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LETTERSA literary publication of the students of Randolph-Macon Academy,2015 - 2016Published April 2016

Student Editor: Meghan MelbergFaculty Editor: Robert DaviesCover Design: Meghan Melberg

Thank you for your help and support: Jonathan Ezell, Misti Walters, Susan Ochoa, Celeste Brooks, the English department, and the Parents’ Association of Randolph-Macon Academy.

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Boys Are Born But Men Are Madeby Chandler Lee

Boys are born but men are madeSmall and large their lives portrayedInfant blossom boy manThey feel a breeze and take mama’s hand.

Three foot one by five foot tenBoys not yet but quickly menFought their peace whilst cherished their foeHatred captures all by storm.

Youthful questions maturity lackedAll but none completely abstractRecklessly careful no thought of lifespanBlossom boy infant man.

Jingwen Gong

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Coffeeby Eva Bogdewic

You were bitter. No matter how you tried To disguise your acidic aftertasteYou always left my tongue Craving sweetness and Screaming for water.Dark, leagues deeper thanThe frothy foamOn which I floatedYou wielded tremendous power To which I saw no end. You hit my bloodstreamAnd within secondsI was reborn, emergingA charming and cherubic creatureWith charred and clumsy wings. Too much of you And my veins would coil inMy hands quiver like dead leaves. Too little of youAnd my eyes would lose focusMy head fill with wet chalk. I finally gave you up After you left a stainOn my favorite shirt.

5Quang Dinh

Nimi Georgewill

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Jingwen Gong

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Grayscaleby Dylan Glascock

The tale you’re about to hear is most definitely true, sadly. Now, where most stories start out with “A long time ago in a place far from this one ______,” this story actually happened quite recently and not too far from where you are reading this. Anyway, this story takes place in ….. Well, actually the REAL name of this small island country escapes me. But let’s just call it “The Island”; okay, for real now, let’s get on with this.

Now, this particular island that is in a particular place just off the coast of another place was usually covered in the gray smog of the gaseous form of industrial waste. On the west coast of the island, facing the continent it was adjacent to was a vast and puzzling city with buildings of many vibrant colors and intricate shapes and sizes. This city was also home to the estate of The Royally Appointed and Fairly Chosen Leader who, ironically, was not. On the far side of the city, the side far away from what one could see whilst looking from the shore of the other country, laid an incredible amount of factories. The factories themselves were perfectly square and metallic looking, like large geometrical stones risen from the dark brown grass covering the industrial district. On the far, far west side of the island lie the housing blocks, which sound exactly as they should be pictured: large skyscraper-like buildings with one window per apartment. Each apartment itself is furnished in the exact same way: right corner bed, left corner dresser and window on the far side of the room directly in the middle of the wall. A bathroom is provided in the bottom left corner, a simple sink, shower, and toilet to go about daily human needs.

Living in one of those apartment blocks is our protagonist. This fine young fellow’s name happens to be Lyle, and he is currently twenty-two years old. Lyle works on an assembly line; like most people, he is tasked with the job of creating multicolored paints to be shipped off to the mainland. Though his job specifically happens to be giving a jug of paint a few quick mixes so that the color of it becomes consistent. The job, at least to Lyle, was boring save for the rare moment they switched color production. Lyle was in love with the colors of the paint he was making; with each pump, each stir, each careful mix, he had created something beautiful. Though when he would talk to his ‘friends’ (his neighbors who had the great distaste of living next to him) about his fascination with the colored liquids he was producing, they laughed it off saying there was no beauty in the bland liquids they mass produced. Lyle was quite confused at this statement as he always thought the colors he was making were

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always very different from the bland and gray settings of his room and the outside. He secretly wondered why they produced so many beautiful things but the country itself was gray and brown. Late one night as he lay in his bed, Lyle figured he might as well ask this since as one of the factory supervisors seemed quite friendly and personable.

The next day, he went to work, he got on the bus, sat in the front seat, and took the ten-minute drive to the factory. The morning smog was particularly thick today; therefore, Lyle decided to put on his pollution mask, (as did the other passengers, I mean, who knows what that stuff will do to you?) and he exited the bus heading inside of Paint Production Facility #86. When he arrived at the front desk to check in, he put his timecard in and proceeded to keep walking forward rather than taking a sharp left to his station. When he approached the supervisor, he looked surprised, asking him why he strayed from his station. Lyle replied that he had a question; the supervisor, with a kind smile, asked what that could possibly be. To which Lyle asked, “Why are there so many colors but everything here is gray?”

