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FOREWORD

This magazine is in dedication to all of the students and teachers whose hard work has made it transform from a thought to realty.

Join us as we explore North Fort Myers High School’s talented authors by publishing the first ever volume of Knight Writes. All entries in this magazine have been fully developed by students and submitted for publication.

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Table of ContentsStudent Recognitions

Aspiring Authors Writing Contest

11th Grade Fiction 1st Place and 11/12th Grade Overall WinnerShifting Faces by Nicole Van Meter (11th Grade) ........................................................ pg. 4

12th Grade Fiction 1st PlaceThe Wicker of the Storm by Lluvia Quintana ............................................................... pg. 8

12th Grade Poetry 3rd PlaceHumans at Work by Mya Mandat ............................................................................... pg. 10

11th Grade Poetry 3rd PlaceA Wilted Rose by Jada Maniscalo ................................................................................ pg. 11

11th Grade Fiction 3rd PlaceMore to the Coleman Name by Reanna Smith ......................................................... pg. 12

Pride & Patriotism Contest

9/10th Grade 3rd PlaceGraveyard by Emma (Aspasia) Jaycox ......................................................................... pg. 16

9/10th Grade Honorable MentionUs Dollies by Candy Distefano .................................................................................... pg. 17

Poetry..................................................................................................................................... pg. 18

Fiction & Free Write ............................................................................................................ pg. 33

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Shifting Faces by Nicole Van Meter

The knock on the door comes at midnight.

A harkening of twelve bells.

The cathedral doused in moonlight.

It is evenings such as these when I wonder: what was life like before today? But therein I answer my own question, for I remember all yesterdays, yet never recall any tomorrows. The switching of lives always came with such symbolism, a message to move on; tonight is no exception. Sitting upon the marble pew, head tilted toward the lofty spires, you could almost hear the wind whispering to deaf ears.

I can no longer imagine what life was once my own, what face was mine, or what heart used to beat within by chest; the blood that thrummed through my veins. Having lived so many different incarnations of being, with each fresh dawn a new existence to experience, am I truly me anymore? But really, what is the meaning of ‘self’, when you have no point of reference. A creature wading through the river of Time with no rhyme or reason, no explanation to why things are the way they are. Each and every person I pass on the various streets, trails, and waterways have their own lives to live; do they remember this one face in the crowd? Do I, this body, cease to exist when I leave this plane, or did it have a life before I came to inhabit it?

So many questions, so few answers.

Time is a fickle mistress, even for I who is closest to her, to which she rarely speaks.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Rising from my seat and brushing away imaginary dust, a feeling of readiness consumed me. Accompanied by that ever present apprehension. So long I have travelled, yet feeble attachments to some form of normalcy always binds me to the present; whenever the present may reside. Even interspatial travel can do little to erase a human’s inner emotions; what a strong force of nature to be reckoned with, they are in truth. It is a gift, my lady tells me; voice as incorporeal as her essence. To travel the distant confines of history. For it is I who must play witness to all, events Past, Present and Future. A sentential who stands firm; seeing all possible fates, and courses. The opener of windows, without a care for their latches.

Now I greet her, at the precipice. Hand in hand. Shoulder to shoulder. One with and one without physical form. We still have a long way to go, Traveler. A tone as light as a feather, yet ever weighted upon my shoulders. A curse and a blessing.

The flutter of a crow’s wings sounds in the distance.

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Taking one last moment to savor this daily sentence, I pause halfway down the aisle; eyes shut in appreciation. The sweet smell of pines wafts along the air, stagnant like the echo of my shoes on tile. Upon the mosaic windows spiraling patterns of ice grew, like flowering fractals of winter. It’s funny how such inanimate concepts could garner emotions from a haunted soul, like the very breath that escapes my lips. Too bad it is not the snow that will greet me.

Perhaps another time, but not today.

Just as I reach out, gloved fingers brushing against the oaken door, something else breaks the silence. Or rather, someone else. I knew this was coming, I felt this man’s presence call throughout the walls, alerting me not moments before. The rustling of heavy cloth and the scent of old tomes had me turning to face him. Tall and lanky was he, adorned in the fine garb of the clergy; eyes wide in the most troubling of ways. I could almost feel his gaze drift over me, and I began to wonder what he saw.

A man?

A woman?

A spirit?

A god?

Me?

For I have been so many things, I feel I no longer have a sense of person. Who am I? I can tell he sees more than most should, with vision like his; he is one of the rare few who can ascertain beyond the scope of mortality. Maybe that is why he has sought me out, or perchance that is why I sought him out; or more specifically, this place. A chance at understanding, even by the narrowest of margins. Companionship in the dark. The man’s mouth hesitated around a question, unspoken words falling in the space between us. Seemingly gathering hidden courage, he took another step towards me.

”Propter quam venistis ad hunc locum, non esse terram hanc?” The heavy Latin syllables tumble across his tongue; thick in his French accent. For a man of the church, the language did not suit him. ‘Why have you come to this place, being not of this land?’ That was his question, how interesting that he could imagine, across.

With harsh intonation that this host carried, I replied, “pour le réconfort, mon ami,” in stilted French I had picked up somewhere along my way; ‘for the solace, my friend’. The figure seemed startled at my very voice, or maybe it was that I uttered those words in his native tongue. Strange. Was I once a religious man, perhaps this is why I came to these supposed holy grounds? That moment of pause did not last for very long, his dark brows furrowed in nervous contemplation. He pressed on, almost as if to ascertain my very nature, in that same messy Latin, “an quod angelus vel daemon, est creatura humana cute?”

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‘Are you an angel or a demon, creature of human skin?’

I almost thought not to answer this time, to let this man come to his own conclusions, and let him believe what he will about our meeting. His name murmured within me like the ever beating thrum of his heart, yet just out of my grasp; if only I could reach out and grab it. Now I noticed the subtle tremble in his bony hands, though I must commend him for facing the vast unknown and hiding his fear so well.

For the first time in what could have been years, I smiled, albeit tinged with sorrow.

“Ni.”

‘Neither’.

One need not speak the language of France to know my meaning, the look upon my face gave me away. I can’t be anything more than I already am, but to be able to reply fully I must first know what I am; which I do not. Quite the troubling conundrum.

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, the thin man extended his left hand; only shifting with the slightest tremor. It filled the narrow yet vast space between us, two figures still but in motion. I paused for what could have been an eternity, then soon returned the gesture; steadily removing the dark gauntlet, its’ fabric providing little resistance. Mine own cold pale arm clasped the man’s; layered with new skin over old bones. It was always this way. No flinch could be felt through the embrace: a strong reassurance of nature and what each party stood for. The touch brought with it a connection.

