March 2021

Editor’s Note

By Molly Hill

Editor’s Note
Issue 21
March 2021

Dear Readers and Writers:

One of the things we’ve learned from putting twenty-one issues of student writing online is that not only is there no end of good writing out there, but every single issue always feels like our favorite. And we’re sticking steadfastly to the platitude that reading someone else’s writing can’t help but change you. It might make you angry, or hopeful, or empathetic, or leave you with a wow, I had no idea (!) kind of feeling. Our sincere hope is that we’ve given you some great reading to pass the time while you wait in line for your vaccine. We can hope!

We’ll let you get to skimming this note and scrolling through the issue instead, which is always our priority. Hope you approach each brand-new issue as a choose your own adventure exercise. Sometimes you’ll feel like an escape, and head for the fiction section. Come back later to dive into the personal essays, or check out the humor, craft, skill, emotion and construction of these poems. It will be hard to choose a favorite, so we’ll leave you with some great lines below to get you started. The rest is up to you.

Spring is coming, we promise.

Molly Hill
Editor

Lending him my laptop was easy. Letting him lean on me for the rest of the year was not. (Loathing, Rita Chernikova)

Outside the glass the field is white, sprung with down. Turn to see myself in the glass but see Imogen instead. (Snowday, Crystal Peng)

There is a version of this story in which they do not erase you. There is a version of this story in which mom smiled and dad frowned and at the end of the day we still gather round the dinner table. (Sundays, Amy Wang)

“Stand up for the national anthem or get the hell out of here!” Trying to keep my composure, I kept my head down and closed my eyes. I could feel everyone staring at my team…..(Why I Kneel, ZiQing Kuang)

I became addicted to the feeling of feeling empty, addicted to the way I can’t sleep at night because of hunger pains, addicted to the comments friends and family make about me finally losing weight…. (The Fear of Consumption No Longer Consumes Me, Miles Ortiz)

We’d gone 100 days with protests…… And then the smoke from the wildfires came and Portland reluctantly paused. It smelled and looked like mother nature had tear-gassed everyone. (Letter from Mateo in Portland to Stella in Cleveland, Mateo Sifuentes)

Mariposa

By Gina Ventry

This photo was taken on a trail close to my house that I often visit when the weather is nice enough for photographs. It’s titled -Mariposa- and includes a gorgeous swallowtail butterfly. Butterflies are especially common where I live (Virginia). However, no matter how ordinary a bird, plant, or in this case a butterfly appears, I will always find beauty in the moments of stillness nature offers. In this particular moment, I was drawn to the lovely splash of baby blue and scarlet on the butterfly’s wings. I thought it was odd that two colors that usually might clash when worn as clothing, looked stunning simply dotted along the edge of a butterfly’s wings. I also found the pastel yellow of the butterfly’s wings and deep, rich green of the surrounding leaves made a pleasant combination. As an artist, I love to mix and match colors or make vivid sunset skies out of colorful paints that complement each other. So, I enjoy doing the same thing in my photographs. I look for contrasts of scarlet, yellow, pink, and blue or blends of white flowers in green fields, all for the aesthetic of beauty that complementary hues afford.

Gina Ventry is a senior in high school. She’s moved four times in the four years of her high school career which sucked…lol. When not suffering through sleepless nights and maintaining a 4.4 GPA, she occupies her time with creative pursuits. Through the the last few moves, she’s discovered poetry, acrylic painting, and photography, and also started playing the bamboo flute. This is the first photograph she’s submitted anywhere and she can’t express the excitement of potentially sharing her art with others.

The World of —Throne of Glass—

By Cecilia Yang

Fantasy. An entirely different, impossible world. Fantasy authors create these worlds for us, the readers, to explore. The number of people who read paper books dwindles each year, yet the writers do not stop. Sarah J. Maas is one such author who paints a picture of another realm that ignites the imagination of her readers. Her best-selling novels, including the popular series Throne of Glass, are devoured by many young adult book readers.

The protagonist, initially named Celaena, is introduced merely as an infamous assassin. However, throughout the stories she evolves into something more, someone who can change the fate of her world. I followed her journey and growth through these books, as if I also lived and breathed in Celaena’s world due to the vivid imagery and breathtaking descriptions. Celaena’s world instantaneously came to life in front of me, a fantastical world full of assassins and magic. Celaena’s dangerous yet exhilarating life and the intrigue of the courts and palaces plunged me into this world, and it was almost as if I was a part of it.

In her book, Maas breathes life into her characters—a snarky witch, a stoic warrior, a stunning shifter. These rich characters are so well developed that despite not being real, they steal the tears and break the hearts of unguarded readers such as myself. For instance, I was devastated by the fate of a few of my favorite characters, twelve brave, fierce witches who sacrificed themselves to protect their leader.