The supervisor looked confused and opened his mouth to sputter out, “What do you mean? You shouldn’t say things like that. Lying is a bad personality trait, Lyle.” The supervisor looked worried before motioning over to the guard who quickly marched over,

“Is there a problem?” the man asked the supervisor who pointed to Lyle.

“I think this one might need to be interrogated,” he said in his worried tone. Lyle was trying to understand what could possibly be wrong with what he asked; they were just colors after all. After the guard had put him into a cramped, gray car with the number 58 on it, Lyle was silent, afraid something he said could get him into more trouble than he cared to deal with.

After a drive that seemed like it took forever, obviously longer than the ten minutes he was used to, the car came to a halt in front of a building that looked like blocks were unevenly stacked upon each other. Upon entering, he found things hanging on the wall that looked like he was looking into a window to a garden, or a village, or at another person. He was immediately yanked away when he tried to get a better look. He was pulled into an elevator; he’d been in an elevator before when someone in the can-making department got sick and he had to man that station for a day. This elevator was different however; instead of four buttons, it had at least twenty, from how many he could count before they got out of the elevator again.

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This floor was a spectrum of colors; the walls were stripes of all of colors he could fathom and even new ones. At the far end of the room sat a man staring directly at him. The man sighed as he looked at Lyle and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The man had hair that reminded him of another one of the colors he favored, cyan. The man opened his mouth and paused before speaking, “Do you know why you are here, Lyle?” Lyle was taken aback by how empty his voice sounded, like he was talking into a vase. Before Lyle could respond, the man interrupted, “Are you capable of seeing colors?” Lyle nodded slowly; that was an odd question to ask. Again, before he could say something, the man said, “Do you know why that can’t be allowed, Lyle?”

Lyle shook his head and looked confused whereas the man continued to speak, “A long time ago, a geneticist from this land implanted every single person with a gene for colorblindness, which is why a person like you is bugging me.”

This time Lyle got to say something, “Sir, I’m confused. Why would you do that?”

The man groaned and retorted, “Because when people are introduced to variety it creates an instance of creativity, free thought, curiosity ... something that we, as a country, do not stand for.”

Lyle, finally understanding what he was saying, was taken aback. “So, you don’t want people to be creative? So, they can’t be free thinke-” he, yet again was interrupted,

“Yes, Lyle, we don’t want free thinkers, or free speech, or anything of the sort. An uprising could occur, and I wish to stay the leader of the number one producer of art supplies in the world.”

Lyle was taken aback, he was horrified. “That’s horrible…. How could you do something like that?”

Then man smiled and said, “I can do it because I’m in control and nobody is going to stop me, not even the one person who could see in color. Because people who can see the real world are silenced. People who can say things against me are not permitted to exist. So I suppose this would be goodbye, Mr. Lyle.”

After he said those words, Lyle was grabbed by people he had not noticed coming into the room and dragged to a room where he was put to death. The guard who was tasked to kill him was quite disgusted to do so. He always hated the color of blood.

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Mr. Jay Gatsbyby Victoria Voellm

He was a secretive, strange outcast.A man with a vague past, For it was the green light on the other side of the bay, That was always out of reach, no hand can lay.

He tried to win her heart,Because it was the one thing that tore him apart.His infatuation with this blooming Daisy,Lead him onto the moment of something hazy.

He could have done it all,Retain the riches, win the girl, But he just stood there waiting,For either a someone or something.

God among Men by Noelle Kramer

The rage, the wrath, the hand of a god, Poseidon the god of the sea. Earthmaker, earthshaker, mortals stand awed By the power, the might, they tremble on sight. The fools! For they haven’t met me. I’ve fought, I’ve won, I’ve conquered the seas, Faced trials and monsters and then, I beguile with a smile, use my cunning with ease, Like a fox on the sly I readily lie

For I am a god among men .

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Silenceby Gillian Rydholm

Do you dare break it,This gift bestowed unto us?Do you dare speak in its presence?

Do you choose to ignore it,Even though it surrounds us?

Do you wish it gone?It may never return.

Do you fear it?It means no harm; it is gentle.

If you would break from the ignorant ideaThat it should be avoided,You will understand and appreciate it.