For I saw who this man was.

Past. Present. Future.

Everything in between.

In return he received my own.

Each and every struggle, my many longings, and all that I could have loved or done but never got the chance to. Too bad I would never get to see such things, for frivolities of that kind may cloud my purpose. I envied this person, standing before me, so knowledgeable yet so very ignorant. To be in such a state must truly be a blessing, all things considered. Would I ever get that?

Highly unlikely.

Shifting my line of sight up from our enjoined hands, I met those dark eyes head on; hoping that the answers to each of his questions could be seen in my gaze. I wanted to help this man in his endeavors, his path to righteousness and helping all those who cannot help themselves. My prerogative, I can claim, is relatively similar. In more ways than one. Following an ever present but unseen guide; along on a path that remains unclear. For

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that I sympathize because it is hard to have such a blind faith in what we don’t understand. Granted, I understand the sentiments of my lady far greater than many a human could ever comprehend. It is unfortunate that I have to leave this fellow.

A brother not in blood but in sight.

Gradually I retracted my hand, guiding it back in to my leather glove. Out of sight and out of mind. In one final moment Alexendre, to which I had just gleaned as his name, opened his mouth to make an utterance, but was silenced by my swift waving gesture. The period for such sentiments was over; now was when I must truly be taking my leave. One must not be more than a few minutes late, lest risk being left behind. “Peut-être nous reverrons-nous, mon ami, j’espère que vous trouverez ce que vous recherchez.”

‘Perhaps we shall meet again, my friend, I hope you find what you are looking for.’ These were my last words to this man; the only one who had seen me, really seen me, in likely eons. Both a gift and a promise.

Bonne nuit, mon ami.

Without waiting for a response, I turned back around, completing the action I had originally set out to do: opening the door. With that ever present smile on my face, just as I pushed upon the gate I felt Alexandre’s essence drift away once more. Like it was never there to begin with; shadows in the night. Time is with me once more, as the first cold breeze grazes my face; no light but the gleam of Luna’s pale radiance. All at once everything stopped: the sounds, sights, and smells. Like walking in reverse; disorienting and overpowering. Then, it resumed.

Night to day.

Snow to sand.

Cold to hot.

Silence to sound.

“Bonne nuit, mon ami,” I repeat aloud for the last time; the words harsh and foreign off of new vocal chords. New everything.

All over again.

And the world began anew. Art by Deborah Guiteriez

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The Wicker of the Stormby Lluvia Quintana When it rains, it rains hard. In this sleepy town nestled in between sweeping trees and looming woods, the people run for shelter within the church or the small grade school if not their own homes when the beating sun disappears behind veiling clouds. The rain doesn’t start all at once; rather, a drop falls on a lawn, another taps on stained glass, one finds a last straggler and urges them home before the true, unruly rain is released. It’s only after the warnings that rain begins to pour.

Rain pelts the ground, muddying up the soil and watering the winter crops in advance, and the people huddle closely in their homes. Rain holds many horrors, especially in this small town where the rain brings the woods to life. It was a legend first, an old proverb handed down to the current settlers of the land, that warned of the creatures of the night; creatures that had only whites in their eyes, figures that stalked like shadows, people that looked more human than they really were - these were the nightmares that haunted generations for ages. These tales scared the townsfolk into safe places come dawn and wouldn’t let them out until dusk painted the sky.

The legend passed on and on, always pushing generations to abide by its rules.

In this town, story books are not necessary. While children suckle at their mother’s comforting breast, she whispers:

“Beware, my child. Beware the rain and the terrors that pour.

“Beware, my love. Beware the woods and the fingers that tickle.

“Beware, my angel. Beware the devil and the grin that haunts.”

Children lull into sleep with visions of black and lingering traces of white, their mother’s voices like the whisper in the wind. These stories become something of nursery rhymes without a single rhyme, verses sung around the playground. Little girls in their pleated skirts, their long tresses twisted into pretty braids with their hands held by the little boys in pressed khakis and corduroy jackets all turn in circles. There are toys in the center, and they laugh while the wind carries their song into the woods.

They may look like you and I, but be sure to know they are not. They are not like us. In the night, when darkness leaves their homes with nothing but lit kerosene to guide, mothers and fathers tuck their children into bed right before the dawn stretches. Without a touch of food, without a trickle of water on a pale tongue, children lay tight in their thin fabrics. Each mother kisses each forehead and father touches each cheek before the single lamp gets blown by the wind.

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There will be rain tonight, mothers and fathers know, and their baskets lay prepared. One mother rushes to prepare her family’s basket, one father scavenges for an offering in the neighboring trees. The baskets bear fruits and meats, drawings and fabrics dusted in paint, only the most delectable and presentable gifts.

Before the dawn can break, mothers scurry to place the baskets outside of their doors. Their skirts swish around their bare ankles in their haste, the darkness creeping closer. One of the houses closer to the trees is already sheathed in darkness. A shudder rolls through the town.

When each door is shut tightly, mothers and fathers laying beside their children and quieting their cries, the rain begins to pelt. When it rains, it rains hard. The first drops sound like echoes through the cracks in the home until the rain becomes torrential and angry. This rain comes with howls and gushes like tremors. When the dusk appears and the rain subsides, the baskets will be gone and mothers will whisper:

“Be grateful, my child, for the Blessed has granted us one more rain.”

But in this night, families huddle closely while the storm pushes forth in this small town hidden in rain.

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Humans at Workby Mya Mandat

Gentle hands brushed across this Earth and gave to us life.Exotic flora of vibrant colors—Creatures of all dimensions—And humans.

We’re no different.We are made of grace but— Deviants.

Standing on two legs, we have taken all we have been given.Even what is left of the planet is hardly worth sharing.

Nature is cuffed.Forbidden from its soul purpose—Growing.

Purest beauty suffocates as cement pours into its lungs.Brick buildings cover the eyes of the Woman who created everything.

The one who gave us all is isolated from the life she provided.She cannot brush against the leaves of pines—Or touch the warm breath of motherly deer—Because of humans.

Art by Hunter Hicks

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A Wilted Roseby Jada Maniscalco

Nineteen years inhabiting this terrestrial sphere,Demonstrated through the interpretation of a rose.With each periodic influx of melancholy,A petal slips from the stem’s embrace and flows.

A ruby tinge, dribbled gently by the currents of a breeze,Fragility accumulating with a dwindle of moribund umber.A momentum of despondency ceasing at felucent clay,The prominent residue descending into a distraught slumber.

