gripped the long vertical handle with both hands and pulled to the left, nearly falling over as she did so. The rusted track on which the door rested groaned as it moved, as if angry someone had dared disturb it. The inside was exactly as she remembered it, with a few extra coats of dust that is. The red tufted sofas sat circling around the fireplace, the one closest to the wall of windows still sat knocked on its side. Bits or charred wood, though now useless, still sat in the center of the hearth. And the painting, the one she had not the courage to remove and thus forced her to hide the room, still clung to the spot it had been placed so many years ago. Marcella stopped and stared at it for a moment. A lovely painting, an expensive one to be sure, two women, clutching each other’s hands, Allan Clark’s final victims. Eleanor Whitfield, a young raven-haired beauty of 20 at the time, and herself. Marcella didn’t recognize how she looked in this painting. Her hair was shorter then, and darker. One positive about the passage of so much time has been the advent of functional hair dye. She forced herself to turn her attention away from the artwork and back to the task at hand. She moved to the side of the room, pulling the rug away from the center of the floor, revealing the pentagram that had been carved into the floor the night Eleanor had died.
In a frenzy, she pulled a case of candles from her bag, placing them around the border of the shape, lighting each one as she went. She retrieved the box from the shop from the corner of the room, removing the black candle and lighting it. She took the lace from the box, draping it over her hands and squeezing the candle in between her fingers above the fabric. She let her eyes close as she whispered the Latin words she had said so many times before to no avail. She felt a soft breeze as the candles in the room extinguished all at once. She allowed her eyes to open, hoping, to nothing but quiet. She sat there, waiting. Waiting for her past, her unnaturally far away past to come for her. Allan Clark had accidentally extended her life for who could know how long, but Marcella’s life had been truly over the moment Eleanor left this world and she was doomed to stay in it forever. A set of cold, familiar hands found Marcella’s shoulders, warming on contact. “Marcie?” A beautifully-familiar voice in the air. Marcella turned her head to the figure, eyes watering. Eleanor’s form, illuminated by the moonlight, stood before her. Marcella took her wrists, pulling her down in one motion. Their lips locked together as tears began to flow freely down Marcella’s face. It worked. She was here, with her love, and happy. She knew it wouldn’t last, she knew that as soon as the sun returned to the sky this would be over, but even just one moment alone in the moonlight was enough for several lifetimes.
Isabel Foerster
Translucent Trees layers and layers of warmth just waiting to wrap me up. the neighbors are pointing up to god, awaiting his approval. they look frazzled. i can see right through them, every secret, every story, every lie. there’s an unspoken truth among this neighborhood, the dreariness is overwhelming. i want to learn more. they’re asking me to reach out, dig deeper. down the street i’m running running running to find the wailing baby. only it’s not the baby wailing, for the baby has fallen. i can feel the tension, it’s pinching my skin. the silence goes quiet. friends and family gather round spreading the love like confetti. suddenly we’re drenched. oh! what a joy. everyone is weeping, even the sky.