Meghan Melberg

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Hip-Hop Belongs to Everybodyby Musay Taylor

What common interest do you think a teen in the United States could have with a teen in Iran? I think many people would be surprised to find this one thing in common: hip-hop. Iran has an underground hip-hop scene that blends hip-hop beats with a sitar sound and background vocals. This is only possible because hip-hop belongs to everybody. Hip-hop is not just about gang violence, drug use, or degrading women. It has grown and evolved over time, and its use of rhythm and poetry are universal features of music around the world. Hip-hop has grown into a global culture, incorporating ethnicity and urban life. In a PBS interview, rapper KRS-One said, “All rap is socially conscious.” Like many rappers, he feels the need to explore social issues through his music. The artist Common released Nobody’s Smiling, an entire album to talk about the problem of gang violence in his hometown of Chicago. In this way, hip-hop artists like Common and KRS-One are heirs of folk singers in the 1960s who used their music to speak out about the problems in their own time.

Hip-hop can also be a window into the wider literary world. The New York Times reported that Brian Mooney, a freshman English teacher, played a Kendrick Lamar album to his classes to show similarities with a Toni Morrison novel that they were reading. Kendrick Lamar even came to the school to share poems that he wrote when he was younger. Hip-hop can be a way for students living in poverty to realize that reading and writing are not just for their wealthier peers, but that rappers who have lived similar lives have developed their own literary and lyrical skills. Hip-hop can be an aid for teens to realize that the genre is not alienated from their studies but can be a bridge to poetry and literature. Rap has spread throughout the world and evolved with sounds from different countries. The book Migrating Music talks about how it has spread through many different countries, such as Iran, Turkey, and Germany. In Iran, the rapper Hichkas incorporates a sitar loop in many of his songs, and a female Iran rapper named Salome has collaborated with Turkish rappers. Foreign Policy magazine author Jeff Chang states, “The best artists shares a desire to break down boundaries between “high” and

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Mingyang Chen

“low” art—to make urgent, truth-telling work that reflects the lives, loves, histories, hopes, and fears of their generation.” Hip-hop is music that should be experienced and heard by all, no matter what race or color that they are. I encourage any skeptic to give hip-hop a chance: you may find yourself hooked by its rhythmic poetry.

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The French Revolutionby Johnny Wong

Signaled by the mournful rings of a great brass bell and the shrieks of crows,The raucous festivities of demons is upon us with hungry scowls and curses infused with rage.Men with faces streaked with dust heave meaty chunks of the cobblestone roads.Their grotesque wives hurl rotten heads of cabbage infested with maggots.As the line of our empty gods and goddesses enshrined with rags of white trudge along,They scream and plead, seeking for the chance that will not come.The procession walks step by step to that wooden tower blessed with the reaper’s blade,Chops and jeers echo as steadily as a pendulum,The soup of red smells sharper each second … flavored by the tears of the ingredients.This cursed place where our gods come to die.

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Estádio da Luzby Ethiene Mbakassy

Everything is red in the Stadium of Light. Fans pour into the stadium like ladybugs, and from the top of the bleachers their jerseys are all blended together. They have all come out to cheer for Benfica, one of the greatest soccer teams in Portugal. The stadium is a collage of aromas, filled with drinks and food. The smell of cooking meat wafts in and out and competes with the earthy smell of beers. Victory, the team’s eagle, dives down from the top of the stadium to land on his trainer’s arm. The noise from the crowd hums from excitement as the players warm up, and slowly falls to a hush as the team’s national anthem begins to play. The fans hold their scarves up proudly while the anthem is being played, preparing their quiet minds for a ninety-minute game full of noise and enthusiasm. It is the first game of the season, and the fans are expecting a win. But by the seventieth minute, the team hasn’t scored, and the noise in the stadium falls quiet again. Three hours earlier, the stadium was nearly just as quiet. 65,000 unfilled seats seemed to whisper with unmet potential. The sun was about to set, and it cast a long, looping shadow from the arches and the top of the stadium. With quiet reverence, the grounds crew prepared the field for the game. They painted long, white lines according to the old regulations. A machine pulling a heavy cylinder flattened the grass, making sure everything was perfect for a wonderful game to come. Victory stirred in his roost, clacking his beak against the medal bars that enclosed him. The grounds crew made themselves absent, and the gates to the stadium slowly opened. Noise began to build as the first red shirts came to view. The crowd is falling silent in the seventieth minute, and a few people start checking their watches. Suddenly, in a flash, a player in red dribbles through, crosses the ball and Mitroglou, the Greek forward, finishes it with a beautiful header. The reaction of the crowd is instantaneous: the stadium erupts in cheers, and if a listener strained, he would hear thousands of curses, some happy, some angry, amidst the team chants that echoe from one end of the stands to the other. Feeding off this energy, the Benfica team adds two more goals in the space of fifteen minutes. The stadium lights cast deep shadows over the players, making them seem ten feet tall, simply larger than life. The Stadium of Light is a crucible. It transforms the simple act of kicking a ball through a rectangle into a transformative experience where fortunes are won, where destiny is fulfilled, and where, for ninety minutes, eleven men can be the heroes of a battle.