Proportionately, to the explicit reflection of a mirror,This terrestrial representation was, rather, a dissimulation.The true martyr of this dejection, foretold by a contour,Was a novice scholar, besieged by an oppressive damnation.

Extremities trembling, their grasp on a utensil remaining firm,Obsidian imprints adversely sheathed an exquisite stationery.Piquent cascades gushing down a flushed roseate silhouette,Azure optics glossed over with a disheartened cloud of solitary.

Precise document peppered by an affair of gradual precipitation,Pulsation of her withered heart accelerating in pace.A storm of affliction spiraling in her insubstantial corpse,As she scribed the chronicle of the tranquility she failed to chase.

One might assume, this ‘episode’ would finalize with closure,But a mortifying tragedy was to curtail this premise.As a broad, twined lariat anchored around a petite nape,The final exhale of Eleanor Jason plunged into an insentient abyss.

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More to the Coleman Nameby Raenna Smith

A consistent, hurried thudding sounded louder as it got closer to camp. With only the setting sun lighting what’s in front of him, Raymond raised the rifle towards the sound.

“Who’s there?” He yelled out. Around the corner of a trail, seen only by a hair’s breadth, a jade bounded towards the man, kicking up dirt behind it. Upon the bronco, a man was slumped over the saddle. Raymond moved out of the way. As the steed raced past him, the rider slid off the left side and plummeted with a roll. The mount bucked, clearly spooked by the events that took place. Raymond rushed to the fallen rider, noticing the familiar face.

“Robert?”

His shirt was soaked and caked with dirt that he dropped in. Jagged holes ripped through shirt and skin alike on his back. Had Raymond not been able to physically touch Robert, he wouldn’t have believed he was alive. Robert spoke, with a weak, rasping voice, “They’re on the way.”

“Who?”

“The bounty hunters.” He shoved a crumpled piece of parchment into Raymond’s hands.

Opening the parchment, a group photograph image of Raymond, Robert, and other familiar faces, some of which he’s grown attached to, was in the middle of it. We look like a family in this one, Raymond thought. Over the images, it read, The Coleman Gang. Under it, it read, Wanted Dead or Alive.

Shoving the parchment into his jacket pocket, Raymond hauled Robert up, an arm over his shoulder being the only thing keeping the wounded man from crashing back into the dirt.

“John!”

Approaching the camp, blurred faces of hurried people took Robert from his side. He pulled open the flap to Johns’ tent. John Coleman has been in the gang for as long as it has been alive. Raymond and two others, Rachel and Elijah, had only been in it for six months, but it was enough for them to be like family to the others. Raymond handed the parchment over.

“Dead or alive...” John trailed off. Had this news been delivered ten years earlier, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but three other people had just been initiated. John worried it was too soon.

“What do we do, Mr. Coleman?”

“Be ready.” With that, he was dismissed.

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The blurred faces were scattered. Grabbing pistols, revolvers, rifles, ammunition. In the rush of everything, Raymond felt sick to his stomach, tasting sour, burning liquid in the back of his throat. Fingers brushed against his hand.

“What’s happening, Ray?”

“Bounty hunters are coming.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Raymond looked at the man with desolate eyes. It was like looking into the mirror. Elijah’s eyes seemed to hold the same sentiment. Unfortunately, in Ray’s mind, he was only just able to see the features of Elijah’s face. It was far too dark now that the sun had set.

Just as quickly as Robert’s mount rode into camp, more thundering sounded closer. This time, there was certainly more than four hooves hitting the ground. The first burst of sound and combustion of split second lights came from the same source of thundering sound. Unridden mounts reared and scattered. Mountless members of the camp rushed to find cover behind anything that could stop lead. Behind barrels and wagons, flipping tables over for cover while deafening bangs came from both sides. Raymond grabbed Elijah’s hand and yanked him behind a wagon. They both pulled two irons from their holsters. A thud sounded on their side of the wagon next to them. A woman with two irons of her own, white smoke already billowing from the muzzles, grinned at them.

“Evenin’, gentlemen,” She said, the tips of her fingers bringing her hat down slightly in polite greeting.

Elijah nodded in turn, “Evenin’, Rachel.”

In front of them, facing in towards the camp, John went down, lead embedding in his chest. Looking around, everyone was going down one by one. The only light was from the moon and explosions of sparks erupting from sawed off shotguns and revolvers like fireworks. The flurry of mounted stallions galloping in blurred circles through and around the camp made it hard to target them.

Raymond held his revolver out to take a shot. Instead, his hand was met with a searing pain, making him drop the metal weapon. Bringing his hand to his chest and pressing his back to the wooden wheel of the wagon, his hand dripped with warm, thick liquid. Both Rachel and Elijah were dragged back, far to quickly for Raymond to do anything before he, too, felt something thick wrap around his upper arms and chest, which tightened before yanking him forward.

Three bounty hunters swung off their mounts, each taking on one of the Colemans. The three Colemans were bound at their hands and feet, then hauled onto the shoulders of the hunters. Yells and protests were met with the hard stock of rifles, effectively quieting them down. The Colemans were thrown into the back of a jail wagon, unbound, and locked in. With a snapping crack, the carthorses jolted forward, pulling the wagon with them.

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In the jail wagon, Raymond held a hand out. Elijah took it. Lips pressed against calloused hands and foreheads rested against each other in solace that, as they were aware, would be the last time they would receive this sort of support and comfort. Raymond held his other hand toward Rachel, who took it as well. Although, not in the same sort of relationship, the bond was just as strong and deserved the same support, for it would be the last time they expect to see each other. The three stayed like this, pulling the way only in the presence of prying eyes, before returning. Only the sound of the wooden wagon wheels upon the dirt trail kept them in dreadful company. It was late morning by the time they reached Santa Fe in the New Mexico territory. The three Colemans were immediately sentenced to death by hanging, which was expected, and escorted to the gallows. They were positioned individually over the trapdoors and a noose was placed, and tightened, around their necks. A crowd had gathered around the gallows. They’d been waiting for a day like this for a while. This was their entertainment.

Rachel was the first to be prosecuted. The prosecutor spoke, “Rachel Anne Marie, you are sentenced to hanging by reason of theft and robbery.” She was the first to be dropped. It was quick for her, thankfully. A wave of cheers rolled over the crowd, but Miss Anne Marie’s hanging wasn’t the one they all looked forward to.

Elijah and Raymond were next. Again, the prosecutor spoke, “Raymond Williams and Elijah Foster are sentenced to hanging-”

“My last name is Williams,” rectified Elijah.