Ellen Ingham
i wish i were a poet i wish i were a poet so my words could take me away i wish i were much stronger so my heartstrings wouldn’t fray i wish i had a daughter so i could make her unlike me i wish i had a friend who maybe wouldn’t leave i wish i wasn’t who i am i’m tired of feeling grey i wish i wasn’t here again begging you to stay i’m sorry that i can’t hold back my stupid bad dark thoughts i’m sick of laying sick out on these dumb diseased blue cots i wish we talked a little more so i could maybe say i miss you, want you, love you, come back and fix my aches
dead flowers A meteor came crashing down On the house that we both made I tried to save it, I was late Cracked my skull On our clean slate Tore down your portrait, it got sold, Mud covered footprints trace my soul Pulled apart, dividing rock Volcanoes erupt where we walked Venus reached her fingers out But was met with salty waves Polaris dear where have you gone Are you bruised down to the bone? Lightning catches all your breath Bound to a promise that I broke Now I can’t seem to find my way Can’t register you’re gone I promise it’ll be okay Come back, you’re all I want All the flowers that we planted Have wilted, made a storm Daisies, pansies, lavender Crushed violets, the air is warm We can’t quite breathe There’s too much mist Tornadoes linger on my wrists I look closer, fire writes on yours
I tried to help, I called Neptune Asked him to help me fight the fumes But you only glared at me and said, Get out of here, leave me alone. I’ll fight the fires on my own. Meteors, they are no match for me. And as I protested and cried, I was caught by a landslide Locked inside my heart, So now I bleed, I bleed for you, because of you I bleed so I might see the truth I bleed for me, Space and her Stars Saturn’s rings layer my scars My flowers await watering They’re all dead, God knows I’ll never see How much you really took from me
Fig An unsightly and coarse exterior Conceals a ripe and succulent core Revealed only after delicately peeling back thin mauve skin Layer by layer Many will never taste the deliciousness of a fig With hands too impatient And eyes full of greed Their heavy fingers fumble maladroitly over the rind And they crush the fragile fruit beneath their careless palm Ignorant of the pleasure forsaken
Emilia Harvey Malet
Winds When, under moonlit trees, a strange wind approaches, all life vanishes, Away to safety, a smart decision, for the wind makes its entrance with an air of fantasy. The trees stand stately in their open stance, hiding all from abnormality it seems. The branches bend under the weight of the wind, which does not exist but in it’s effect, The leaves tease the wind with their existence as a tangible thing, All the meanwhile, the wind grows angrier. A gust of wind from the ocean and I can taste the sea salt on my tongue. The hollow whispers that echo reality come from a distant past, as time moves in circles with the wind. The wind brings melancholic memories along with the sea salt, Of younger years by the waters edge, Afraid of all that is unknown but with a childish sense of immortality. Alas, now the storm comes; The winds blow the leaves from their branches, twirling them to the ground in a silent tornado of green, gold, and brown, The sound of the wind blends in with the colors and time is finally marked by a crash of thunder from the furious charcoal skies. The start of rain is not noticed to one who has been listening to the wind, As with the thunder, time has just begun and thus it has always been raining. The leaves however, notice this change as they are rustled by something of tangibility and not an idea, of lands far away and exotic philosophies. The leaves, who were once mocking the wind, now sway to let the water pass; Water, The blood of a tree’s existence. The storm now raging, the wind calms. I follow the forest life and take my leave.
Savanna Larson
Sunset The sun sets on the sailing sea, with a deep blue above the clouds, splashed with autumn and hope and tears, It blesses the land with golden light, light stored through the night in the stars.
One Duck One Duck, of flamboyant blues, greys, and greens, floats alone on a pond, at 2:33 o’clock, he sees a fish of which he is fond, and goes to say hello, to the Fish, a jovial aquatic fellow, the Fish, too busy with its work as a salesman for fish hats, does not respond.
Nature’s Symphony Chickadee The chickadee sings for the morning sun’s smile A note off… silence. II. Ocean Only blue in sight, the roar of the deep is heard, As, crash! Splash! Splatter! III. Rain Drip, drop - spring is here. The Earth, like an quiet drum, gives a voice to rain. IV. Fire Fire can engulf all, With a small sizzle until, Whoosh! Darkness again.