16Meghan Melberg

The Annual Clockby Kat Berger

The clock strikes twelve,Dust the flowers on the shelves.Take the green off the mantle,

There burns a brand new candle.

The clock strikes three,Dream under a palm tree.

Wish on a dandelion,Birth with stars of a lion.

The clock strikes six,Beware the faeries’ tricks.

Prepare for the darkness soon,As wolves howl at harvest moons.

The clock strikes nine,Oh my, bedtime.

The bears will find their dens,And we will do it all over again.

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Objective vs. Subjective/Studyingby Chandler Lee

Studying. The meaning of the word “study” is to “devote time and attention to acquiring knowledge.” “Studying” is the present participle of its root word “study.” The word itself is synonymous with school but can apply to more. The word “studying” has eight letters, but none are the letters A, B, C, or E.

Studying is the act of hair pulling, jaw clenching, gut holding, tear wrenching, and confused misery. It’s not a simple word; in fact, it contains the letter “y” which cannot decide if it wants to be a vowel or a consonant. Studying is also a myth. It comes and goes into the wind of one’s mind, or in other words, in one ear and out the other. Studying is the method of mental reassurance turned to lonely nights of weeping and Netflix while your books and mind are open somewhere else, and your fingers frantically frolic over the finite figures on your cell phone’s keyboard sending texts to someone of little importance. Studying is not impossible, only improbable.

10 Things Americans ask Guatemalansby Omar Bran

1. Are you Mexican?

2. Have you ever cut grass before?

3. Are you part of the Mafia?

4. How many days did it take to cross the border?

5. Are you sure you’re not Mexican?

6. Where are you from?

7. Where is that?

8. Is that part of Mexico?

9. Were you born here?

10. Is that close to Mexico?

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Witchby Eva Bogdewic Distorted rays of sunlightIllume, but make not blindHer shadowed eyes, and kindle Petals sheltered from the wind. Rich, inky soot diffusesFrom each compresséd lungSlowly curling like grey fingersFrom which blithe puppets hang. Such wicked incantations whichDepart with haste in airCannot break this last embrace ofSweet baptismal atmosphere. So quick they are to tetherHer vessel to a stoneTo keep them all from driftingInto the near unknown.

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Spells (The Three Witches in Macbeth) by Nahyun Han

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Jingwen Gong

Omar Bran

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Meghan Melberg

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Omar Bran

Sarah Vaughan

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Fall Nightsby Alex Letchworth

Colored blossoms silently swaying, Dying leaves slowly sinking, Chilled wind lightly playing With the wind chimes where they hang.

Sparrow darts across the skyShooting toward a tree branch.No longer dare the sparrow flyAs gusty winds roll in.

The sun flickers on the grass As dark clouds float to obscure light.As shadows come and pass, Thunder rumbles high above.

Rain comes down, tap tap tap, Little rivers run downhill.Constant downfall moistens soil,Into the gardens water spills.

Sun falls, sky goes dark,Like a light just cut off. Shadows now engulf the park,Summer now lost to Autumn’s night.

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Faith for Foolsby Okechukwu Ukachukwu

She was the only one that did not cough. The smoke had risen past the tallest of heads. Their brown skin faded in its thick darkness. There was a heat. Not from the now fading embers of the dark dirt. The heat rested in the chests of the young boys of the village. It rested in the frowned wrinkles of the young children. The heat, like the embers, sizzled. It sizzled on their tongues as they coughed. Across their eyes as they cried. The wind did not come either. So the smoke and the ashes rested as well. They rested so long that they became the people. The ashes rested on their faces, slowly. There they stood with the black ash war paint on their faces, defeated. She was the only one that did not yell. “Have we even fought!” the young boys would yell. They would yell facing the sky. They could not face their mothers. They did not look at each other. And they turned their backs towards fathers. The elders would stare at the scorched land. “That was the last of our crop.” They then resigned their tears. The mothers would stare at the barren land and lose sight of their children. The children played in the hot ash. Their faces were clean though their palms were burnt like the ground. They built castles with the black dirt. The children would mount their castles high, then the ash would fall. They smiled and resumed their helpless game again. She was the only one in the village that had a smile. Her and the children. They played the same game. She stood there in the ashes, yet her face was clean. She picked up soot from the ground. She ran the hot dirt through her fingers and felt it burn at her tips.

One of the elders asked her, “Chidinma, will you talk to them again?”

