Litmag

P

Art & Literary

Magazine

Litmag Litmag

F otomac alls

igh chool H S

2012

Table of Contents

1 Water Dragon Power Katherine Olson Anonymous

2 The Lonely Swings Michaela Pierre 3 Salvador Dali Joe Gindhart 4 Red Artwork Anonymous Joseph Wong 5 Photography Mina Sharif 6 Night Artwork Anonymous Kwon Eunkyung 7 Photography Heather Stewart 8 Untitled Artwork Kristin Ritchey Rose Delaney 9 Hate to Admit I Love Artwork Diana Woodrum Saasimu Diallo 10 Figure Drawing

Katie Magnelia 11 Photography Diana Woodrum 12 Photography Katherine Olson

13 Aplasticanemia Rose Delaney

Photography Emily Farace

14 8 bit luv Joe Gindhart 15 Artwork Katherine Olson 16 Cloudy Skies, Winter Seas, White Snow Photography Anonymous Mina Sharif 17 Artwork Grace Dreyer 18 Sakura Michaela Pierre 19 Hubris Photography Jonah Fishel Heather Stewart 20 Streetlight Photography

Anonymous Anonymous 21 On Being on the Fence Anonymous 22 TV Artwork Artwork Anonymous Sara Brenner Priya Brito Pencil Artwork Anonymous Kwon Eunkyung 23 Work of Science Artwork Diana Woodrum Joe Gindhart 24 Photography Tessa Haas

25 Alone Photography Anonymous Alexa Orosa 26 Artwork Anne Marie Gaidry 27 Me, Myself, and My Culture Heidy Portillo 28 Untitled Artwork Anonymous Anne Marie Gaidry 29 Same Anonymous 30 Land’s End Photography Abby Butterfield Michaela Pierre 31 Untitled Photography Anonymous Michaela Pierre

32 A Poem Artwork Sanny Gnanasundaram Catherine Bajusz 33 Thelma Emily Hurley 34 Artwork Madeline Courtney 35 Passing Photography Anonymous Sophia Nassiri

The Potomac Falls Art and Literary Magazine Committee of the National English Honors Society is

proud to showcase the best literature, poetry, photography, and artwork submitted by PFHS students.

We would like to give a special thank you to Natalie Parke for the layout and design of the

magazine

I wish I could hear her shouts. I wish I could hear her screams. I wish I could hear her desperation. I wish

I could hear her fear. That would have it better, that would have made it possible for me to save my

damsel in distress. But no, all I heard was the worst sound I have ever heard in my life.

Dead.

Silence.

No reaction. I needed that confirmation. My ears craved that bittersweet panic that should have come

from her mouth. But no. All I heard was that soundlessness. That soundlessness that pierced my ears

and entered my heart to wreck havoc. My weary body needed that vocal fuel that would have vitalized

every cell I contained, but I was deprived. On the other side of that door was the loudest silence of my

life. - Anonymous

Power

Water Dragon -Katherine Olson

1

The Lonely

Swings - Michaela

Pierre

2

“Salvador Dali””

- Joe Gindhart 3

Red

When I see red, I think of blood. The red blood that runs through our veins,

the ruby blood that flows from our body and drips drips drips on the floor,

that stains the fabric as well as our hands with that metallic stench and

taste.

When I see red, I think of roses. The roses that are the colour of blood, but

represents love and passion. The roses that you smell delicately as you

daintily pick them up. The roses that one cuts and gives to a lover and a

friend.

When I see red, I think of fire. The fire that doesn’t burn as hot as blue, but

burns fast and wide in the forest. The fire that burns houses and kills

people, the fire that firefighters have to stifle and go through in order to

save lives. The fire that burns the trees and allows those trees to create new

life. The fire that is life and death itself.

When I see red, I think of pain and suffering. The never ending digging, the

starving, and the oppression. I see the pain and suffering of my people, of

my culture. The books burned, the people killed, the never ending suffering.

I see the Khmer Rouge, manipulative and only thinking of themselves. I

think of all of the pain they’ve caused and all of the killing that they did. I

see Red Khmer and that swallows me up into a sea of red.

