Hedge Apple Reception on October 14th

The Fall 2014 Issue of the HCC literary magazine has arrived! Please join us for a celebration and reading!

 

WHEN:         Tuesday, October 14th, 2014

5:00 — Food, conversation, and sign-ups

5:20 – Hagerstown Magazine Internship Experience (Matt Makowski and Stephanie Eberly)

5:30 — Prose and poetry readings by contributors, followed by an open mic session

6:45– Workshops

 

WHERE:    Career Program Building 210-212

Hors d’oeuvres and drinks will be served.

Workshops will include:

 

Writing Dialogue – Amanda Hart Miller

Progressive Story Group Write – Hannah Streett and Stephanie Eberly

 

The reception and workshops are open to the public.

 

New pieces of fiction, poetry, and artwork released at www.hedgeapplemagazine.com throughout the year. Special congratulations to the 2014 participants of the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute who were published in the online edition of the Hedge Apple.

 

The submission deadline for next year’s Hedge Apple is January 31st 2015.

Email your poetry, fiction, artwork, or photography, with a brief bio, to [email protected]

Publication of Authors from the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute

The Hedge Apple magazine is pleased to publish the work of several young authors who attended the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute this summer. These teens were wonderful to work with, and as you can see from their writing, they are a talented bunch. We will announce the editor’s choice award at the Hedge Apple reception on October 14th at 5:00 in CPB 210-212 on the HCC campus in Hagerstown, MD.

The Golden Boy by William Poe-Pitcher (Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

The golden boy played all day,

With his golden toy amongst the hay.

He played and laughed and had his way,

Upon him the sun casted its ray.

Then from what is the horizon came the rider,

Beneath his wreath sat a spider.

Its eight eyes shining like rubies in the sun,

Its fangs the size of barrels it looked like no fun.

The golden boy sat still,

And gazed upon the rider ill.

To him, it seemed so very far,

And moved slow as if engrossed in tar.

Until it came upon the time,

When the golden boy would see it close and fine.

Then for he could see,

Said it swift and loud ‘It’s coming for me’.

So he ran away,

Beyond night and day.

Now the golden boy,

Was without his golden toy.

Instead all they boy had,

Was a head that sat mad.

Then one golden day,

The rider got it’s way.

Upon the fang the golden boy thrust,

Into a new world would he trust.

Now there was no toy,

And now there was no golden boy.

Instead stood tall a silver man,

A grimace and no thoughts of I can.

Instead he’s dealt a silver hand,

Of which he works to bone from the world’s demand.

William Poe-Pitcher is currently in the midst of pursuing enrollment in the Barbra Ingram High School. He spends time studying philosophy, history and political academia and tends to base his work around such things. He has an admiration for symbolism and strives to put multiple layers to a singular story. He enjoys ancient culture and exploring old theistic ideologies which can also be seen incorporated into his writing.

The Firefly by Neil Thomas (Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

Burning was the pleasure I was given at the start. The burning of this…this sadness was needed for the world I live in. Honestly people need to learn that family and friends are needed, but they never do so, they end up in the furnace. Sometimes when I kill and burn, nothing happens, no happiness, but when it’s a young child a tear rolls down my cheek.

My name is Clarence Cannister, my occupation is a Firefly. Basically a Firefly is a murderous pyromaniac. Why? For so long widowers, loners, homeless, and the sick have plagued our glorious country like a viral disease. And we, the Fireflies, were created to cure it but for some reason this job has gotten harder and harder to do. Days pass before I ever close my eyes to fall asleep. Honestly sleep isn’t the only thing that’s been messed with.

Nights seem endless when looking for “firewood” for the furnace. Sometimes when I try to pick up victims my shoulders feel like rubber, my feet are weaker than a newborn baby, and my stomach is filled with butterflies. Sometimes I tell myself I’m too old for this job and don’t turn in anything. Joseph, my manager, just sometimes gives me a cold hard glare on those nights. Who is Joseph the manager and why do I need one? Every Firefly is given a manager who gives them money for the bodies they turn in. They’re only there so we don’t burn the whole city down.