The boys yelled into the air, “This is not the time for talk!”Chidinma continued to play in the dirt. She had filled her hands

with ash. She padded it on the ground and built a tower. A child came near and added more dirt to the pile. She smiled as she watched.

The villagers began to plead, “Will you speak for us?”She watched as the child added more dirt to her tower. A sudden

wind blew. The black dirt fell and covered the child’s face. There was a sharp cry. The child’s face was stained black, he ran and hid under the legs of his mother. Chidinma looked towards the villagers. They squinted to see her since the dust had settled around their eyes. The black soot

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from the smoke had stained their view. It was hard to see her through the darkness.

Chidinma spoke, “I will speak to them. But you all must have faith. Faith in their plan. They know what they are doing. Just have faith.”

With that she left. The villagers stood there in the smoke. They stood there in the darkness and waited for her return.

Chidinma sat on a trunk outside the foreman’s office as she waited for him. The trunk of the palm tree was coarse and scratched her bum as she sat. The tree, like others in the area, had been cut down to expand operations for the facility. Chidinma looked around at the concrete cube houses lined with mosquito nets. She watched the workers move in and out the cubes in lines to their positions. She watched their pale faces as they moved. Palm leaves were scattered across the floor from the dead trees. She watched as the workers stepped over the dead leaves, the green hues fading into the swollen sand. Then she watched as the foreman exited his cube.

He looked at her and grinned “Chidinma, it is always so funny to see you. What’s the problem?”

She smiled. “Yes sir. I just want to ask. You have burned all our crops. I don’t see the plan.”

He snickered and with a few words and smiles he made her see. Chidinma began to reason, “To clear space to dig a hole. I just

don’t understand why?”The foreman looked at her deeply. He mirrored her smile. And with

a few assuring words he showed her why.Chidinma spoke once more before leaving. “I will tell them all that

you have told me. I have faith that they will understand.”The foreman laughed. “I do too.”And with that she left.

The village gathered in the Chief’s house. Everyone sat on the dirt floor. Some of the boastful young boys stood. The elders at near the walls of the hut. Chidinma stood in the center as she spoke. “I have spoken to the foreman and what they have done with the crops is for our benefit.”

One of the boys yelled, “How?”Chidinma snickered and began to make him see. “When is the last

time the village stood together? Even the crops. Only the women farmed them. When we come together and do something united it will make us all stronger. You must have faith in their plan.”

The same boy spoke again. “So we are supposed to come together

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as a village by breaking apart the land that made us. My grandfather was buried where our crops once were. Will we now uproot his soul where they uprooted our crops.”

Chidinma looked at the boy deeply. She smiled. “What is your name?”

“Arinze.”She began to show him why. “In the ground there are precious

materials, the foreman knows, and we can dig these materials for ourselves. These gems are rich. You say your grandfather rests in this ground. His soul is present and it is precious. You must have faith.”

The villagers grew silent. They nodded their heads in approval.She continued. “So let us start digging tomorrow. We will

begin—”“No!” Arinze interrupted. “These people took our crops. We

cannot let this happen. We must fight.”An elder stepped in to challenge the boy. “Shut up your mouth!”“Do not argue with Chidinma. Do you not have faith? I still

remember when this girl was taken from us. The foreman before this one was ruthless. He had tried to eliminate the entire village. Her father was killed in the battles. The foreman failed. But he still harassed. He sent his workers to kidnap children. None of which ever came back. When Chidinma was taken her mother always believed she would come back. She would tell everyone ‘she had faith her child would return.’ After her mother’s death, Chidinma returned. She was set free, there was a new foreman. Ever since, she has been our messenger. So, do not ever doubt her faith.”

Arinze listened to the elder then sat on the dirt floor.

The first day of digging was rough. The smoke and the ash had settled and formed a dark crust over the earth. The villagers came together. With provided shovels they provided labor. They struck the earth with their steel yet broke the dirt with their will. Arinze watched from afar, head too high to dig. He watched as they worked. They worked under the cover of the dust deep into dusk. They cast a trench into the dark solid sea. They struggled as they moved about the hole. Arinze watched from afar as the villagers toiled in their graves. There was a shortage of the food supply, yet there was a surplus of work. There was also a surplus of death. It was worst with the children. They carried their swollen bellies with bony fingers, running. Running

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around the village, around the pit, then they ran no more. The village had lost most of its members, and the bottom of their pit was becoming less and less visible.

“Do not worry,” Chidinma spoke. She stood tall over them. Their backs hunched and their lips dry from hunger. “The foreman will come and he will pull the gems and that money will feed us. Just have faith.”