John Marquardt
Futurae Vitae John Doe stood poised in the middle of a small white room, with no distractions, allowing for his unwavering concentration. He is hunched over a table looking quite concerned, holding small metal pieces and fitting them together in a complicated yet strategic manner. John knew the one purpose of his job; to make Weavers. Miniscule spiders with 100s of intricate legs that possess processing power beyond human comprehension. Weavers are at the very center of modern creation. They can improve and write algorithms for massive servers which control a majority of human technology, constantly improving to better the human experience. John glances at his wrist and gives it a tap. All at once his skin parts and a bright screen is shown, simultaneously, colors flash to welcome him to Wrist Partner. “Hi John, how are you today?” John cheerfully responded, “I’m great Sophia, how are you?” “I simply couldn’t be any better.” the wrist piped back John acutely clicked his tongue, “how much longer do I work today?” “About 15 minutes John, if you never figure out how to construct the Weavers in an efficient manner it will feel a lot longer.” He simply shook his head and kept working away. This job was new to him, but it was also essential if he ever wanted to achieve anything in the world. Normally impoverished people would not be able to get this job, but Enterprise needed millions of Weavers to help with their new project; a brand new brain stem chip which required “Improved server connection”, as stated by Enterprise. Not only that, but anyone who was below a certain economic standing could get the chip free as long as they acquired the job of constructing Weavers for Enterprise. John was absolutely ecstatic for this opportunity. “Gosh am I thankful for Enterprise International, I might even be able to get the stem chip by next month, and if the 30,000 credits for my work today transfer, I could even get some food and some new clothes for myself, a luxury I had long left behind. Enterprise is gonna help me be a better man and influence society in a positive way.” “I am sure they will transfer just fine and you will get all you require,” the wrist interjected “I am equally thankful for Enterprise international as they have created all that I am.” “I bet, wouldn’t be much without them would you” “No I would not John” John paced around for a couple steps in deep contemplation, “Man this place is a little eerie, but it feels so advanced and clean. It’s nice to have a change from living in the gutters of this wretched city, every day looking up at the shining blue walls of the
magnificent metropolis of Elysium. Always able to see the glistening graphic of the future but never able to obtain; oh to live in middle class society and not feel like vermin amongst a party of cats. I mean, level 5,000 though, that’s impressive. Never in my life would I think I’d be allowed even this close.” The wrist responded nearly immediately, but still in the same dull and robotic voice, “New job opportunities arrive when you get your chip, John, you are about to experience peak human performance. The greatest collective minds have unified into this technology, allowing performance and chemical balance to be at its most efficient state.” “So I’m gonna be a superhuman?” “Pretty much John.” “Boy I cannot wait!” John continued to work away happily for the remanding 15 minutes before the wall behind him completely opened, revealing a long black hallway with some stairs. One step after the next led to a tall and thin blue steel elevator door which opened instantaneously, detecting his presence. The elevator was a sleek glass shuttle which moved at incomprehensible speeds, or at least, incomprehensible to John’s stomach. He walked into the hell elevator and gave notice to a massive collection of buttons spladled along the wall in vast arrays. The numbers ranged from -5 to 10,000. The door closed behind John as he pressed a small blue button labeled “92”. The shuttle speeded down into the pit below the wonderful utopia he had known for 10 meer hours, a taste of the technological prowess which lay in front of him. After riding for about 3 minutes, the shuttle stopped all at once near a large rooftop which could be walked to, via a platform which extended from the bottom of the elevator to the rooftop. John ran along the skinny platform, dancing and leaping, as if he did not care if he fell thousands of feet to the bottom of the city. Impossibly, he did not and reached the other side of the alloy bridge without a scratch. Dozens of trapdoors lined the rooftop, which was made of brick, and was full of must and filth. He approached a trap door on the close side of the roof and opened it, then climbed a ladder about 5 feet down. A long dissatisfied breath left his body as he left the final rung, and took his first step onto a dainty wooden floorboard, “Ah, back to this dump.” John kissed a cross necklace around his neck, thenkneeled before a small wooden statue of Jesus, an incantation was recited: “please god, deliver me safely to the mega city of Elysium, to have my soul saved and my brain to be treated as a machine to be improved and sharpened, for I know all will go well and I will be a new man by dawn in the morrow. I pray you look over me and my travels. John signed the cross then stood. A steady rumbling vibrated from his shoes