“By reasoning of theft, robbery, murder, and sodomy. And due to the illegal manner in which your ‘marriage’ was conducted, as well as the prohibition of sodomitic relationships, the United States government does not recognise you as partners and does not recognise your last name as Williams, but as Foster.”

Raymond stared out into the crowd. In the back of the crowd, on horseback, were familiar faces. Faces that he’d seen not even twenty-four hours earlier. The faces of John Coleman, Robert Smith, and others he recognises, appeared clear as day. Perhaps they’re just phantoms, Raymond thought. Dreadfully aware that I’m so close to joining them.

With a nod towards the executioner by the prosecutor, they both dropped, their lives ending just as quickly as Rachel’s had.

The crowd began to slowly disperse now that the show was over. It slowly thinned out until only John and the Coleman Gang was left. And they waited. They waited for hours until, as quickly as a lead bullet can fire from a gun, Rachel’s hanging body spontaneously burst into flames. In a matter of seconds, the flames had burned the rope and cremated the body from the inside out until only ash and sparking embers remained. Minutes later, the same happened to Elijah and Raymond’s bodies, again leaving only cinders. John and Robert approached the piles of glowing embers.

Movement within the piles occurred and a shrill cry erupted from one. The cry from one caused piercing screeches from the others.

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When John brushed off ash from a pile, the weeping face of a baby emerged, adorned with flame colored feathers that appeared attached to it. He picked up the small child and looked to Robert, who had two more wailing, ash besmeared children in his arms, overlain with bright, downy feathers. In their arms, they held Elijah, Raymond, and Rachel as children, just as Robert had done with the rest of the gang hours earlier. It wouldn’t be the end of the Coleman Gang, nor is there an end to them in sight.

Had the mortal population recognised how this pattern had happened before, perhaps they would have not bothered them. By early tomorrow, all of their lives will pick up right where they left off.

Art by Megan Pinera

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Graveyard Shifts by Emma (Aspasia) Jaycox

Only a few hundred beds.Only a few hundred nurses.Gun shot. Body drop.Her footsteps thunder toward a wavering life.Fear seeps into her thoughts, infecting her mind.

The hours blur as much as her vision.Going home would be a blessing, but she allows no second guessing.Fighters falter, workers wilt.

Lost limbs.Lost blood.Lost lives.

More buildings, more nurses.More room for torment.Heart beats echo, Hope ends.

Clarity comes in the end, granting dreams and success.Vibes can tell more than any words on paper.Thankful lovers; broken soldiers.Volunteering pays with miracles.

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Us Dolliesby Candy Distefano

Slick onyx stone walls outline the Memorialwith a crowded clan of fallen names.They gave their own lives for democracy, truest heroes.As I see their shrine, I remember a time-

There were 700 of us ladiesin powder blue dresses.We travelled in pairs,armed with fun and distraction.

We worked in groups, for the S.R.A.O.at a center where we served coffee and donutsand talked to the men serving in Vietnamabout their troubles and misfortunes.

Then we heard outbreak at dawn.We were pressed out through the pouring rain,the mud on our polished shoesas we rushed I heard a scream, but for only a moment.

They called us indispensable heroes of the war,us dollies.Heroes…Us Dollies.

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Roots (Yours, Mine, and Ours)by Faith Eberz

I crave to be a wildflower maiden,growing free, stretching, `dancing, glowing.

Endless moonlit meadows would be my home,standing tall in the face of mountains.

The maze of roots weave themselves side by side.From soil we reach for sun and stars and sky.

Brothers and sisters and flower patch children.

Orchid organs would be a most lovely dream.No sapphire skies or blue jays could be

just as azure as my delicate glassware skin.Cobalt veins spin into stems, spin into roots,

then gather, cling firm into the soil and they breathe.Stars sprinkle delicate kisses onto my leaves.

Their touch is soft and sweet and so so silver--gather like dewdrops on grasses or ants on trees.

They sing their praises--fully they’re entranced.Beautiful and bold, I’m a castle in the air.

I wish I were a lily of divine peace,giving comfort and love (milky white

stipule, like fine silk, blows snowflakes,pollen rains.) You’d call to me for warmth,

rustle grasses, leaves, reeds, even my stem.It bends not breaks, then your roots are mine.Grow sideways to my own, they’ll be nurtured

over here connected even at a distance.

Perhaps I could be a laceleaf girl.With exotic, dreamy, scarlet ribbon hairs

sing out in crowds of cattails who cry.Your garden angel hums (rattling treeshold nothing against the crimson siren

I wish to be). Clashing colors could coalesce,blend quite well as long as it were you and me.

But instead I am a dandelion damsel, all seeds and fuzz and roots, fragile leaves.

Ever-so dainty, a phantasm of the mind,my stem barely stands against your heartbeat.

I am liquid honey pools in sunlight,(they quiver in your dreamy daffodil visage).

Please, my love, do not breathe too hard.For my own yellow petals are paper thin.

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Natural Thoughtsby Emma Jaycox

Water lilies, buzzing bees.Untold secrets, bringing me down to my knees.Murky waters, confusing lies.Everything making me want to cry.Palm trees sway, leaves fall down.Why is it that I can’t come around?Wind blows, flowers droop.The whispers in a gun, aimed to shoot.Rocks sturdy, picnics rotten.Sensing I’m an anchor, dragged down and sodden.

Everything slows and now begins autumn.Finally, I hear my thoughts instead of a new problem.People stop in their tracks, noticing more than brick.All these colors; all my positive emotions click.Leaves scattered on the ground making a path.Is it in my head, or is this the aftermath?A person comes into view, hand held out.His smile is familiar, will he lead me away from this drought?He pulls me up and we stride from the scene.How can I leave this, how do I keep my arms clean?He hears my mind, answers my doubts.I can with him, he and I are just sprouts.

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“Ocean Girl”By Mya Mandat

The breeze was gentle, compared to her might,The Ocean Girl, that is.She washed away the sad beach boy faces,But left them without a single kiss.

Her tides seemed warm and welcoming,The Ocean Girl, that is,But if you entered her salted waves,You’d find yourself in nothing but an abyss.

Drifting like a dead fish upon the surface of her waters,The Ocean Girl, that is,You’d feel lost without a hand to hold.A heart bottomless as the Ocean Girl is.

Art by Avital Gurvits

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A Bitter Coffee and A Mocha with Whipped Cream on TopBy Mya Mandat

Every Saturday morning I treat myself to a coffee at the café up the street. The line to order is always full of relaxed faces with tired, but cozy eyes. I order the same drink weekly;It’s strong and bitter, but I’m not there for the wake-me-up.