Not even Arinze bothered to argue. He watched them under the dirt in dismay. The villagers worked under the dirt, they no longer felt the heat. Only shade from their dark pit. Only their sorrow. They coughed as they worked, to free the dirt from their lungs. Chidinma worked as well. She was the only one that did not cough. For she had the courage to make cowards.

The foreman came. He came with his workers. And they came with their guns. They came at night and took the villagers before starvation did. Most of the villagers slept in the pit so they made easy for the workers. All they had to do was aim down. Chidinma and Arinze were the only ones that remained.

“Chidinma, it is always funny to see you. Did you find any ores?”“No. But I have faith we will”“Go look in now.”She looked. I was hard to see but she managed to make out the still

bodies drowned in the black pool. She knelt by the pit and cried.“Now I’ll tell you this. I’ll have my workers test the area for oil. If

there is oil, I will let you and Arinze free. If there isn’t…” He smiled.A soil worker went and bent down near the pit. He began to take

readings of the soil beside the pit. As he worked, Arinze slowly motioned towards a shovel on the ground. The soil worker continued taking samples from the ground. Arinze attacked one of the other workers. They quickly beat him down. They threw him down besides Chidinma. His muscles twitched as he tried to resist. He slowly became weaker, then docile. He turned towards Chidinma with a defeated smile. “All’s that’s left to do now is to have faith.”

The soil worker finished his analysis.

The land was dry.

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Polyphemus the Cyclops by Liana Trupiano A wretched, gnarly, giant creature Encountered a legend and his men.One eye was the beast’s best feature,Adventure was about to begin. Only one decision determined their fate How Odysseus and his crew were going to escape. Shocked by the lonely lair and what he ate The men grew clever about rearranging his shape. They gave Polyphemus wine to drink, And waited for the varmint to fall asleep,Then stabbed his eye, he could not blink, And remained until he let out his sheep. When the Cyclops removed The Rock enclosing that caveThe sailors were like a flock Fleeing to retreat from the lout.

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Mosquito Danceby Ethiene Mbakassy

Shall we dance? You, to wave your arms and slap at the air.I, to waltz around you, dancing nearer and nearer. You have no chanceFor years my kin have perfected these ancient moves. You, stuck in a torpid adagioAnd I, tapping a brisk allegro.You’re like dirt, beneath a horse’s hooves You may not know me, but I know you. Perhaps you’ve heard of my works,They always leave quite an impression,Dengue, Zika, and Ague.I shall sate myself with your bloodSanguineous and sweet,A coppery treat,What I leave behind shall bloom like a flower in mud.

Quang Dinh

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Where He Beganby Quang Dinh

Where he began, And the tree whistling by day and by night, one humming lullaby, and carried the child when truthOpened his eyes, and the truth enlightened him to a new worldAnd in his dreams he went for the first time … like a baby bird opened its wings.

He stretched and grew in the empire of old,And the hoary apricot bricks, and golden strings of camping straws, and the verdant well of many names, and the bright cherry hip-and-gable roof,And rolling out from a craw way his same blood, and him to imbibe this wonder, and the sturdy whiff of different cattle … and the banana tree … and the clambake of flies, and the smoky heat warming the grass, and the green and gold rice sprouting in and out, and the serene water buffalo napping in the shade,The shade from the spreading palm tree, that embraced all creatures in his shadow, that waved to the flowerpecker and the feathery kite drifting by to greet them … all of this inspirited in them.

Side by side, in the civil land they went,And the civilization, and the market filled with neighbors, and the smell of vermicelli flirting with their noses … and the overwhelming song of bargain… and the blonde palm leaf conical hat flowing slowly back and forth, with peculiar handmade bricolages, and the perfume of bamboo bongs on the sidewalk … and the old cobblestone path leading passengers through the journey of senses, and send them back in time.

The mother … writhed so their souls see the light, and the affection fondled them with kisses, and tender caresses, and midnight melodiesThe mother teaches them well, their first numbers and letters, the sense of left and right, the tiny wheels for reward, that would thawed their heartThe father … ennobled with the tough grind … and by day,He who kept the peace of this tumultuous city … He who settled the constant dispute of the people…He who chased the wicked and protected the kind,Within him courage and commitment, but foremost honor and hard work … and by night,

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Only the husband of gentle, the father of caring, the son of prideAnd love is that, of a husband to a wife, of the parents to their children … or that vice versa.

