Category: themed issue

I awoke screaming. Slowly, I calmed down as well I could before starting to cry into my pillow. I had no one. After glancing down at my wrists and the scars and scabs there I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

I awoke the next morning and changed out of my pajamas and into my usual black outfit, shoving an equally black jacket on over it. Then I went downstairs.

My father, a banker, glanced at me and pursed his lips, but chose not to say anything. My mother took one look at me and did the opposite.

“It’s been two months, Rosie,” she said, sitting across from me at the table. “You can come out of mourning.” I fiddled with my cereal and didn’t say anything. “I know you miss him,” she muttered. “We all do. But we need to move on.”

“I’m going to school,” I said abruptly, grabbing my bag and walking out the door. I didn’t look back at the massive house I’d exited, knowing mom would be watching. Instead I chose to look to the manicured lawn and the end of the driveway. Just as I arrived, the bus pulled up and the doors opened, allowing me to board.

Everyone greeted me with “Goth Girl!” I ignored it and kept walking to the back of the bus to sit, alone.

We stopped in front of the school a few taunting jeers later and I made my way to the locker I’d previously shared with my twin.

As I opened it I was hit with the realization I would have millions of times over every day: he was dead. I’d left it just the same for that reason. His things sat at the upper half of the locker, as if he was waiting impatiently for me to finish.

I filled my bag with everything I’d need for the day and closed the door.

My classes went by at a snail’s pace, frequented by the voices of those whom I used to consider my friends making jabs at me.

My life was changed at lunch.

I sat in the back corner of the cafeteria, at my own table, under the flickering florescent lighting. Just like every other day, I imagined Alex sitting across from me, laughing. I unpacked my lunch. As I took a bite of my apple someone sat down across from me.

“Hello,” said a cheerful voice. “I’m Janet. Who are you?” For a moment I was stunned.

“Rosie,” I stammered. She smiled and began to eat her lunch as if there was nothing wrong. As I looked at her my eyes hurt. Even in the dim light her outfit practically glowed bright pink and green.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said suddenly. She grinned.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m new here,” she said, answering the question I never asked. “I only just moved from Windor.” I nodded and felt that it was my turn to make some polite conversation.

“What class do you have next?” I asked carefully.

“English with Mr. Hawthorne, I think.” I nodded, neglecting to mention I was in her class.

 

A week later she had grown on me. She had no idea that I like to take a razorblade to my wrists yet, and I hoped to keep it that way. Despite myself, I didn’t want to lose her.

“Why do they call you Goth Girl?” she asked one day. “Is it because you wear so many dark colors?”

I nodded. She moved on, talking at fifty miles an hour.

 

That night I made my way to the cemetery at the end of our street. I found Alex’s grave and sat down beside it.

“Hey,” I said. “I brought you something.” I laid a bluebird’s feather on the grave. “I know you couldn’t find one for your collection.

“I have a friend at school,” I continued, making myself more comfortable. “Janet. I told you about her yesterday, remember? I want to tell her about- you know. I don’t know how, though. What do you think?”

“Rosie?” I started and turned. Janet stood behind me.

“What are you doing here?” we asked at the same time.

“This is where my mother’s buried,” she said, pointing to a plot a few rows down. “Cancer. Just before I moved here. Now it’s your turn, Rosie. Who’s this?” She pointed at my brother’s headstone.

“This is Alex,” I said. “He was my twin.”

“Hey, Alex,” she said softly. “I’m Rosie. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

I swallowed.

“How’d he die?”

“There was an accident. A-A drunk driver came down the road as I was crossing…. Alex was waiting on the other side and saw him. He pushed me out of the way.”

“Oh….. Oh, no. Rosie, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, about your mom.”

She shrugged. “We knew it was going to happen. It still hurt, but we got to say goodbye, at least.” We were both quiet for a moment.

“Jan, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“They- They don’t call me Goth Girl because I wear dark clothes. I-I’m suicidal.”

“I know.”

“You do?” I gasped and she nodded.

“I have since the first day I was here.”

“And you- you still came to sit with me?” She nodded again.

I grabbed her in a tight hug. She grinned and hugged me back.

“Thank you.”

I couldn’t help but think that, somewhere, Alex was smiling down on me.

From then on I left the jacket in my closet.

 

 

You can barely contain your excitement; you’re finally seeing your best friend in person, face to face, close enough to touch, for the first time in a year. You guys talk every day, but it’s different when you can actually hug her, draw her in close, and breathe in the scent of her shampoo, hoping she hasn’t changed it in the 393 days that you two have been apart.