See there’s more to this job than killing and burning. The other way this job is important is because our furnace’s fuel the heat for all the houses in the city. Quite ironic isn’t it? We take dead people to feed the furnaces to warm the homes of the living. Sorry but death just doesn’t concern me anymore. I mean the big guys upstairs could get rid of me right now. Death is inevitable, never will there ever be a change. Heck I had to fry my predecessor in order to secure my place in this job.

“Clarence report to Officer Johnson’s office immediately” the overhead speaker said.

“Great” I said knowing this was another lecture on how I wasn’t doing well enough and that the city needs me to do my job right.

Honestly I couldn’t think right now even if I wanted to, I am tired and lonely, oh so lonely. You’d think a 45 year old man who’s been lonely all his life could withstand the solitude, but I just can’t. Nothing can or could probably help this but I just have to move on…I have to.

“Sit down Clarence I have something to tell you” my boss started, trying to sound comforting to ease my suspicions that I was about to lose my job. “Now Joseph has been telling me that you have been bringing nothing for the furnace to burn,” Johnson paused for a moment looking at the desk that sat between us as though he would rather pick it up and throw it at me than talk to me right now. “And so for the final time you are fired” Johnson concluded then looked me directly in the eyes for a half second before looking back down at the desk with the set and determined scowl.

“You’re joking aren’t you Johnson, now come on really can I get back to work” I knew he had to be joking.

“No Clarence, you know that this is over. You had a good run. I congratulate you on how long you made it, most Firefly’s don’t make it this long.”

“Johnson don’t do this, I can do it! I can keep going, please don’t fire me, I’m just tired.”

“No Clarence I can’t. You’ve messed up too many times, and honestly in your condition it would seem in your best interest to leave or get burned.”

“Oh…ok please I want to live. I’ll leave, go to a different city so I won’t bother you guys anymore.”

“Ok Clarence I’ll give you one day to get to wherever you are going. That’s all you get, but if they find you…” he finished his sentence with the flick of his lighter.

Johnson was just touching the flame to the tip of his fresh cigar as I quickly turned and left his office. My mind was racing, insane with fear and simply so much shit I can’t understand. Why am I surprised at any of this, I knew this was happening, I knew I would get fired, which really means killed and put in the furnace like all of the other Fireflies before me that couldn’t do their job anymore. I didn’t have much time, maybe 5 hours before I get caught and sentenced to the fate that I have carried out on so many others. I have no place to live, no place to go.

In the morning two collectors picked up a body that wasn’t recognized but was found in a puddle of sweat, rain, or maybe even…tears. But for whatever reason no one could figure out why he was out in the open, no one even knew the man’s name, occupation, or age nothing but the mark of a lightning bug on his right shoulder was the only thing that was different…the bug was called the Firefly.

BIO:

 

Neil Thomas was/has attending Nora Young Roberts Writers Institute. Neil has honors for some of his stories. Neil goes to Boiling Springs High School in Carlisle, PA. Neil has also attended other writing panels/conferences. Neil has tried on many attempts to create and share video games.

Wink of an Eye by Elizabeth Anders (Contest Runner Up: Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

When I was a little girl, I used to dance in the fields under the stars and pretend that the moon was smiling at me. It was like she was ready to wave a magic wand to take me away from the home where my parents argued and smoke rolled out of my brother’s bedroom. As the years passed, however, it quickly became clear that the moon was too busy chasing the sun around the world to notice a tiny girl who could not escape from her own family.

It was during the winter which had frozen both our hearts and the ground that the life of my mother was taken by means of a premeditated suicide. From then on, whispers circled around me in our small town about how it was my fault she had died. To them, I was the one who caused her to pick up the pills.

Everything was public, and the only time anything was private was when I was around my father and brother. It made me nauseous to be around them, but they still provided a brief pause from the dark cloud that seemed to circle my head every day.

As I grew older I established my own whimsical musings into poetry, even though I only published a little. Whatever I did publish was nothing that would tell of the secrets I kept locked up in my soul. Nobody knew of those, even the numerous friends I shared precious moments with.