- Anonymous

Joseph Wong Artwork-

4

Mina Sharif

5

Night is always when I

want to do something meaningful.

Something that makes an impact. I

want to be that artsy, lovely,

intelligent, perfect-in-every-way girl

that every girl strives to be. The girl

that none of us ever feel like we can

be no matter how many compliments

we get. And the more I think about all

I want to be in this world, the more

overwhelmed I become.

Night is when darkness surrounds me and

makes me feel more alone than ever. More

isolated and like I’m the only person alive in

the world. It’s scary until remember him. Or her. Or

that person in that class. The memories prevent me

from being in complete solitude, something I’m both

thankful for and regretful of.

Night is when emotions run high. When I feel my feelings

stronger than ever. It’s this magnification that makes me

want to say this or make that, or do something to will get

me heard. Do that something that is meaningful, beautiful,

and makes an impact. But for now, I’m just sitting in the night,

letting it play with me the way it does.

NIGHT

NIGHT-Anonymous

Artwork- Kwon Eunkyung 6

Heather Stewart

PHOTOGRAPHY

BY

7

Rose Delaney Artwork-

Mud seeped through the back of my uniform top and clung to my already sweaty back.

Goosebumps marched up and down my legs, aggravated by the cold early October

breeze. My breaths come quickly, accompanied by the familiar wheeze of asthma. Every

muscle in my body is in pain. I'm laughing. Because I'm so happy, ecstatic, overjoyed.

This is perfection.

"Did you bring the Motrin?" My mom wordlessly handed over the bottle and

watched me swallow. "Should I run?" That question had volleyed back and forth in my

mind since I'd woken up, since I'd felt the burn in my throat, the ache in my head, and

the feverish chills. But really, there was no choice. I would run. I would run well. The

elusive Top 7 spot was finally mine, after almost 3 years of work, and death itself would

have to pry it from my hand. I would complain, but I would keep that Top 7 spot and I

would help my team win.

Smoke from the gun dissipates as do the girls, jockeying for position, establishing

the order for the race. Sometimes when I run, it feels like I'm flying, like my legs could

carry me forever and my lungs embrace the air to keep me moving. Those are the days I

live for, the days that keep me running. Today wasn't one of those days. Every step

made my legs angry. Pain seared through my thighs every time I encountered one of the

course's many hills. Breathing took effort and was labored; I knew that I'd have a full-

fledged asthma crisis before the 3.1 miles was up. There is no stopping in cross country,

so I kept going. My team needed every point that I could give them, even if I finished 8th

.

It's coming. The finish line, only about .2 miles away. So close that I can see other

girls from my team starting to finish. I count them and realize that there are seven girls

in front of me. Right now, I'm not in the Top 7. Emotions claw their way over the pain,

digging into my brain, my heart. There is no way that I ran this course feeling this

miserable to finish 8th

on the team. So I press my legs harder, drive my arms, take deep

gasping breaths. My lungs are working so hard that I'm sure they're about to pop. If I

push my legs any harder, I am certain they will fall off. But that emotion comes back

and squashes these fears, forcing me to focus on the girl who is now so close to me,

catchable and attainable. I want this. I want this more than I've wanted anything. My

mind shuts down and my legs just go. But go doesn't describe what my legs can do. This

running isn't pretty, it's not what they put in Nike ads or running magazines, but it

works. The finish line embraces me as the number 7. Lucky number 7. One second in

front of 8 and countless other girls from other teams who have lost this meet.

And that's when I laugh. When I discount all the pain, the suffering that I've just

put myself through. No matter how difficult it is, this is what I want. This feeling, those

emotions. Right now, I can do anything.

- Kristin Ritchey

8

Like a shark detecting a hint of blood, I bolt over to the source of that incredibly

luxurious and seductive scent. I finger the smooth, buttery- slick leather, feeling the slightly

bumpy texture. The warm earthy smell perfectly coordinates with the shiny, slightly

weathered mahogany and reminds me of freshly fallen rain. I have got to get these boots.

I immediately look at the price tag. Only $20? 80% off?! What a deal!