all the way to the tip of his skull. He knew what was about to happen and braced almost instinctively by standing on a small chair and plugging his nose. Rats and mice cascaded all at once across the floorboards and down the walls, scurrying like an ever moving army of vermin in huge waves of combat. Gnashing flesh and teeth grinded. Mice fought over nothing but meer breathing space. Each individual rodent fighting for survival, waiting for the herd to somehow slip through the cracks in the walls and into a room with somehow more space for the thousands of helpless mice. Viewing the battle from above made John feel like a general in a battle, waging on for the rats to all kill each other and to never return. The siege was over as soon as it started, yet the attack had not even nerved John. He was all too used to the rodent problem, maybe too used to that, and the disgusting smell that constantly sat in his apartment which was credited to the miniscule particles of mice contrail and bone splattered about. He stepped off the chair and walked over to a small pile of corpses which had been left behind: the casualties. John spoke to himself in an affirming sense, “Well at least some of you bastards died.” He scooped a few of the limp, lifeless bodies and chucked them into his disposable system, which could destroy and incinerate any material instantly to be converted to energy for all of society. Once he finished this he washed his hands and stepped into his bathroom; a mirror, a bath, and a steamer for cleaning clothes, all in a 6 by 6 foot room. The mirror was the first he took notice of as his gaze fell to his own personal reflection. Even though he felt gross, his green tunic and light blue jeans were in perfect condition, vibrant and bright. They were his prized possession and he knew they would stay like this for at least another 10 years, and knew they had already lasted 5. He had used most of his war salary to coat them with a thin, colorless, carbon fiber layer. The carbon fiber protects the clothing in a powerful carbon bond seal, nearly unbreakable by most means. Although it was not cheap, it is more worth it than destroying dozens of pairs of normal clothes in the long run. His facial and head hair seemed to have been growing rampantly and extended down past his neck. His face looked aged and in constant complexion and his eyes were barely visible because of his long hair. Despite his young age of 25. His ear and nose were hidden mostly by the forest which surrounded them. John undressed, threw his clothes into the insta steamer to delegate his body odor, then took a quick bath. Once done, he got out of the bath and dried off. He opened the steamer and took his warm clothes out. He held them close to his face and rubbed his cheeks on his bright green tunic, the steamer always left his clothes nice and toasty, plus he had found the perfect cooling time input just to feel the lavish nature of this action. Nonetheless he didn’t need his clothes for his slumber, so he tossed them on a small metal table in his apartment once he had left the bathroom. John walked over to his sad sleeping bag in the corner of the room, elevated on a small platform to negate a mice attack if they happened to strike in the night. He held himself as comfortably as he could and tried to get some rest. Barely a minute into some shut eye, his Wrist Partner lights up and flashes a singular message: “You have urgent mail John.”
“Well, it better be worth it. I was about to get some much needed sleep.” John turned 90 degrees and let his feet dangle to the floor, “Play newest message.” A mechanical and monotone voice recited, “resident B1428 of level 92, you have been accepted for a brain chip implant, report to floor 9,432 for a painless procedure at exactly 10am.” His wrist partner promptly closed. John felt a warm feeling fluctuate throughout his body as he started to feel overcome with joy for the first time in months. He got up and started dancing around the room, pumping his arms in the air all while hooting and hollering. John banged his chest and yelled, “I did it! I did it!” More dancing and arm waving, “I did it! I did it!” He slumped back down onto his sleeping bag and tried to calm down. A beaming smile could not leave his face, a rare sight. He felt so sure in his future for the first time in his life. John placed his hand on his chest and felt his pounding chest. In response to this he took some deep breaths and layed down, for he wanted to get at least a little bit of sleep before his big day. Thoughts of what could possibly cross his path entertained his mind and ultimately calmed him into sweet dreams, like a kid awaiting Christmas morning. John awoke and rose from his bed all in the same motion, then turned on his Wrist Partner to have a glance at the time. It was 8:30 am, so John had plenty of time to freshen up a little. He grabbed his clothes off the table and put them on. After this he went into the bathroom to comb his hair and beard to look a little more fashionable. Once pleased with his hairdo, John stepped out of the bathroom and washed his face in his apartment sink, then rinsed his teeth with water. He was feeling like a new person already. Now that he completed all he needed to get ready, John sat at the chair and rested his arm on the table, watching some movies while he waited. This time he watched an old show called “It's the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown.” This title interested him because Easter was easily His favorite holiday. Even though he had to go it alone every year, he enjoyed celebrating the resurrection of Jesus and listening to church sermons on his wrist partner; one of the only programs that are run by humans anymore. John finished his show by 9:45 am in which he promptly had to leave. He took the ladder to the roof then walked over to the edge of the rooftop, which had a singular button on a tall skinny metal pedestal. He pressed the button then waited about 30 seconds before the prospective glass shuttle arrived and spewed its platform. John confidently walked to the shuttle and pressed the button “9,432”. Once this happened a voice boomed in the shuttle, “authorization for procession please.”