Another sleepy soul goes to that café on early Saturday mornings.It has become ritual to us; He rides his old, clankity bike over,Just waiting to sit at the small booth in the corner with me.

He always asks for a dollop of whipped cream on his mocha, Sweet like his eyes, more lively than any others in the café. We sip our coffees and gaze out the window, Sharing conversation.

The best Saturday mornings are the cold and dreary ones, The dim lit and chill inducing, When we sit on the same side of the booth for warmth. Those mornings may be gloomy outside, but in the café there is life.

Art by Avital Gurvits

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Today I am Another Universeby Faith Eberz

Today I awoke in the sky.Swells of air--from my lungs,a ribbon of breath and mist--

billowing milky clouds floating.

Sunshine lapped in warm wavesat my azure-rimmed body; stretches of skin bleached in heat, raindrops

gather and break from my eyes.

An atmosphere shattered, crackled,burned at the force of my fingertips.Every edge of sun-fried frame strain,

fingertips in another galaxy, another plain.

The world pushed me further out,(with a gentle kiss, a rush of chill,

stars pulled me closer) herdedwith its rocky, sharp touch.

Spiral out of the cosmos--disentangle.My skin becomes galaxies, my thoughts

become more. Stars, suns, comets, moons.Veins of asteroids and hairline dust.

Planets woven from eyelashes (flesh ripsinto cavernous black holes). My entire being

spread across an inky expanse andtoday I am another universe.

Art by Jamese Thomas

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Sleepy Happy by Emma Jaycox and

Connor McPhillips

The night ends with a win,excitement is showing.

Sleep draws me in, My head nodding from knowing.

It may be late,but moments flash in my mind.

The perfect date,the perfect crime.

I stay up longer,wanting to relish in bliss.

As I sit and ponder,sleep takes me away with a kiss.

As for him, he’s daydreaming,his face never ceasing to smile.

His heart is fastly beating,as if he’s running a mile.

His mind repeating a single thought,the thought being only of our kiss.His mind tied into a true love knot,

all he does now is reminisce.

When he sleeps he dreams of us,only wanting to be together.

He slowly closes his eyes and thus,lays down, as light as a feather.

We tiredly drift off to sleep,only thinking of one another.

Happy thoughts, loving and deep,ready for more memories to be discovered.

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Little White Weedby Mya Mandat

I am surrounded by an island of scattered stones. Some sun bleached, some rusted orange.Some rough ridges, some slick sides. I lie between each and above the mulch,whose scent almost masks her fragrance. She rests beside me, a tiny white flower.

The only interruption to the gentle sound of the breeze is the patter of feet on the rocks. People walk the path just beyond us. To them, we are just weeds, but to me, she deserves to be in the bouquet held as two are wed. In the center of a scene symbolizing love, just as she is mine.

Art by Tate Williams

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Beckoning by Lluvia Quintana

She lies beneath the water, I can hear her;

nights when the wind blows,and ripples flutter the surface,

of my family’s deep pond.

She comes every October, just before the water,

begins to freeze.

This year is hot, hotter than most,

I realize,as I lay,

belly to the ground, adjacent to the water.

My fingers just graze the surface, I feel it on the tips,

like small wet kisses, that linger over my skin.

The sun beats on my back, bare and exposed,

and melts into my core.

In this moment, I feel her hands reach mine,

and I am tempted, to roll in.

I long to be below the water, wrapped in her cool embrace.

I long to be filled with water, until my lungs are full,

and my breath gives, and I am with her.

Fleeting are my last thoughts, before I am pulled into her arms.

Art by Avital Gurvits

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A Room Full of Love by Lluvia Quintana

A room full of love smells like Japanese cherry blossoms, pastel pink petals hanging over heads emitting sweetness. The aroma of the flowers bleeds into the air, petals looking translucent in the sun shining through, painting everything a rosy pink like the speckle of color on warm cheeks.

A room full of love feels like a cloud. As the cruel world seems far and below, as a warm embrace curls around one, everything feels soft and weightless.

A room full of love sounds like the gentle caress of fingers on the ivory keys in the corner of the room playing a symphony that raises and falls in love, in light, in sound, just like all the senses that inhabit the room.

A room full of love tastes like pomegranate, a tart yet sweet explosion in the mouth, in the chest, until it blossoms into something big and beautiful.

A room full of love expands larger than the ocean, deeper than the ocean, moves through wave-like cycles and carries the feelings until they crash against the closest shore willing to take it up.

A room full of love is lit in twinkling lights cascading against shadows, fighting off every dark crevice and crook the room may create.

A room full of love meshes the brain into here and now, into two people, into three, into fifty. It pushes away the thoughts that haunt and sucks in the black space filled with only their faces and their names.

A room full of love is self indulgent, but never selfish and never proud, always taking in the many parts that make up such a room.

A room full of love has many meanings, many locations, many senses, but it should never be dark and never be cold.

A room full of love is home.

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Just a Normal Dayby Emma Jaycox

Heart rate accelerating.Thoughts racing, mind swinging.Her hand aching to make contact with anything.All her anger festering, coiling tight like a spring.

Being blamed when she’s innocent.The one time she wasn’t vigilant.Siblings bawling and placed on a shelf.She can’t control herself.

Crying herself to sleep.Waking to the urge to burrow deep.Keeping a smile on for all,any real emotion making her fall.

The want of love keeps her going.Guilt of leaving him is unnerving.The want of pain is close approaching.Troubled teens are always hurting.

Art by Caitlyn Dickerson

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I Did It Again by Lluvia Quintana

found poem inspired by lyrics from: NCT 127’s “Sun&Moon” and COIN’s “Malibu 1992”

This distorted fate,what’s left of our handprints. Our hearts are connected, at the end of this long journey.

You’re in a place where I can’t touch you. I watched you board an airplane,under the same sky.

When I close my eyes, you and I. A bit tongue, my moon rises. A taste of iron, your sun rises.

20 years; you’ve forgotten.

I did it again. You enter into me; I must still want you.

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Blind Rabbits Thumping by Maknsi Schomer

While the sky turns into a tangerine orange, they scoot their furry little butts against the dirtabove them.

The sound of crinkling leaves echo throughout the entire forest.

No care in the world, they all start jumping.Twisting in the air.

Suddenly an uneasy sound appears. Clanking of metal grasps. Paws looking straight up to the sky.

Plenty of furry little friends laid up in a closed box. Bodies stiff as a wall, ears pressed against their heads.