Then I think of what went into making this perfect pair of shoes: a cow. Life in a

feedlot. No green pastures. No grass. No freedom. Just corn and a cage, and the long

wait for the inevitable: death. A long, panicked run through a labyrinth of gates into the

slaughter house where its head and legs are chopped off. Its carcass is then graded into

different qualities of meat, its skin scraped off its back to make my boots, and the rest of it

ground up to make byproducts.

It is hard for me to admit to myself, as a vegetarian, that I have a thing for leather. I

try to rationalize with myself that at least a pair of boots or a purse will get more use than a

steak, but I know deep in my heart that it is worse. It is materialistic and selfish. However,

it is not a crime to like something against your will. It is a crime, however, to go against

your beliefs and values and act on it. – Diana Woodrum

Saasimu Diallo

Hate To Admit I Love

9

Artwork-

Katie Magnelia

10

Diana Woodrum 11

Betta Fish

Katherine Olson

12

APLASTICANEMIA He’s dying. He’s dying, He’s dying Someone help me

What will I do? I’m FALLING

I have to stay strong, without me they’ll fail But I’m gone, I’m away and there’s nothing to say

I’m lost, never found I’m dead

3 LONG MONTHS

Logo land and Disney cannot make up for home

C3P and Barbie and I’m still all alone

3 LONG MONTHs

Finally the day comes when I board the plane

I’m on my way

I’m almost home

I’m back but it’s not the same

He can’t come down the stairs

There’s nurses and nannies and shrinks

What do you mean how do I feel?

What am I supposed to say to please them?

To leave me alone?

FALLING

F A

L L I N

G And no one can ever know

Aplasticanemia -Rose Delaney

Photograph- Emily Farace

13

8 bit luv Joe Gindhart

14

Katherine Olson

15

Cloudy Skies, Winter Seas,

White Snow

Cloudy skies, winter seas, white snow

There is a sense of loneliness I cannot

defeat. On a barren landscape,

With nothing but air, water, and ice, There is a darkness forming

Within my heart. I have lost too many

And have gained too few There is nothing

But the cloudy skies, winter seas, and

white snow I plunge, the water is cold

Bubbles leave through my mouth

They hold my last words

That I wished I could have said

My lungs burn Darkness creeps into my sight

Good, I think

There is nothing

Now I am nothing

But everything

- Anonymous

Photograph-

Mina Sharif

16

Grace Dreyer

17

“Sakura”- Michaela Pierre

18

Hubris Should God exist, in final days, when Earth at last rolls to a stop trembles, ancient and tattered, stays and all the graves are lifted up, then I will come before your God and, eyes without a blink, will stand. My gaze will burn through his façade, and He will shake in fear of Man. And if he dares to damn the souls of those without the faith he needs without regard for lives so full of light, I call it jealousy. Then when the blinded grip of Fate claws at my back, I will not go,

but glare into the very face of God, and I will whisper, “No.”

“For who are You, that You judge me? The Slaughterer of untouched youth,

Maker of serpent, apple, greed- evil was birthed from your wounds!”

“And who am I, that I should lie stricken and mute before You? No! I name you tyrant, genocide! Into the jaws of Hell you go!”

So on that fabled final day, I will not kneel before your Lord, but speak my mind and have my say and leave under my own accord. Then with a sign, He will collapse, return to dust, and float away. For robbed at last of thunderclaps, your god will have no words to say.

- Jonah Fishel

Photograph-

Heather Stewart

19

Streetlight

Mimicking the stars Draped on the black sky As orange blooms out of yellow Casting deep shadows over A silent world Catching the final kiss Of lovers now separated

And leading them home by A path stronger than moonlight

- Anonymous

Photograph-

Anonymous

20

On Being on the Fence

I open my eyes, I look up from my bed, and I

regret waking up. This happens every day. I

wake up and doubt whether or not to go to

school. My mind starts to be flooded with

questions, should I do this? Should I do that?

There is no end. I realize I’m lost already. I have

lost grasp of the moment. The outcomes start

flooding. It won’t stop; it’s a never ending

cycle.