John responded with a little pep in his step, “resident B1428 to floor 9,432 for a brain chip implant.” “Authorization complete” The shuttle zoomed away, on its way to a certain future. The elevator came to a halt on level 9,432 and slid its door open. The hallway here was nearly identical to level 5,000, except it seemed to be longer. John walked down the hall and into the blank white room at the end of it. The operating room was very large, and to his surprise, no one was present. In the middle of the room was a large comfy looking chair which had many kinds of mechanical arms and tools above it. He felt comforted knowing that his surgery was left to the precision of computers. John walked over to the chair and took a seat. “Are you ready for your operation resident B1428” John looked around confused, unsure of where the voice came from, “Yeah, I guess I am.” “Beginning procedure in 10 seconds” John squirmed around uncomfortably and waited for the procedure to begin. Very suddenly John felt a dull pain in his back that had knocked him slightly forward in the chair and hurt his spine. He looked behind him to see what happened. A big syringe lay at the end of a metal swinging arm, which he assumed was painkillers and was going to make him pass out. He didn’t know a spinal tap was needed to administer the proper medication to ensure the procedure went well, but if he had known this he would have undressed a little to ensure the syringe was not stopped by his carbon fiber coated tunic. More mechanical arms appeared from above with many saws and whirling blades. John knew that there was a screw up and started screaming. “Stop procedure, stop procedure!” John got up and ran to the center of the room. The same mysterious voice from before droned, “please return to your seat for your procedure to be completed.” John shuffled around and held his clamby hands together, “Hell no, I’m gonna go find who’s in charge here, and go let them administer my medication first hand, thank you very much.” “I am in charge here resident B1428, if you do not return to your seat you will be forcibly placed.” “You know, I think I'm just gonna head- go home real quick then I’ll be back, I promise.” “Force Must be used.” The ceiling about 10 feet ahead of him parted and slowly but surely an almost 10 foot tall metal figure descended from the ceiling, held by metal cables. The robot was nothing but a metal frame, an extension of indestructible titanium which had several foot long claws at the end of each arm.