Before having the chance to find food, they were unable to. Highly toxic liquids forced into them.

Struggling to open their eyes. They look lifeless. Shame filling the air. Poking. Rubbing. Thumping. Blinded for beauty.

Art by Marissa Logsdon

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Intertwineby Faith Eberz

In the corners of the pockets ofa no one’s Earth (a planet pumpedfull of empty purpose), grass pokes andscratches legs, brushes fingertips.

Crawl deeper into my skin, its reeds.Leave not a stalk or a root untouched.Burrow in foothills of mountains--skin and senses and lingering heat.

Breath becomes air, and then stitchesitself, latches to another breath.Our eyes becomes planets, become eyes. Lose sight briefly to the gaze of another.

Let your hair tangle in the wispsof my own (my leaves are all yours,each tiny, feeble stem I’ve grown).Our roots tangles, legs tangle, breaths tangle.

Retreat into the clay, two heartbeatsin the soil, sharing seed and marrow.You and me and me and you:the someone’s in a no one’s planet.

Art by Britany Koester

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The Voicesby Emily Reichling

These voices insideKeep pulling meBack down andHarder, suffocating meDrowning me inThoughts and wordsThat overthrown myOwn thoughts andWords, hiding themThese voices insideHave taken over

Art by Megan Pinera

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Hurtby Sadie Reichenbach

You say that you were hurt once, and yet you put people right in the place you were just in -a place so deep that nobody can find the bottom of it; it continues to sink down like rocks in a river.The one who caused you pain and anxiety that dispersed through your body as if it were a rash. Your tears fall down your cheeks and pool up into a river full of emptiness. You strive to build up happiness inside of you as if you’re trying to put back together shattered glass.You know the insides of you will never be the same due to each person entering and exiting as they please. They each attach a string to your heart as if at any moment everyone will collectively pull at the same time and you burst like a piñata. Your emotions spill out as if candy falling from somethingthat was once in perfect condition - something untouched and in it’s true form,just to be turned into something deformed and ugly. Nobody wants to be ugly, but in all honesty ugly is a sickness in today’s society. Ugly doesn’t describe someone,it describes who they truly are on the inside, not the outside.It’s spreading secrets, hate, and turning on one another just to get answers to things that should’ve been left unsaid. There’s a place for everyone in this world but until we all come together it’s going to be constant backstabbing, anxiety, depression, and loneliness.Truth be told you’re better off in your thoughts (as I am). Your closest friends in society tend to treat you like you speak a foreign language. You know that you have to fix yourself to “fit in”. This deception may be perceiving to the naked eye but you can’t fit a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong into a perfect picture. There’s a place for you but it’s not where you believe, you belong to yourself.

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Italy Meeting in the Dead of Night by Heather Oppelt

“Honestly,” Valencia grunted, looking at the busy surroundings of Rome, Italy before looking down to her map with a disgruntled look, “why’d they have to make this city so big? Am I even in the right place? Jesus…” She could hear Hans hesitating to say something. “Spit it out. What’s wrong now?” He busted out laughing, an action that made her recoil as the raucous sounds irritated her ears.

“The map. It’s upside down.” Valencia stared at the map before flipping it around. She groaned, shutting her eyes tight as she looked up to the sky in disbelief.

¨I’m not some dumb ‘feel-good’ protagonist. Why did this,” She motioned to her map with exaggerated arm movements, “happen to me?” Hans laughed her agitation off.

¨I find it funny that the older you get, the more careless you become. I remember how high strung you were about everything when you were a teen!” If Hans was standing right in front of her and not a soul that inhabited her head after a freak accident, she’d punch him so hard that he couldn’t walk for a week.

Finding the Colosseum was surprisingly harder to find than she would have originally thought. She found herself on edge all the time, often looking back in her rear-view mirror to see if anyone was following. Of course, no one was. Valencia was just unsure whether or not the Boss found it suspicious that his enemy’s wife came down to Italy all by herself. Parking the car in the parking lot, she exhaled a shaky breath before moving to exit the car. The Roman structure dominated any nearby houses and cafes, the Colosseum intimidating by itself. She marveled at the sheer amount of stone used before heading in under the cloak of night. Valencia had a job to do and she wasn’t about to let this one go anytime soon.

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A Speech for “The Awakening” by Kate Chopinby Rebekah McDaniel

Robert, I am a bird. I am a bird whose wings have been clipped and stuck in a cage for the world to simply come and point at. I am made to be silent, but present; pretty, but poised; well mannered, but dependent. I am no longer a human at this point, but a pet to be kept and never let out to see the open sky, taste the sweet fruit from the vine, soar high above the rest. Leonce keeps me chained to the ground in this house with only the commands to follow and no freedom in sight. Freedom should be a wide and open door for all to walk through and all to reach. The golden door is not open for me, not open for women, not open for many. The dogs have locked those doors for the birds to escape from and instead we are captives of the dogs and their masters. I simply cannot do it anymore. My love for you has grown higher than the utmost steepest tree and reaches the heavens. One day we will climb that tree and enter through those freedom gates together, hand in hand, with no masters to rule over us, no expectations over my head, no more hiding, but rather a book with the pages filled to the edges with words of our love and affection for all to read and all children to take note and know that dreams do come true.

It is not just the men who have clipped my wings that keep me here, it is the passersby as well, who stick their fingers in the cage to pet me, but not allow me to move as I wish. They wish to control my every flight, every breath, every word, but how can a bird be a bird when they are barricaded from doing the one thing that makes them a bird? How can a human be a human when they are blocked from having the one thing that defines their existence? I can not create, I can not speak, I can not think, for everything is done for me. If my feathers are out of place or my colors are not as bright, I am a scoundrel and mocked and ridiculed for the most simplest of things, fore they require perfection. I can not be what they expect of me Robert. I can not take the pets and the stares any longer. I wish to be released from my cage and fly away from this judgement to a place where I can be me, and you and I: a we. I can no longer sit and do as I must, for my soul is ready to take flight from this place, and I am ready to fight for what I need. There is another world I dream of at night with no judgement, no chains, nothing weighing down. Where I am a free bird instead of the flightless one I am and I can explore the land, smell the flowers, be who I was made to be. No orders to follow, no rules to apply to, no husband to adhere to; just myself and the blue sky. I am ready to spread my wings Robert. I must know what the world has to offer me. I can no longer be society’s pet, I am ready to be the sparrow high among the clouds, seeing all that is mine. But first I must be released for the chains that hold me back, that bare my heart and soul. I have to follow the path my heart chooses for me and right now, in this very moment, it beats with the longing of freedom.