The cycle begins every time I am

presented with a choice. The

choice is no longer a problem,

but the possible outcomes. I

can’t handle thinking all the

possible options. The outcome

to the choice begins to plague

my mind; I start to see

everything that could be and no

longer what it should be. I see

the outcomes, and I doubt my

judgment and choose wrong.

Even now as I am writing this I

am thinking whether or not to

even bother turning this in, and

what might the reader be

thinking as he/she reads this. It

never ends and I think back to

myself why does this happen.

The worst is educational problems. In school there are

countless of choices to be made. Teachers constantly allow

the student to choose what topic to work on. This makes my

life a hell. I have to stop to think about the project at hand.

The layout will race through my mind with the most possible

choice in order to finish in time, but then it will get scraped

and I would start anew. This cycle will repeat, and in the end

I would have to finishing it late the night before is due.

I am unable to think clearly for myself and must ignore my

own advice in order to make a choice. In fact, my own

advice is one that destroys my thinking, and hinders my

judgment. I must act before I think, and speak without

thinking; otherwise, I would say nothing. The rundown is

this: an opportunity presents itself (question, choice, doubt,

etc.) I began to think and ponder about every possible

outcome, and then the opportunity is gone and all that is

left is the thought. The mistakes I have made constantly run

through my mind, and I can never forget them.

- Anonymous

21

Pencil

I serve to copy, reiterate, and preserve, But you treat me like trash,

Utter waste to be used by others, To pass meaningless massages,

Store useless thoughts, And even to explain nasty things,

Yet I remain faithful to you, Even now,

As you destroy me slowly, Calling me pathetic and frustrating,

I will remember every word, Until I am too small and frail

To keep writing for you. - Anonymous I show you images of the world,

TV

Of hope, fear, love, and loss, Of genocide and war-torn battlefields,

Of inspirational stories to emotional tears, Of game shows made of puzzled fun,

Of comedy made up of background laughter, Of drama full of cheating and betrayal,

Of mystery with red-stained guns, Of fantasy coupled with supernatural puns,

Of nightly news on politics and numbers, Of challenge and extreme tests of science,

Of animals in the ‘natural’ world, Of sports with screaming broadcasters,

Of competition on all types of fields, Of that rare thing called the truth,

Of that real world so hard to see since I am designed to feed you lies.

- Anonymous

- Kwon Eunkyung

- Priya Brito

-Sara Brenner

22

Work of Science

Electrons whirl around the nucleus, buzzing and spinning. This, I’ve been told,

is the very fundamentals of energy and life. An atom, too tiny for the eye to see, is what makes think, trees grow, and viruses invade.

Even though no student has seen an atom, we accept our teachers’ word for it. They offer no proof except for Rutherford’s gold foil experiment which left me bewildered and grasping for more. It’s the same with the theory of evolution which is becoming less and less of a theory today. Are scientists connecting fossils and vestigial structures and only seeing what they want to see? They, undeniably, have their own biases and see pieces of information through their “evolution lenses.” Ironically, science, which is supposed to be solid fact, requires a little bit of faith for most to get their mind around it.

Science and many other intellectuals often treat faith with contempt as if it were a crutch for the dimwitted. However, faith is one of the most vital characteristics to humanity. It takes strength and a strong self-confidence to believe in something you cannot see but know deep in your heart that is true. It is the energy that keeps a kindle of hope going when you are at your breaking point and makes you realize that there is something or someone out there that is bigger or smaller than yourself.

-Diana Woodrum

Artwork-

Joe Gindhart

23

Photograph-

Tessa Haas

24

Alone Alone I am Mozart, there are no right tempos or finger positions

Alone I am Beyoncé, there are no sharp or flat pitches Alone I am Picasso, and stick people make masterpieces

Alone I am Dickens, and run-ones are a component of style Alone I am Shaq, and a free throw two feet from the hoop is amazing

Alone I am Yamaguchi, and not falling scores a ten Alone I am Bolt, and a seven minute mile breaks a record

Alone I am funny, and knock-knock jokes are topnotch material Alone I am beautiful, size twelves are in magazines and on runways