She’s supposed to be at your house by ten in the morning, and you know she won’t be late. Taking a cold shower, you sigh in relief when you’ve finally got a break from the summer heat.

You pretend like you don’t take too long picking out your outfit before settling on athletic shorts and a crop top. There’s a minute after you put your hair in a ponytail when you look at all of the perfumes on your vanity, with careful consideration as to which one you should wear, if any, but then the doorbell rings.

That’s the first thing that alerts you to the change in your relationship.

She tackles you in a hug as soon as you open the door, something you’re grateful for, and her hair smells just like it did when you hugged her goodbye last summer.

“You smell just like you did the last time I saw you!” she exclaims, and there is no way for you to express how happy it makes you that she remembered the shampoo she once called weird. “You’re right, that damn smell has grown on me, or maybe I just miss you so much I can’t even complain.” She punches your arm, only a mere couple of inches from your breast, and your heart stops.

She pulls her hand away quickly, rather than running it down your arm like she used to, and that’s the second thing that alerts you to the change in your relationship.

The first thing you grab before you head upstairs is food, an essential to a reunion sleepover. You two practically raid the pantry, carrying armfuls of junk up the stairs and into your room, plopping the chips, dip, cookies, and many other snacks onto your bed.

As soon as all of the snacks are laid down, she tackles you into the bed in a much warmer hug than the one you got by the door. She’s breathing in your ear, and you can hear the little hitches in her breath, a tell-tale sign of her giggle that you so adore.

You push her off, pretending to huff and puff as you feign anger, but she only gives you that smirk, the one that knows all of your tells when you’re acting, and you just know that there’s no way you’ll ever get away with the secret that you’re coming to terms with.

“Just for that, you don’t get to pick the first movie!”

“Whatever, you weren’t gonna let me pick anyway.”

You move your hand over your heart, acting flattered, “you know me so well; how did I ever survive without you for over a year?” The batted eyelashes are only added for dramatic flair.

“I don’t know dude, I am pretty damn awesome,” she responds without missing a beat, batting her eyelashes back at you, and you have to wonder if she’s also doing it to get the tears out of her eyes.

There’s a moment of silence when you’re remembering all the times you wished she was there, and a small, selfish part hopes that she’s doing the same.

“Enough of all this sappy shit!” she proclaims, rolling off of you, careful of the snacks, and getting into her relaxing position on her self-designated side of the bed. “So are we knocking out five movies or two seasons?” She asks, tapping her unpainted nails against the bed in excitement.

“I’m offended that you doubt our binge-watching skills! We could definitely get in more than two seasons! The question is: do we want nitty gritty plot or a light comedic show?” You ask, going over the shows you’ve seen that fit either of those categories, but none of them stand out.

“Hmmm, I’m in the mood for one of those shitty romantic dramas,” she says, stroking her chin and looking off into the distance as though she’s saying something philosophical.

For as long as you can remember she has been this way: hot and then cold, always changing her mind but sounding as though she had always thought that way.

You suppose it fits perfectly that you’re pretty set in your morals but not confident in them at all.

The choice of the night ends up being an ongoing TV drama, from one of those channels that are only geared towards teenagers, about this boy and girl that have been best friends ever since elementary school and once they get to high school they have to face the fact that they date other people while avoiding rumors of them sleeping together. It’s basically like every other show of its kind, but the obvious romantic tension between the friends hits a little too close to home for you.

Things would be a hell of a lot easier if your best friend were a boy though.

By the time dinner is ready, you guys are halfway through the second season, and after that, there’s only one more season you have to watch until you’re forced to suffer through a month or two of waiting for the new one.

Dinner is spent with your parents getting caught up with her, and you notice how integrated she is into the life of everyone in the house. You don’t think your parents would mind going to a house you share with her, your kids running around in circles, for a birthday party, or Christmas, or just to come over for a visit. They wouldn’t mind at all.

The both of you head to your room, racing up the stairs, and ultimately, she wins, just like always. You’re both panting, honest to god hands-on-knees panting.

“We’re fat,” she laughs, still short of breath.

“I vote we blame it on the adrenaline.”

 

You’re knocked out by midnight, curled into the fetal position, facing her, with a light blanket covering your ankles. When you wake up, it’s only two, and you don’t want to have to deal with the loud volume of the TV. You settle for watching her, trying not to feel like too much of a creep, as she breathes, in and out, in and out. In a matter of five seconds, she’s inhaling part of the pillow case. It covers her open mouth, stopping her from breathing, and just before you can pull it away, her eyes open, looking into yours.

“Weirdo,” she yawns.

“Hypocrite,” you yawn back.