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Cornstarch by Gabriella Baltodano

Inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery

I have been stuck in the same spot for a paradoxical eternity. There is none of the sense of time my body yearns for. Lately, however, I’ve started to hear things. They are small and distant, but I hear them. It started not too long ago. The first sound was distinct-- a cry. It was muffled and sounded almost too far to hear. Then, I was left to my thoughts again. I struggled to scour my brain for anything more than what I think are faint memories.

Again another sound penetrates the barrier that is restricting me. I focused and all I could hear was the same muffled noise from before. Yet, the harder I tried, I could almost distinguish the pitch of one from the other. Slowly, I could hear a slight difference between the vibrations. One spoke more than the other and was slow and deep; the other frequency seemed to be the opposite-- so high in pitch it was in complete contrast with the other. The noises would clash every-so-often; their pitches colliding whenever there was a chance to fill the empty silence.

I have no understanding of what is happening to me. The only thing I can do is recognize that something is missing and that every so often I hear something from somewhere I don’t know anything about. It could be near, it could be far, it could be non-existent for all I know. I can focus harder, try and figure something out, so maybe I can figure out what is happening to me. Then I will know what to do to get away from this unbearable torture of feeling almost nothing.

“Can you…?”

Suddenly, I hear words that I can recognize. After that phrase, all I can distinguish are a few words and lots of silence. Is this my conscious? Where is this coming from and why can I understand more than before?

“...read... in comas... might… hearing,” the voice kept coming back.

Coma? I recognize that word but from where? Coma… coma… what is a coma? The harder I think the more it hurts and the more I struggle. I’ve started to hear a quiet beeping sound-- it’s almost inaudible; I didn’t notice it before. The closer it gets the more understanding arises in me.

Coma, a state of unconsciousness that in normal circumstances only lasts a few weeks, sometimes medically induced; subject fails to respond to stimuli and does not initiate voluntary actions.

Am I in a coma? How did I get here?

“Hey, Mrs. Swartz. How is…. How about you go… clean up, I’ll watch…”

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A new sound grabs my attention. All I have is my thoughts and my hearing, yet I cannot recall this voice easily. Each sound I detect is getting fuller, more round, and I can start hearing words better. I can recognize words and put assumptions together, however, I still fail to pull anything from my memory. Why can’t I remember anything?

Suddenly, the loudest and clearest of the sounds so far interrupts my questioning.

“There is a reason I… I wanted you to be vulnerable. I know you are waking… your vitals show everything. The doctors trust me, your mom trusts me and I have the best alibi anyone could…. This here is a needle with a harmless solution of cornstarch and water…. going to let you wake more before I inject you, I want you to feel the pain.”

The voice swirls throughout my head and the more I piece things together the more I seem to gain consciousness. This feminine, deep voice continues going on and on, but all I can hear is the ringing in my ears and slight shaking numbness in my body, but I can’t feel where on my body it is coming from.

As time passes, I start to feel. I can tell where my muscles ache to be massaged. In most places, it feels like when my foot is asleep, but it is throughout my entire body. The stimuli cloud my head and I am tactility overwhelmed. Thousands of signals from my brain to slow down are being ignored, and I have no idea what to focus on.

All at once, I feel a mass of colossal stimulation, bombarding all of the concentration I have been attempting to grasp, flow throughout my body making me a balloon that is held down by large metal blocks. Pain shoots through every muscle in my body as fast as lightning strikes a frail tree. The only way I can describe the abuse my body was experiencing as I came to is comparing it to an elk being attacked by a cheetah. Overstimulation bombards me and it is almost like I might slip into unconscious again.

Abruptly, I hear a slight static, along with the environment around me, surge through my ears. Brightness starts to fill my vision and I try to move. A stream of numbness clouds my senses, yet I can sense so much at once. The slightest of turns brings me to focus on the one thing I dreaded to see. The figure I lay my eyes upon is familiar; I could recognize it in the split second of it entering my view.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake,” the gruff voice whispers next to my right ear, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.”

I feel a small pinch above where a broad tube was lodged into my arm. The beeping from my left side slowly speeds up as I feel the thick substance enter my bloodstream. The pressure on my arm, around where the fluid was injected, continually increases.

Slowly, I start to feel as if there were a large toddler sitting on my chest. The pressure is so immense that I start heaving and reaching for something, anything, to get it to stop. I hear fast footsteps getting farther until sets of footsteps rush in; I have no time to count them before the pressure gets more intense and the beeping next to me triples in speed, booming in my ears. My left arm throbs as I try to figure out what is happening to me. My

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body starts to flail back and forth until I feel two cold hands constrain my body. Unable to focus on anything other than the pain shooting throughout my body, I attempt to suck in air, but I can’t seem to grasp any of the oxygen around me.

I feel the strongest pain throughout my chest, yet I feel the pain slipping away. I can barely think; there are so many sounds around me; I can’t focus on just one-- not even the one in my head. Almost going in complete reverse, the senses I had gained back went away. Unlike before, the pain is pushing me into my unconscious.

The last sense I can identify is a monotone, high-pitched, continuous beep.

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Paper StarsBy: Silence Ellis

Everyday, class after class, test after test, sleepless nights one after another, the standards he had set for himself still couldn’t be met no matter how much he tried to study. The bar for success just kept raising itself over and over again, and he continued to perpetually fall short.

To give himself hope, he took up folding paper stars. Some were colourful, some were white. Others held his harmful thoughts or hopes for the future, all folded up nice and neat into a little paper star. The jars continued to fill as his state of mind worsened. He heard that your greatest wish will be fulfilled when you finish 1000 stars. So every time he felt like nothing was worth the effort anymore, he would make a star to keep him going a bit longer. Once he had folded the 1000 stars he expected all his worries to suddenly melt away. When this childish hope disappeared, he fell even further into the pit of depression he had dug himself into.

Life became a never-ending cycle of failures. Despite him soaring above the expectations of his peers, it was still never enough. His self destructive behaviour became habitual, everyday; get home, do homework, and study till school the next day. Any rest he got was done when he would seemingly shut down, staring into space while his mind recovered for a few moments.

And so the jars sat, collecting dust as he continued his downward spiral. That is, until she came along. He was closer to death than life when she met him. The bags under his eyes hung heavy, as he stared off at nothing. He didn’t have the slightest idea as to how to respond when she asked if he was okay, he just looked at her a bit confused, no one had ever asked him that before. She asked him again and he stumbled on his answer, he thought about being honest, but the defensive walls he built himself wouldn’t allow it. He told her that he was fine, nothing was wrong. She saw right through his lies and determined that she would find out the truth.