Celaena herself, of course, is fascinating. Imagine a slim girl with untamed blonde hair and glinting turquoise eyes. She holds a careless attitude to the world, her every word laced with sarcasm and spite. However, she is powerful, and even though she has been held prisoner and tortured, she persists, never giving up. When she rises to power later in the story, she becomes even less selfish, willing to lay her life down for her friends.

Yet despite the many tragedies that occur, the series is not without its lighthearted moments. Celaena is a rulebreaker, and when discovered, entertaining scenes are bound to ensue. A particular favorite of mine in the first book is where it was the morning of a holiday, Yulemas. To her assigned servant’s surprise and consternation, our dear protagonist was already up at seven, snacking on chocolate and candy. I find that unfortunately relatable.

Once I picked up Throne of Glass, I could not put it down until I was done reading. Celaena’s world is iconic, filled with intriguing characters. If you have an interest in fantasy and a fondness for a riveting world and are looking for your next read, this is the series for you.

Cecilia Yang is a high school freshman from the Harker School in San Jose, California. She passes the time with her nose buried in a book. While she has been writing in nearly all the genres, fantasy is fondly her favorite. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found drawing or dancing to the city’s sounds. Her story, entitled “Memories Bottled Up,” has appeared in the Flare Journal.

A New Curiosity Shop

By Jeremy Robertson

At 8:00 PM downtown Ann Arbor is bright and loud. The white streetlights blend with neon red OPEN! signs and the flashing blue and green swirls of the dance club. In the evening, passers-by have to shout over the heavy beat of the dance club’s music. A teenage couple laughs and clings to each other as they walk down the brightly lit shops, and a mother carries her screaming toddler away from a candy store. But in the middle of this bright and loud world of asphalt and electricity, a soft, yellow light shines out of a narrow storefront whose windows are stacked with yellowed books. The banner over top reads “Dawn Treader Bookshop.” I don’t visit downtown Ann Arbor much (because I hate parallel parking). But it is this out-of-place bookshop that brings me to downtown Ann Arbor.

When I open the door of the Dawn Treader, a bell rings, as if the door believes it lives in small town America. Any bookworm will first notice the air—stuffy, brittle, dusty. It’s the smell of books. Even the tiny lobby is stuffed with tables of books, mainly displays of titles like Gladwell’s Tipping Point or Brown’s Boys in the Boat. But these displays are—at least somewhat—crisp and organized. As I thumb through a copy, a man at the crammed checkout points me to the back and tells me to explore.

Even Robinson Crusoe didn’t have so much to explore. As I move toward the back, the smell of books grows, overwhelming me. The aisles of books give only enough room for a person’s shoulders, but not more. And Mr. Bumble probably wouldn’t have a chance. The shelves run floor to ceiling, crammed with books. Stacks of books higher than my knee crowd the aisles. I can see books, smell books, feel books, and almost taste books. But I can’t hear the books. All I can hear is the heavy-footed dancers on the floor above, pounding to a heavy metal beat.

The small staff keeps the shelves fairly organized. Down the history aisle, signs read “Australia, “Vietnam,” “Egypt.” As I turn the corner, my finger follows the line of books and ends on the nose of a 6’6’’ Egyptian sarcophagus. Ordinarily, a sarcophagus in a bookshop would surprise me, but the mummy seems at ease. After all, both he and the books are only dead scholars wrapped in yellowed pages.

Walking through the walls of books, I watch the characters cram into the shelves. The hungry little caterpillar squirms around the children’s section. The boxcar children, Nancy Drew, and the Hardy boys congregate on the shelf vertically, horizontally, or any way to fit. Unlucky copies gather in piles on the floor. But most shelves are full of memoirs and melodramas, dictionaries and lectionaries, travel guides and vehicle repair guides. The alphabetically marked fiction shelves boast Dante, Darwin, Dumas, Du Bois, Dunbar, Dickens, and Dickinson. To the Dawn Treader’s customers, just fingering through the books is like seeing old friends. The whole shop resembles a high school reunion.

And the Dawn Treader’s customers only add to the general lack of space. A boy clogs up the D’s in fiction, reading the opening line of Hard Times. Occasionally, he’ll laugh at Thomas Gradgrind’s all-important facts. The clinging teenagers from the neon sidewalks are now thumbing through the dystopian section to find Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. “You won’t believe how good it is,” the girl tells her boyfriend. Even the screaming child from the candy store is smiling as his mother reads Grimm’s Rumpelstiltskin to him in a crammed corner.

With people-watching and book-exploring, I find (like Rip Van Winkle) that minutes have turned to hours, and it’s past my time to leave. Usually, I’ll snag a classic I’ve not read yet or a Dickens novel I don’t own and go to the checkout. With a book under my arm, I hear the bell of the Dawn Treader door as I enter downtown Ann Arbor again. Drivers are still honking, lights still flashing, music still blaring.