“You look cute when you yawn.” She’s said this before but not like this, not five inches from your face, not looking deep into your eyes, not sounding 100% serious.

“You look cute always.”

She smiles, and it’s two in the morning, you’re both half asleep, so you take a chance.

As soon as you press your lips to hers, she yawns, and you pull away, forcing out a laugh. She frowns at you and your heart stops. “That sure as hell wasn’t an invitation to pull away.” Your mind has yet to fully grasp her words and your heart has yet to start to beat again.

She moves so that there’s only one inch between you two, but before long, she closes it.

 

You hold her hand as you walk down the stairs the next morning. Your heart is racing, but the pulse in her thumb is steady. It’s a comforting thought that she’s not nervous at all, that she’s 100% sure in the choices that you both made.

Your parents see your hands, and for a second they look confused, their minds running over everything they’ve seen from you in the past years.

“Do we have to sleep in different rooms when I come over now?” She asks, making light of the situation and taking the attention off of you like she always does. You love it.

“So long as you promise not to get her pregnant,” your parents say at the same time, and all of you laugh; that’s exactly how the two of you are together, best friends with the possibility of something more.

You’ve spent the whole last year without her thinking of the way her smile got your heart racing, how something that even remotely reminded you of her brought a smile to your face, and how at night, after you two had hung up, you’d cry and cross off one more day on your calendar, sad that she was so far away but happy that you were one day closer to seeing her.

As you sit down, laughing at the next joke that she cracks, you notice how her smile is contagious, and you know that she’ll never let yours leave.

The dripping of ice
is enough to drive me mad–
a wet cave floor slick

with memories is
nothing to swear by. He does
laugh sometimes, but can

not grin. I dream of
the world outside our stone walls,
built right underneath

purple mountains with
misty air or perhaps a
gangling forest

filled to the brim with
busy insects. My growing
mind is filled with things

I am not sure are
real. All I know are reaching
water streams and the

way his eyes perceive
my figure. I am sure more
coves hold other bits

of me, but he will
never let go of my sun-
lust hands. Some days I

do not know which of
us is guilty of capture.
I always try to

hold him an arm’s length
away, to pretend to find
meaning without him.

—

Rachael Newby is a tenth grader at Barbara Ingram School For the Arts. She is a passionate member of the Creative Writing Department and wishes to excel during her next three years of learning in her art. She has become enthusiastic about creative nonfiction and poetry this year, pulling her out of her fiction-only mindset. Rachael has read pieces at events such as the school-wide Gala, the Earth Week opening ceremony, and Poetry Speaks. She hopes to become more involved in spoken word poetry over the next few years and refine her skills.

 

To Anna

Wind pours into me,

And I pour out,

Threading first through the people

But eventually floating above us—

They with their warm pulsations and I…

Folded and cold

Around a blade yet to rust.

“What have you done to me?”

Anna, please.

What have I done to you?

What have you done to me?

I wasn’t to love.

I wasn’t to trust.

I knew.

Why didn’t you?

You dignified my missteps but only

Too late.

Let Elissa’s city watch her burn

As she watches her fare melt

And as she ever tangles the stars

For the one whose duty faulted hers.

Don’t burn alongside.

You’re little to Carthage

And little to me.

To Sychaeus

By my blood, you were destroyed,

And, by your ethereal word,

I fled before blood could destroy me, too.

Years like Penelope’s were spent with my

Near unfaltering patience

But all in purposeful futility.

Is her Greek there with you?

Can she call me a sister?

My own is dim;

Odysseus’ tapestry seamstress would doubtless prove

Better company.

My memory of you was

My tapestry,

But I don’t anymore merit

The city I built around it.

A Trojan came,

And I loved him the way

I wouldn’t love the throne-yearning others.

He loved me, too.

He loved me.

He loved me.

But he means to leave before light,

And so do I.

Carthage can have my seat.

I don’t imagine Anna will fit it;

She’s hearted like a child.

I’ll soon be next to you if you’ll have me.

To Aeneas

Go, January prince.

Go if you feel more obligation

To leave than to stay,

And pray that your duality

Won’t destroy another as it’s destroyed me.

You were the

Lone, gleaming confidence

That arose in me in the years since Sychaeus

Bleated, in a dream,

His truth to me;

I hadn’t even sisterly faith.

How am I to trust

When the only man of late I’ve trusted

Has meant to deceive me in the night?

Sychaeus…

I loved Sychaeus.

What have you done to my love for Sychaeus?

I should have daggered myself then

When he had gone.

Anna will help me into his world.