The Buddha made of stone watches over them … the scent of burning incense tickled their eyes … and the whispered prayers that seems meaningless at the time, The bloody fight of the brothers … long open claws and deep stout bites into the flesh … and permanent trademarks for each other,The mirthful moments … like the tent of old sheet and wobbly pillows wall, or kite driving and hide and seek, or warm days down the swells … and sandy castles and shell hunting,Until one of them one day, an oversees harvest, to where far far away,But always he returns, his trees, his roots, his beginning … always he recalls, his trees, his roots, his soil,And the land that all create of who he is today.

Meghan Melberg

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Fishy and the Sea of Storiesby Gillian Rydholm

There is a far-off land known as Bubbly-Ubbly. It is a sea of melancholic water, depressed plant life, and miserable citizens. The creatures of this gray ocean are the Bloop Fish and the Gloop Sharks. The Gloop Sharks are the authorities of this world; the Bloop Fish consider them ruthless sadists. There is no freedom of speech or action. The Gloops are always on watch for any Bloop Fish attempting to express themselves. Singing, dancing, friendly interactions, and group gatherings are prohibited. If a rule is broken, the Gloop Sharks cut off a piece of fin from the culprit. Not only are they forced to live in this horrible, dark place, but they are also oppressed from enjoying life to the fullest. The sun never shines in this sea of sadness, but the Bloop Fish have a secret luminary of their own. Once a week, in a place not even the Gloop Sharks know about, the Bloop Fish have secret gatherings and listen to stories told by a creative fish known as Fishy. She is a true ray of sunshine in a hopeless world with her colorful imagination. Her tales always end happily so that the fish can smile for a minute. As long as the Gloop Sharks didn’t know about this, it wasn’t hurting anyone. That is what all the Bloop Fish thought until the night a new Bloop Fish arrived to listen to the acclaimed stories. His name was Walter. Most of the fish thought it was an unusual name; it sounded so… bland. In the middle of one of Fishy’s best stories, Walter emitted a loud sound of disgust. “These stories are so delightful that it makes me sick. The world out there is miserable, but here you are telling lies to all these innocent fish.” Fishy felt insulted at his statement, but didn’t let her smile falter.

“What do you mean? I know these stories aren’t true, but they make us all feel better, even if only for a minute.” “I don’t want to be happy for a minute! I want to always be happy or never be happy! In a world like ours, we will never be happy! Your sickening tales will never give true, lasting happiness, so what’s the point in even telling them?” Walter’s words cut like knives into Fishy’s heart. No one had ever told her that her stories were terrible. If someone thought this, did everyone else think the same? Were their smiles just to be polite? These thoughts plagued Fishy’s mind as everyone began to murmur things that became white noise to her. She quickly swam out of the cave and began her quiet, solemn journey home. A week later, Fishy was on her way to tell more stories. She was

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not in as chipper a mood due to Walter’s comment. As her mind started to wander, she bumped into something large and cold. Her gaze lifted to find a menacing Gloop Shark glaring coldly into her eyes. “This one fits the description. Hold her down.” These words were just a distant echo before Fishy was held by two pairs of freezing fins. “You’ve broken the most important laws; now you get the ultimate punishment,” the first Gloop Shark grunted. Fishy began to tremble. Few Bloop Fish have ever received the ultimate punishment, and it was the cruelest punishment ever given. Two other Gloop Sharks held Fishy down tightly as she began to squirm in terror. The light began to fade, and the last thing Fishy saw was a needle and thread being brought to her lips. Fishy stopped telling stories at the meetings. In fact, she stopped attending the meetings altogether. If she could not speak, there was no point in leaving the house. After a few weeks passed by, the Bloop Fish became worried about Fishy. No one had seen her for almost a month. A few decided to look for her. A loud knock startled Fishy out of her deep slumber. She slowly swam to answer the door. At the sight of her, the fish gasped. “Fishy! Your mouth!” The first fish almost screamed. “What happened to you?” The second fish looked like he was on the verge of tears. “She can’t answer you, genius! Isn’t it obvious she was caught? The question is, how did she get caught? Everyone at the meeting found joy in her stories…” “Not Walter,” the first fish realized. “He said he hated her stories.” “It must have been him. I knew something about him was off,” the third fish mumbled. Fishy frowned with difficulty. There was no possible way to tell stories anymore. Now life in Ubbly-Bubbly would be absolutely miserable. “Fishy, if you want to keep telling stories, we can help you. We can act out your stories! Everyone knows them practically by heart, so no one will be confused! It’ll be like our own theater! Won’t you give it a try?” The fish were obviously excited by this idea, how could Fishy refuse? She nodded to their delight. “Great! See you next week!” A week passed, and Fishy was on her way to the meeting. She was not completely glum, but her hopes were not high either. As she entered the cave, it seemed brighter than usual. She glanced at the Bloop Fish and realized their countenances were decorated with bright smiles. She swam to the front with her actors. “As you all know, Fishy is unable to speak anymore. That does not

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mean these meetings will end. We are stronger than those awful Gloop Sharks, and we can take on anything they dish out!” Cheers erupted from the audience. “Let the stories begin!”