Alone I am brave, just for stepping on an insect Alone I am wise, despite my youth

Alone I am smart, SAT scores and GPA are just numbers Alone I am just a teen free of comparison and judgment

- Anonymous

Alexa Orosa Photograph-

25

Anne Marie

Gaidry

26

Her fingernails full of dirt, her hair shagged up as if she had just woken up from a long nap, and her clothes torn from

every corner. She’s a little girl, barely 6 years old, trying to make a living. She strives to create faith in her life; the faith

that she grew up fantasying about. The faith she has always been waiting for but has never presented itself to her. With

sweat rushing down her rosy-red cheeks, she walks around; her little hands grasping to a clear, plastic bag, selling

mangos that she had personally collected. From every tree that created shade, from every tree that was green, and from

every tree that she has grown up with are tattooed with her sweat and her blood from all the scraps and cuts made along

the way from climbing their tall trunks.

She begs the people to buy from her, but she doesn’t realize that the people she is asking are the people that are

struggling in life. The people that are on the streets like her. The people that wonder what they are going to eat for lunch

or even if they are going to eat at all.

“Why can’t you realize how lucky you are to be here!?” I never fully appreciated this question until I got old enough to

understand its meaning. I look back; I could have been that little girl struggling in life and wondering what there is to live

for. I always thought that everything I had was a given. Like the air I breathe, everything was expected. That everything

was free. Isn’t that what America is about?

There are so many stereotypes that Hispanic are labeled as. My mother fell into one of those labels. She had me when

she had just turned 19 years old. She lacked the privilege of having her name printed on white, plain papers that gave

her the freedom that the “Americans” had.

She was raised in a small village in El Salvador. There, she learned how to be independent by personal experiences and

experiences of others. She was left with my great-grandmother and her two brothers at a very young age. My

grandmother immigrated to the United States with the intention of earning enough money to be able to take my mother

and my uncles out of the life of working hard, day and night, to only earn enough so they won’t starve. She never

imagined that leaving her children was going to be just a challenge. Her motivation was knowing that everything she was

doing was for them, to give them the life they deserve.

My mom has always said not to take things for granted. She grew up without a dad in her life. Without that real man to

punish her of her wrong doings or to give her advise when she is stuck in life. So, she learned for herself. She matured

her state of mind and the way she saw the world. She tried to make no mistakes, but when she did, she punished herself.

My great-grandmother would brag about how smart and well- behaved my mother was. She was proud. I wonder if she

would be proud of me?

I have been rebellious ever since I can remember. I have always loved the polluted air of the streets. I love the screaming

and the crying of kids in our neighborhood. I got used to the sirens of police cars creating big commotions. The types of

commotions where people driving by, slow down and turn heads just to be able to see and to judge the people involved.

Every negative action that was done by me never went unpunished. One innocent mistake to me could be taken as a

huge mistake in the eyes of my parents. My mother has always been there to talk to me and analyze the reasons I had

for doing what I would do. My father on the other hand, saw every mistake as a chance to knock those types of ideas out

of my head. Both my parents saw and acted differently toward the way I attempted to express my thoughts and feelings.

I never really understood why my mother raised me to appreciate the things I had and didn’t have. I have always taken

everything for granted until the day I went to my mother’s birth place. Then and there, did I realize I was lucky to have

been born and raised in the United States. I have the freedom and the protection that the people in El Salvador beg to

have. I started to think, I could have been that little girl. The little girl that would have started working at the moment she

learned how to walk. The little girl that deserves better, but was born in a place where everything is worked for but

nothing is achieved.

Me, Myself, and My Culture – Heidy Portillo

27

I am unable to think clearly for myself and must ignore my own advise in order to make a choice. In fact, my own advice is one that destroys my thinking, and hinders my judgment. I must act before I think, and speak without thinking; Otherwise, I would say nothing. The rundown is this: an Opportunity presents itself (question, choice, doubt, etc.) I began to think and ponder about every possible outcome, and then the opportunity is gone and all that is left is the thought. The mistakes I have made constantly run through my mind, and I can never forget them.