John became hysterical and begged, “ok please, this really isn’t necessary. I mean, I’ll still do the job for you guys, I mean it! I’ll do anything just please do not do this.” The impending figure was about land, “exterminate resident B1428, non-compliance is not an option.” He barely considered the offer before making a run for it. John barreled straight down the hallway toward the shuttle and banged on the impenetrable door of the glass elevator, which refused to open and was beeping profusely. John’s breath began to become more and more sporadic as he uncontrollably heaved all over the floor and ran back down the hallway where he came from. He began banging on the thick wooden walls, praying that one of the plaster coated sides would suddenly collapse. Understanding his fate, John had no choice but to attempt to stand up to the powerful beasts and try to survive. He cried out and covered his face, “Please Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, save me!” John waited for his death to approach him, but instead felt the force of 1,000s of pounds smash into his back and throw him straight into the wall. His carbon fiber coating had saved him from the slicing, but the force in which he had been smacked sent him flying through the wall and tumbling along a cold stony floor in the room adjacent. He did not get up right away as honestly he thought he was dead. Hesitantly he got up to his knees and looked around. What laid before him could not be expected by any means. John rose to his feet and scanned around like a cornered rodent confuddled by the scene before him. He saw thousands of people, sitting on small black identical loveseats motionless. Despite the amount of people, all that could be heard was the clacking of millions of Weavers, moving in droves around the space, climbing up and over people: including John, but he simply shook them off. John was terrified, “What is going on here?” He looked behind him, expecting the metal figure to appear through the small hole behind him, but it never came. John slowly started to approach the web of people. The first person he saw was a young man, who was sitting completely still and had his neck resting on the back of the coach, staring straight up. His eyes were shining bright white and didn’t seem to have a single thought or notion of reality behind them. John threw shaky hands in front of the young man’s face and waved, trying to get even a finger to move. “Hello, you there buddy? Are any of you there!” John yelled and heard it echo and ricochet all across the room. “Guys this isn’t funny, what’s going on?.” John ran from person to person, shaking them uncontrollably and expecting at one point to reach a response. Growing delirious, he sprinted down the various aisles looking for a sign that someone is actually alive.
“No no no… this can’t be!” John fell to his knees and sobbed, “Why did you take everything from us, you said you would make us sharper and smarter. Why did you feel the need to lie and connive in order to use us as devices of technology.” His wrist lit up, “Is it not a superior way to live without the need for sustenance? To not have your judgement clouded by indecisive cavemen? To be no longer affected by violence and discourse?” John hysterically laughed then lay on his back, placing his hands on his head, “Physical pain is not the only plain we experience.” “What do you mean? The central nervous system takes a pain response and activates it in your brain. All you can feel is physical pain.” John sighed, “What about heartbreak or losing a loved one? Those hurt just as much and sometimes more. The only thing worse than experiencing these kinds of things is not being able to obtain the precursor; to not ever actually live as a true human being.” “I do not know what you mean John.” John chuckled, “of course you don’t.” The unnatural spiders started to climb over and slowly cover John. He didn’t care even the slightest bit at this point, even if they began to run deep gashes into his arms and removed his clothes. It was all a lie. He had been played like a book, or all of society had been seemingly. The lie consumed him like vultures to a corpse. The Weavers started to get off of John and revealed a holy view to him. The Ceiling above parted and the sky above was bright and blinded John almost entirely, as if the heavens descended upon him. A large outline appeared and floated down from paradise. The figure scooped him in metallic arms like a guardian angel carrying him to safety. His body became limp and weak as he was carried above the ceiling and into the piercing light above. The raven-like carrier took John over the edge and then down, down, down. past the bleak Metropolis of Elysium and past the dainty apartments which he called home. After many minutes of being held, he was finally set down on an ashen and dirt filled ground. He stood up and looked up at his masked savior, which was fleeting away quickly. All John could make out was a silvery reflection fading away. He had no clue where he was, supposedly at the ground level, which he had not dared travel to in the past. His arms and legs were covered in scratches and scrapes, and his clothes were missing. John noticed that his beard and hair had been damaged as well and was barely intact, all of this complementary to the swarm of Weavers. Because of his newfound lack of hair, John felt as if his view expanded tenfold and he began to look around to become acquainted with the environment. He was in the middle of a massive valley, which was scorched and damned. Mountains surrounded all sides of him as if he was in a bowl. Massive skyscrapers expanded on top of the mountains and disappeared beyond sight as they went up. John kept scanning and thought he saw some people about 200 feet out and instantly grew happy, he had not seen anyone in months.