She asked if he would study with her for midterms. The facade he wore said yes, hoping that she would leave him alone after showing her that he could function just fine on his own. They would meet at his house, he said it was more convenient as he lived closer to the school, but he was lying. It was because he knew that he had complete access to the caffeine that would fuel him through the night.

The weekend arrived, and they sat side by side, him answering her seemingly endless questions. Fatigue began to take over, and no matter how hard he fought the ever expanding fog in his mind, he still couldn’t win. He trailed off mid sentence and slumped over onto her shoulder, fast asleep. It was then that she realized she needed to help him before it was too late.

She confronted him when he awoke only minutes later, and promised to help him recover from the self-destructive habits that he had instilled in himself in his strive to perfection.

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At first he denied that he had a problem altogether, but that facade crumbled away and eventually he began listening to her, even if he told himself that it was simply to quell her nagging.

He began improving over time, he started sleeping at night and eating meals regularly. He didn’t give up though. His expectations for himself were still impossibly high, but he was slowly realizing that not being the best at everything is okay. He realized that his wish had come true after all. She was his jar of paper stars.

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The Nurseby Meredith Grassi

The Honey Grove city hospital was always bustling with activities, as all hospital are. Doctors and nurses scuttling about, patient to patient, room to room, never stopping. Honey Grove Hospital was known for their friendly staff in particular, but non were of the same caliber as nurse Imogen Briggs. Imogen Briggs was a special kind of nurse, she was a nurse who never shied away from a patient, a nurse who never gave up on a patient even when the odds were stacked against them, but most importantly, Imogen Briggs would never leave a patient’s side in their time of need. Patient’s would commonly call for her, just looking for someone to talk to, a friend, in their darkest ,and mostly, lonely hours.

Nurse Briggs loved all of her patients, but the children were her favorite. It was absolutely heart shattering to watch little children be rolled in on cot’s, horribly ill and half dead, but the hope, the joy, never left their eyes. They, in the face of death and disease, could continue to enjoy every single day they had on Earth, and to Imogen Briggs, that was the most beautiful and rewarding thing about her job. Some children who had severe or terminal ailments would be hospitalized for rather long periods of time, and of these Imogen knew Fiona Hoffman the best.

Fiona had been at Honey Grove Hospital for weeks before her and Nurse Briggs ever met, but when they did they would never be separated. Imogen would visit Fiona with every waking moment she had to spare, she would even eat lunch with her every single day. Imogen would visit Fiona on holidays, weekends, and even on days she had off during the week. Imogen never felt obligated to do so however, she loved seeing little Fiona Hoffman’s eyes light up as she walk through the door, she loved having conversations with her every day, she loved little Fiona Hoffman as her own child. This is why it was no surprise that when Honey Grove Hospital caught fire, Imogen Briggs stayed inside the fiery inferno with Fiona Hoffman.

Despite the burning hellscape that was beginning to surround them, Imogen Briggs showed nary a splinter of fear to the child. The room grew unbearably hot as the flames surrounding them grew larger, and as the blaze engulfed the room, Nurse Imogen Briggs and little Fiona Hoffman held each other and wept.

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Strength, Purpose, LoveBy: LeJessica Henderson

We all have problems. We all have been through things. Some people have faced thing worse than others. Do you have flashbacks? Do you have nightmares that wake you up crying? Do you let it get the best of you? I know all of those things have happened to me.

I have let my past control me and lead me down a path where I always hurt people. I had to stop blaming the people that hurt me for my wrongdoing. I had to finally move on with my life. I let the past be the past and I became a better person once I did. Yes, what they did to me was wrong, but it shaped me into a strong, loving, caring, and awesome person I am today.

I’m just saying, “DO NOT LET YOUR PAST CONTROL YOU!” I know it’s easy to blame someone for your wrongdoing, but it’s not right. Once you learn how to say, “Yeah, I’ve been through,this and that, but I don’t let it affect how I am. My past is my past and it has shaped me into a better person today,” you can move forward and live your life without letting your past affect you.

Keep your head up! We all struggle in life, it is just how we handle it, that detects who we really are. You can move forward and become something. Don’t shut everyone out because of what happened in the past, it will just bring heartache. Let people in. Let people help you. You are loved! You are cared about! You have a purpose!

Art by Britany Koester

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Pictures ChangeA Micro-Memoir By : Amberlyn Wedge

People always told me “you’ll find the people who are your closest friends in high school.” Of course, I never believed them because I had my best friend. We were inseparable. If you saw one of us, the other wasn’t very far behind. If we weren’t together we were always texting each other. Going to amusement parks together, festivals, seeing each other at school always taking pictures to capture every moment together. When I went home, I always hung the fresh, new photo next to the others on the corkboard. Soon the pictures filled my board and it was her and I.

It all changed that day. When I tried to approach to her outside of the band room. Scorching heat beating down onto the pavement where many people walk to get to class. I went to greet her as always but instead she walked by me. Not even a single glance in my direction. The only movements I made were internally when my heart was starting to shatter. She had left me for someone who I had never seen before in passing. Someone who was never mentioned in conversation of gossip. I attempted to compose myself, but at the time, I was completely frozen. Unable to make the smallest body movements, but I could hear everything. The whispers of people thinking I’m crazy to stand in the middle of the hallway. But none of that matter. Only her as she left with him. Interlocked hands and hearts.

As the day trudged on, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t focus, nor could I think. I couldn’t pay attention in class, even if it was my favorite class. The only image playing in my mind is her leaving. Throughout the day, I had made several attempts to text and some calls even. I was given no response but she had seen all my messages. How could I comprehend as my best friend left me behind for the first time and wasn’t talking to me?

Soon, days started to bleed into weeks since we had talked and had even seen each other. The only time I saw her was with him. I sadly had to let go. Looking back onto the photos of us I remembered “ Pictures don’t change just the people inside of them do”. A lyric from NF. I had finally come to the conclusion that she wasn’t coming back for me after leaving me on the pavement that day where I had first been abandoned. But in the time that I had, without her, I realized that she had moved on, I needed to do the same. Then, there she was, standing in front of me. After all this time, she finally showed up. She finally showed up in front of me. Alone. Unaccompanied. But waiting for so long made me realize. She left me for someone else. She had someone give her attention. Now that he’s gone, she came back. But I can’t go through that again when the next one comes around. Moments after she approached me, I turned and left her there. On the sweltering pavement surrounded by people would stare, walk by, and make rude comments because of her standing in the hallway abandoned as she left me once before.