Anne Marie Gaidry Artwork-

-Anonymous

28

In grade school they would tell us that we are all unique. Johnny is athletic, while Sarah likes to draw. Carrie plays an instrument while Sam can’t keep a beat. Different, they would tell us on that first day of pre-school. You are special you are one of a kind, this is what I heard. You will like and dislike different things. The girl next to you has brown hair the boy across from you has black. I am short. They are tall. I have green eyes. They have brown eyes. I have white skin. They have dark skin. They are not like me. We are different they convinced me. Different tastes and different styles. What they failed to mention though is that, that guy with the tattoo all he wants is to be noticed and have someone hear him too. So, he colors his whole body simply hoping you will see the message he is screaming right straight to you and me. The girl with the blue hair well, she wants this just the same, and the piano player and the soccer player and that loud obnoxious clown in class. All they want is to be noticed, all they want is to be loved. The homeless man on the street the politician the bus driver

the drug addict the goth kid the jock the tree hugger the neat freak the slob the criminal the good samaritan the teacher the custodian the parents the children, Can’t you see? We’re all the same. This isn’t what we see though, all we do is try and stand out to prove to them we are special, to prove we are unique. We see only black and white, notice solely Muslim, Christian, and Jew, then divide ourselves between Republican, Democrat, and the select other few. It’s ok, I do not blame you this is how we were all trained, to notice what sticks out to us and ignore the dull and plain. But all we get from this is hatred all we feel is deep envy. So, what if instead we realized that we are all the same rather than pretending we are strangers in this stupid little game. Please, don’t let the world convince you like they convinced so many more, do not let them tell you that there’s a difference between the rich and poor. We are all the same and through our similarities we will find love. We are all the same and through our similarities we will find hope. We are all the same and through our similarities we will find peace.

Same - Anonymous

29

Photograph “Funsui”- Michaela Pierre

The still water appears to never move Yet the flow of a fall is never ending All events build up to the rocks That define a waterfall From the rest The part that breaks The suddenly speeding stream Into explosive splashes The appendages

Fall back in And in the several million

Gallons of rushing water No drop ever touches the ground

Land’s End - Abby Butterfield

30

Photograph

“Hiryo”-

Michaela Pierre

Anyone can get lost in today’s swirl of liberal philosophies and freethinkers. Every day, a new

alternative objective truth pops up for us to pick from- it’s really too easy to lose yourself in modern

philosophy and religion, It’s painfully easy, more or less like the leisure that could surround a man

who is driving on the wrong side of the road. Unfortunately, it can be just a detrimental to one’s

health. So far as I have looked, I have found that the best place to get lost is always in tradition.

Tradition is rich; free-thought is only free, and not even completely free, at that. I would prefer

a thousand times over to be hopelessly, irreversibly lost in the tried and true, like a room in my

grandmother’s house that I had not yet explored, than to be even the most secure man in a world of

unknown, foreign philosophy, like the family room in the house of someone else’s grandmother.

Tradition is my favorite place to get lost because it is like being lost in your backyard. It in lies all

the thrill and adventure of being lost in a jungle, exploring the unknown, all while being surrounded

by the vague familiarity of home. That is because whether or not you consider tradition to be your

home, it is the home that you grew up in- it is the house of your family before you. There is no better

place to be lost than in the house of your ancestors; there is always a treasure to be found.

- Anonymous

31

A poem by Sanny G. My Love

Only could graceful hands have made you so sweet;

However it’s long been since we joyfully greet

I have listened in dark to your wistful cries,

But I too have my own demise

I have waited long for those seasons again my dear!

Remember when we selected the mediums that were clear?

Streetlights and pavements, winds and trees,

Those were our very first ties you see!

You carried me as each day passed,

But there was one waiting to be the very last

I screeched,

“My love, my love!

Don’t leave!”

And today, your stone’s word read,

“Yesterday he moved like a dove,

But today, although you lie in here deeply like a seed,

My skateboard, you planted in me something free.”