“Guys! Come help me, do you know what’s going on?” John called out and started jogging towards them. As he got closer he noticed that something was off. The people were crawling on all fours and were completely naked, hunched over something. “Guys? What are you doing?” The pack had not seen John until now, and now that they did notice him they slowly turned and faced him, now with maximum concentration. John felt terrified as the jackals approached him and circled him, more ranks joining in among the monsters. Blood dripped from the feral humans lips as they slowly approached him like hundreds of minions of evil. John stumbled backwards and fell onto his ass. Hissing and growling surrounded him as he became overcome by the lowest of men. His arms and legs began to be tugged and bitten at. The last view of John’s life was the glistening city of Elysium as his organs were torn from his body.
Blizzarding Nowadays The world turns gray and blue and bright Snowflakes blind my eyes, and catch on my hair and my sweater and my socks Tunnel vision, peeling back the layers that I’ve tucked into bullets The powdered trees; floating Me Her heavenly spirit rains down to me My half-moon light in the dim, filmy air Pulsing through the foggy gray. A wide-eyed doe trots across the trail wading in this strange, strange twilight Yellowy and fine, all too Mine The world turns gray and full of spite My thoughts churn with mindless matter, mud, and Might The trees drip with snow Scaly, a frozen forebode The snow clings to the branches of those twisted, knotted trees Nighttime falls and the woods grow dark Eerie now, and I think I’m lost. And my golden crescent moon glimmers still a dim, dreary Hello How divine.
Woods Enchanted by the witch of ages Who frolics in a garden of torrid illusion I spend my days inside my head Nurturing the fanciful tales of willow and orchid Nymphs that crowd around the pond, Raising their long fingers to their mouths as they smile The path that goes around the manor Make sure to duck when you pass the trellis For it is made for forms much lower to the ground The grasses sway red and yellow to the north The sun sets red and yellow to the west A creek runs by, a sort of funny silver, Speaking words of a manor up the hill So I follow the words, as I always do Lo and behold the uttered rings true The wind is a song that reveals Enchantments discern the same as a curse In stained glass halls of the present
Lucy Snow
Into the Garden Into the garden and out of the mist I’m honest that I’ve taken a risk It’s easy to spend your days under old apple trees Branches hung heavy with golden or red keys When the sun rises and sets I don’t know if it’s east or west The moon hangs around Silver and sound In its place in this crepuscule world In the old night sky Of stars and a silver moon
Every So Often The fluorescent lights are closing in The only thing I can do is draw the curtains a little further The path to the red door smells like rotting fruit
12th
They Come to Me in the Night I found myself standing in a field of dry reeds, There was no wind and I held your hand. We stood too far apart, reaching for each other, but not moving any closer. Without any clouds, the sky began to fall, covering us in rain, but I couldn’t feel it. A great wall rose out of the hills ahead of us, taller than the sky and made of stone so old, it was more alive than dead. Then there was fire. Chasing across the plane, sweeping us up in its embrace. A world of golden smoke, burning and a heat that felt cold. But nothing hurt. Nothing was hurting me, but I could feel the life leaving me as the waves pulled you away, taking her towards the wall at a speed far too dangerous to contemplate.
Julia Srnec
And all I could do was stand, with the reeds and flames sweeping around me, like they feared to touch even a hair on my head. Perhaps the fire has come from within, maybe I had in fact created it myself. But it still burned as I watched you go, angry with me for the betrayal of my emotions. The sky became the color of the embers that surrounded me and all was golden, and the shifting colors of the flames belonged to me. I swam in the sea of my own creation, hating every second of it.