She’s a stupid, piteous girl,

But she knows how to lay coins and strike matches.

If I’ve guessed that wrong of her,

Just as well.

I’ll will my spirit to lurk in the waves

‘Neath your ships

And topple you over.

Death bears no bounds

To a woman who’s built her own city.

 

I watch as Lili analyzes the birds as they arch across the sky. She mimics them as they fold their wings and dive toward the earth then swoop back up. The smile on her face is one of pure wonder and delight. I follow her as she runs in the tall grass, her white-blonde hair swaying with every step. A sound from the back porch draws her attention, and fear flashes across her crystal blue eyes. Maddox strides across the porch in two large steps and has the little girl by the arm in seconds. He looks down at his young daughter with bitterness and disdain. I watch silently as he squeezes her arm tighter, no doubt leaving dark bruises behind on her porcelain skin. “Lili, I told you not to leave your room, get your ass back inside!” She quivers with fear and lets out a small whimper as he releases her arm and kicks her toward the house. She runs inside and scampers up the stairs to her room.

 

I scrutinize the man who calls himself her father. A tall, foul man with a beer gut bulging over his jeans, and dirty boots laced up to his ankles. He has the face not even a mother could love and is balding on the top of his round, egg-shaped head. He slowly saunters back inside the house and doesn’t notice when I quietly follow in behind him. He grabs a beer from the fridge and plops down in front of the TV and pays no mind to me. I soon get bored and ascend the stairs to look for young Lili. I find her crouched down in the corner of her room, crying silent tears as she longingly looks out the grimy, dirt encrusted window. I recall the day her mother died and left the poor child to be raised by her father. She died during childbirth, and Maddox never forgave the young child for taking away the only woman he ever loved. He blamed her from the very beginning and could never let go of the past. Lili looks so much like her mother, which only heightens Maddox’s rage for her.

 

When she is not being abused by him she is hiding from him in her room, day dreaming about anything but the life she inhabits. She sees princesses, dragons, fairies, and castles! She’s the ruler of her kingdom and lives with all of the lovely creatures that roam her dreams. I concentrate on her thoughts and slip seamlessly into her mind. The world here is a forest of green with pastel colors splattered across the canvas. Animals are jumping and frolicking through the trees, and fairies are lounging beside ponds, conversing with mermaids who are resting on large, warm stones. The sky is one vast rainbow of colors as painted birds glide with the evening breeze. Lili flies on top of dragons and relishes the warm, light wind throwing her hair every which way. She then lies in the grass and looks up at the sky and picks shapes out of clouds. “There’s a bunny! Oh! There’s a flower,” she exclaims. A rumble in the distance startles her, and as she scrutinizes the sky she sees it start to darken and grow grim. The animals move swiftly to find cover from the storm, but Lili knows that there is no use. The storm will come and find her no matter where she runs.

 

She gets shaken back to reality and looks up at her father glaring at her with such venom she wishes she could shrivel up and disappear. I get forced out of her head as she becomes more focused on reality. Her father is standing over her, screaming at her with spittle escaping his lips to land on her ashen face. She cowers in the corner and tries to make herself as small as possible. He yanks her up by her hair and smacks her small face with the back of his hand. She cries out from the pain and tries to wriggle out of his grip, but he is much stronger than she could ever be. His hand grips her neck as he crushes her windpipes and cuts off her air flow. Her face slowly turns from pink to blue, and I wait for the inevitable outcome. The sole reason for why I’m here. She eventually stops moving, and he releases her. She slumps to the ground with an audible thud. Maddox stands stiff with anger; he looks at her unmoving body and moments later leaves.

 

I slowly glide over to Lili and look down at her innocent face, so peaceful in death. After a moment she gets up, looks at me and takes my hand. I rejoice in the fact that she won’t have to cower in fear any longer because I am taking her to her own little kingdom; a kingdom where only beautiful souls like her go. We walk hand in hand into the light as I guide her to a familiar figure; a figure not familiar to her eyes, but to her heart. I wait until Lili runs and collides with her mother in a loving embrace to turn around and make my retreat. I slip back into the house Lili once inhabited to find her father, but this time when I wait for his moment I know that I’m taking him to a different kind of kingdom.

 

 

There are some nights where you find yourself

Gazing up into the bottomless void

With longing clawing its way from your throat

And hot tears singeing the backs of your eyes.

Your skin prickles from the pull off the cosmos

As every breath mocks two grounded lungs.

 

Then there are most nights,

When you keep your head down turned

With starlight replaced by artificial halos.

You violently smile to no one in particular,

And pretend to be ignorant,

Of your own immeasurable ignorance.