Artwork-

Catherine Bajusz

32

Thelma

Once upon a time in a faraway land there was a beautiful young princess named Thelma. She lived all

alone in a tall tower on the side of a five-hundred-foot cliff. Thelma had long brown curly hair that was

course like a horse’s mane and high sharp cheekbones. Her most stunning feature however were her big

blue eyes that were clear and soft as puddles of spring rain. Though Thelma was the prettiest girl in all

the land, she did not know what she looked like because she had never seen a mirror. She lived all her

life in the tower and occupied herself by reading the books in the library and learning to play the

harmonica.

In the neighboring kingdom, there was a handsome prince named Augustus. He was going to be the king

when his beloved father died, and he was searching the land for a lively, intelligent woman graceful and

regal enough to be his queen. When Prince Augustus was born, the king’s brother, a sorcerer named

Harcourt, was cut out of the royal line. Harcourt knew Augustus to be a foolish boy though, so he was

confident that he would still be king someday. Unfortunately, in the neighboring kingdom, a young

princess was growing up to be wise and clever, just the kind of queen that could help Augustus succeed.

Harcourt then kidnapped the princess Thelma and locked her in the tower under a terrible curse. If she

ever left without first being kissed by her true love, her beautiful eyes would fall out of her head.

One fine spring day in the afternoon of his twenty-third birthday, Prince Augustus was riding through the

countryside on his horse when he came to the foot of a massive cliff. At the top of the cliff was a tower

from which came the most enchanting music he’d ever heard. He dismounted the horse and began to

climb, beguiled by the strange melody emanating from the tower. When Augustus reached the top, he

entered the tower and climbed the stairs, still bewitched by the sound of the music. At the final landing

there was a large open door through which he could see a young woman gazing out the window playing

the harmonica.

Thelma jumped when she saw Augustus in her door, her heart fluttering. Finally someone had come to

rescue her from the tower. She sashayed to Augustus and blinked her gorgeous blue eyes at him. He

smiled, put his arms around her, and kissed her. Thelma jumped and danced with joy. She was finally

free and was going to be married to a prince. She looked at Augustus and smiled.

“Thank you kind sir,” she said, “for freeing me from my curse.”

“You’re welcome fair lady, but I fear that the sun is setting and I must be on my way.”

Thelma looked at him in surprise. “But I shall come with you, of course.”

Augustus shook his head. “No sweet lady, I will not allow it.”

“Why?” she asked her voice trembling. “Pray, why can I not be your queen and bride?”

“Meh,” he responded, “I think I can do better.”

So Thelma left the tower and her eyes fell out because it turned out that Augustus was just some stoner

and not her true love at all. So she got a pair of aviators and a seeing-eye dog named Calypso and

sometimes she kept her keys and her cigarettes in her eye sockets so she never lost them. Then Thelma

put on some makeup and went back to school to get a business degree. She and Calypso moved to the

city where she got a great job as a consultant agency and made a lot of money. She bought nice clothes

and an apartment in the city where the ocean breeze would always blow on her face and Calypso could

see the sunrise on the water while Thelma drank her coffee and read the brail newspaper every morning.

She did only her own laundry and her own dishes and no one ever told her she looked fat in her favorite

jeans. She never had screaming, whiny children and focused all her time on work and playing the

harmonica until she got pretty damn good at both. She was promoted to manager and then vice-president

of the company and she played the harmonica with Michael Bolton at a concert in LA. She hired a hot

chauffer named Claude. She learned how to cook fancy French food, dated younger men, and always

thought she looked great in whatever clothes she put on and however she did her hair and makeup

because she couldn’t see herself. Sometimes she would wake up and make a cake just so she, Claude, and

Calypso could eat the whole thing and everyone thought she was cool as hell. Thelma lived happily ever

after. The End.

- Emily Hurly

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Madeline Courtney Artwork-

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Passing

Our dying day flickers under the last sun as

The sky is covered in brush strokes of blood,

And sweat wasted in a lost fight

Over a land once beautiful, but full of scarlet tears,

While the river weeps in the silence of defeat,

It’s bed bare as solitude bears down

Upon a single bird, black eyes watching the end

As red and black collide on this charred ground,

The flames once so special moving on

To find a place to play the burning song.

- Anonymous

Photograph- Sophia Nassiri

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