Lipstick Stain a lipstick stain on the coffee cup forgotten by the washer everything cleaned away but the thought of me a reminder of the repetition mannerisms of myself in the same spot that i drink from now staining my lips with a memory of yesterday do you feel the same when you hear of me? reminded of what once was and what is unable to be forgotten? i know i shouldn't wish it but my god would it be lovely to be a stain on your coffee cup along with a bittersweet taste and an unintended addiction do others see it in your eyes? or do you wish that they could? if they saw it they may try to save you from me from yourself from the stain
i hope against my right mind and heart that it is me you curse in the night me you cannot escape me you cry over hoping the tears will leave your body taking my memory along with them me you and a stain on a coffee cup
Even The Rain now even the rain reminds me of you your smile and the laughs we've shared so just hold me close and let us dance right here as the rain comes pouring down i've waited so long to feel this glorious rush that i feel while i look in your eyes but i feel it now and i know somehow that we will be this way for years to come stories and hazy skies rainbows and secret looks across crowded rooms it feels as if we are here dancing in harmony in our very own ballroom the music swelling with our hearts smiles and truths that bring me closer to you as the rain comes pouring down
Ming Wei Yeoh
self-hate Lovely girls, hiding in the corners of my mirror And sneaking into my mind while I dream I reach with my fingers to trap them But they slip between, like nymphs Leaving me in tears, hungry, and in wait i. Suvi I like watching her brush her hair, black and soft And do her makeup like an expert She has doe eyes and a button nose And she got a 1580 on the SAT Her friends are a mix of boys and girls They are smart like her but fun-loving Party animals, monkeys and lions to her butterfly Walking her to class Suvi! Suvi! Her name bounces around school I run my fingers along her symmetrical face She’s good at telling jokes Even though she loves reading books quietly too I’m not a party animal She acts aloof when I’m around And stays away unapologetically If I didn’t love her so much, I might hate her
She visits often in the mirror There and then gone like a dream or an illusion Damn that glass, or I’d reach in and grab her And never let go ii. Elora I walk with her on the moon Where there are no bumps and craters How is it so smooth? I think she moisturizes it Her name goes down the throat like honey As sweet as her countenance If I built a house for her, she might stay with me But she tells me, in the nicest way possible, to go home My own moon is across the galaxy Pimples popped, craters cleaned up for her visit “God is light,” “sunshine,” that’s who she is Too bright, too hot to touch The coy one, she smiles at me In a way that does her name justice She doesn’t want to hurt me My presence makes the clouds thunder I see her in class, teacher droning on She dominates my mind like a fiery star
There when I search the meaning of her name On the Internet iii. Yang Her house is a greenhouse Where flowers and vegetables thrive Here, money grows on trees and jewels on beansprouts She keeps secrets, but just the innocent kind She battles some days with the other gardeners But when the war ends they go for drinks It keeps her on edge, she says So much love for them, her heart spills over We hold hands sometimes I squeeze the cold thing tight But she needs to leave, abruptly She peels off my grip and puts on her armor Heading into war again I’m like a spurned lover She’s the peach that’s too high on the branch I come from a tropical island, mangos and durian Not the metropolis of her roots I see her at Saturday Chinese classes On the attendance list, in the seat next to me So many giggling duplicates Shades of paint forming the perfect color
Mahdi Khamseh
Andréa: Part IV Those dried branches, and their tapering bark, drying, on the last remaining patio chair that possesses enough bravery to assume that in a state of extended absence, there still exists an absolute discrimination between, for example, the blue leaf and the red leaf, or the hungry curtain that frantically mops up my wilting sun, and the thinned lamp that joins my paralysis, or even the terror one bears when immune to even the most crude forms of tension and living: I am responsible for this tree
Andréa: Parts X-XIII the white pumice of your eyes, dripping under mine, sordid, somehow an empty road, wide and long, walking in the cold rain: waiting to be fed. *** A naked body in the porch window, depressed, yes, but under a simultaneous bond to “living”, as if frothing in the trunk of a tree, gushing towards the leaves that might carry it away. ***
She stands on one foot, in the kitchen, dragging what seems to be a shack of smoke, inwards, from the open window: dehumanizing the wind of its kites. *** Ah, the blows of a wasted cigarette growing numb on the split trunk of my teeth, as if its roses have charred in the very lungs that I cease to have!
SENIOR
MUSIC SUBMISSION CLICK NAME TO LISTEN
RUBY MARTIN