The speaker got into his place along with the other two actors. Their actions and voices were so dramatic. Fishy became nervous about all of this. Did everyone like it? She turned her eyes to the audience, and they widened in surprise. All of their eyes were shining brightly; and, for the first time ever, they were laughing. Not even her narration had made them this giddy. The sight alone filled her with joy. The Gloop Sharks could never truly take away their happiness. It was never about the stories; it was about the fish receiving and taking them to heart. The joy these tales brought would never disappear as long as there were Bloop Fish to remember them.

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Jingwen Gong

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Charlotte Moore

Mingyang Chen

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The Bahamas by Julia Norton

Oh my: The Bahamas is the landform of Heaven. It seems to be that nothing can go wrong wherever the dazzling turquoise waters flow. The Bahamas brings bright colors and true jubilation. Everywhere else has darker colors and despondency. Nowhere else do you see every building colored in such relaxing pastel ways. Not only are the buildings colored that way, but the people as well: the endless amount of sun-kissed skin and glowing faces, but most of all the flashing white teeth that fill the Bahamas with rowdy chuckling and vast smiles. As a matter of fact, during my visits I have yet to see one person frown. In these days, that’s a miracle. I said it was the landform of heaven, right? The pure beauty of the Bahamas wanders everywhere, not just hidden away in the resorts for the wealthy. The attraction is for all to see. You look up, and you see clouds full of energy; and you look to the right, and you see gigantic green palm trees; and then, you look to the left, and see the town, and the relaxing soft-colored buildings. Everyone is free. No HOA to destroy your uniqueness in your home and designs. You are in charge of you in the Bahamas. No matter where you are though, it is still important to take into account the little things that can make life so complete. My simple memory from this marvelous vacation is that when my body was still cooking from being out in the sun, I’d lie down on my bright fluffy sheets. Its like I’ve been lying on the sun all day and then I just fell straight to my soft cool sheets. I can still feel the tangy tropical juices dissolve on my tongue. The freshness of the fruits were so unreal, it’s almost like they were delivered from Adam and Eve’s garden. Let’s not forget to mention the lemon-glazed salmon with a strawberry lemonade for dinner twice a week. The boats and the sand were all so white. The noise of the continental music mixed with the boats swaying in the dark nights of the sea are what I slept to every night. This place is magical. It is divine in all ways that it could possibly be.

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Digital Art (Purgatory)by Dylan Glascock

I’ve stared at the screen of my computer for 1 hour and 16 minutes.Each delicate, meticulous flick of my wrist while I grasp this false pencil will be worth it.Eventually of course, this is a lengthy process. I must be patient. It’ll be good when I’m finished.I’m sure the color will really bring out the beauty in this, after I put the lines on.New layers, switch brushes, switch hand position, move on to the next step …

I’ve stared at my computer screen for 2 hours and 39 minutes.OH GOD what happened?! Ok, erase, erase, and erase the mistake.This looked a lot better when it was a sketchy abstract mess.Nose is too big, the face is squeezed into a space much too small, and the head is too long.No time to erase now, just improvise … and … poof all better … kinda.

I’ve stared at my computer screen for 3 hours and 5 minutes.Coloring is much easier. Well, especially since the lines are so thick now a kindergartener could do it.How do you add depth again? Never mind, I’ll just overlay it with a black marker at 87% opacity.Now I have somehow managed to color outside the lines, nice job.I am seriously considering grayscale.I’ve been staring at my computer screen for an indeterminate amount of time and I hate everything.

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Meghan Melberg

Officeby Eva BogdewicInspired by Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar”

This intended thinking-space activates nuclear fission in the mind;Fluorescent light spilling over a collage of urgencies, blinding;A kaleidoscope of paper-edges, poised for attack,Crumpled balls of self-deprecation tossed mercilessly into forgotten shadow-places,Diet Coke cans accruing dark, foul chemical residues;Empty vessels, shells of creatures cracked open and devoured hastily,Millions of glaring pixels, dancing, shimmering like a sweet faerie-thing,The corner of a desk, blanketed in a delicate layer of dust.Letters and numbers, shouting for attentionThe tip of a graphite pencil snaps off.