***

Often, I wonder how this overstuffed trough of literature can compete with the pizzazz of the NECTO night club upstairs—how it stays relevant to anyone other than me. But it does. And it stays relevant not by competing with modern city life but by being a part of it.

I think someone’s been telling us a lie that bookshops that don’t rank as tourist attractions don’t belong in modern society: “If it’s not Mackinac Island, it’s gotta be Detroit.” But the Dawn Treader sits right in the middle of the lights and noise to prove that a building crowded with books can be crowded with people too—to prove that books aren’t outdated or irrelevant. Books explain our past, interpret our present, and inspire our future. Books are vital.

Jeremy Robertson is a junior studying Humanities and Cross-Cultural Studies at Maranatha Baptist University in Watertown, Wisconsin. Jeremy enjoys writing personal essays, short stories, and stage scripts. He has published a one-act comedy play as a high school senior. Jeremy grew up in Ypsilanti, Michigan with his five siblings and most loves reading, writing, and theatre.

Cyclical

By Mrinal Pattanaik

It’s Friday morning and you haven’t called once. I keep looking at my phone and expecting to see at least a drive safe, baby, but all my recent messages are from my friends and my mom. I call you twice (not more because I don’t want to feel desperate) and go on with my day and think I’ll probably drunk text my best friend about how annoying you’re being.

It’s Friday afternoon when you text me: can you get to the hospital?

I call you twice more and you don’t answer, so I just drive over, hoping I picked the right one. When I walk in, I don’t know what to say: my girlfriend is here and she’s visiting someone and she didn’t call me and I was supposed to go on a ten-hour drive today and I’ll have to wait until tomorrow because I’m her backup.

My girlfriend is visiting a resident. I think she needs to be checked in too.

My girlfriend is visiting a resident and I’m still jealous she gets all her attention.

Finally, I decide not to say anything — how can I, anyway, when I only know your best friend secondhand — and go back to my car. I drive around aimlessly until I find a Starbucks and pick up two coffees, one black and one with four creams and two sugars because you’ve always liked your coffee too sweet. By the time I get back to the hospital, you’re standing outside. Your nose is stained pink from the cold even though you’re wearing a huge scarf, easily as big as you are when it’s unraveled.

“Hey,” you say, and then, “sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I say this often: I can’t make you feel guilty because you didn’t text me back in time or show up to our date or call me when I’m going on a drive upstate, not when the alternative is letting your friend die. It’s okay being second-choice when it’s like this, I think, so I add, “Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

Your smile is small and reminds me of one of those wobbly cartoon ones. This is the part where you should say something like you’re the best or even just thank you, but instead you fidget with the hem of your skirt before turning the radio on and half-heartedly humming to the top forty song that starts playing, too loud and too fast. It’s the kind of song I’d be belting with you if your best friend didn’t try to kill herself again today, but she did, so I just stare at the road and wonder how long it’ll take before one of us gives up.

“You should talk to someone.” I can’t say you should talk to me because it feels self-obsessed and I can’t afford to be, not now. “Even, like, those online sessions would be better than nothing.”

“I know.” It’s always here where we start sounding like broken records, scratch and repeat and scratch and repeat. “I will when I’m ready.”

Two and a half months later, you’ll call me and say you can’t do this anymore: because you feel bad about always leaving me on hold, because you can’t make a relationship your top priority when someone’s using you as a lifeline, because you still don’t know how to talk to someone. I’ll say I understand even though I want to yell at you or cry or do something insane, at least a little bit, and then I’ll consider blocking your number but I won’t, just in case you end up needing me again.

Six months later, you’ll text me: thank you. I’ll draft eight different texts back, some of them angry, some of them upset, one of them asking how you’re doing, how she’s doing, and then I’ll just say no problem. I’ve never been good at tying up loose ends, especially not with you.

Right now, though, we’re in my car drinking lukewarm Starbucks outside your garage. “Drive safe tomorrow,” you say. You kiss my cheek and something about it feels like I love you, though maybe it’s just wishful thinking. I say I will, don’t worry, and I watch you go in until the garage door closes behind you, a long, low hum.

I drive home. I text my best friend. I think about yours.

Mrinal Pattanaik is a senior at Neuqua Valley High School. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Sandpiper Magazine, and Up North Lit, amongst others.

Loathing

By Rita Chernikova

Lending him my laptop was easy. Letting him lean on me for the rest of the year was not.

I became the Laptev Sea that his little lolling boat could sail onto lie after lie. And I lacked in linguistics to let him learn of my level of loathing.

Rita Chernikova is a writer from Wicklow, Ireland. She writes in two languages, English and Russian but hopes that her persistent study of French will become her third linguistic funnel for thoughts in the future. When she isn’t fanatically hitting the keys of her laptop she likes to play guitar, hula-hoop or do whacky art with bird feathers.