When I left town for good, my family stayed behind. They did not understand my desire to travel or my love for writing. They could not comprehend my belief that the moon was a true part of my reality, as they felt she was not part of any reality.

Hairs grew gray and dreams dried up as the years passed. I died in a town that nobody even knew of unless you landed right upon it. Nobody missed me; my father had passed away years ago and my brother had overdosed on his many drugs.

When I passed away, light expanded past my eyes into the universe beyond, and I had never felt so alive before. My ribcage was ripped out and replaced with something more durable. Something that was better built for a star took its place. A new name was branded into my wrist, ‘Colette’, and another star by the name of Desirae offered me a bent wing to climb up into the sky.

I took it and we travelled like I had always wanted to. We made our way to the heavens where all the other stars were dancing around the moon and clinking glasses full of wine while laughing merrily.

“I found her.” Desirae stated before pushing me into the center of their circle.

I was not used to flying however, and quickly fell before I felt someone catch me. I looked up to find the moon, the one I had dreamt of for years and lost faith in, holding me.

“You’re real,” I whispered in awe.

She laughed and pulled me back up to set me in a chair that seemed to be held by the sky itself. “Of course I’m real, honey. I was always there, you know, looking out for you. We all were.” She motioned to the other stars who were still twirling around the sky. To humans they seemed to be in place, but truthfully they had left ghosts of themselves behind as they slipped from their bodies to celebrate above the earth. If one of the stars would forget to leave their ghost, humans would then see what many referred to as a shooting star.

“Now, why don’t you tell me about those secrets of yours?” the moon said.

“You know?” My eyes widened and I glanced down at my glowing body that seemed to have taken the shape of a star.

“Oh, haven’t you heard darling? When all of the stars lived as humans they held three different lives: public, private, and secret. Since becoming stars they have told their secrets.” The moon stopped to look around, searching for examples. “You see Daniel over there? When he lived, he was the greatest movie star of his time. However, what many people did not know was that his wife was an alcoholic. Daniels’ heart simply grew too weak to deal with it all.” She paused to search again. “And Marilyn over there? Her father was a serial rapist. That poor girl went through so much with the media and drove straight into another car to end it all. The humans called it an accident but all of us up here know better.” She stopped once more. “And Desirae? An abusive husband who was the CEO of one of the biggest companies in their day.”

“You see, Colette, we all lie, we all cheat, and we all steal. Most of all we keep secrets. Up here, our mysteries seep out of our skin so we can sparkle and fly across the sky.” The moon looked wistfully across the night sky to where a tiny ball of light could be found: the sun. “Even I have some secrets, but for a few hours while it is night I can forget them all and just live.”

I found this was true as the years went by, and I spent all my time in the heavens talking to other stars with heartbreaking backstories. Every night we twinkled in the sky and enjoyed the freedom that came from spilling secrets and marveling at the private lives of those below. So, think of me tonight when you look up at the sky and find a little star winking goodbye to the tragic life of secrets she once held.

Elizabeth Anders has attended both the Nora Robert’s Young Writers Institute at Hagerstown Community College and Barbara Ingram’s Advanced Creative Writing Class. She was a runner-up in the Young Writers Contest with her submission “Winking Goodbye.” When she is not writing, she is either reading one of the many books she loves or exploring other forms of art.

Broken Shards by Elizabeth Anders (Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

 

Ella was a beautiful woman who was filled with a strange desire to be different and even stranger words which she used to whisper to me in the moonlit bliss. I loved her, and in the moments when her mind didn’t disintegrate, she loved me. We used to share many wonderful times and it saddened me to know that, at times, they were lost.

Every day, forgetful or not, she would sit at a specific table in the corner of her favorite bakery. I would join her, and if it was a day she would recall me, like today, she would acknowledge me.

“Evan?” She asked as the rain outside slowly tapered off. It produced sunshine that slid inside the window and across Ella’s golden skin.

I smiled and started playing with the buttons on my camera to turn it on. I was an amateur photographer, taking pictures of only things and people I treasured and rarely showing anyone my work. “Hello, Ella.”

On the days she’d forget, when she would tip over the boundary lines within her mind, she would shy away from my camera. Today, however, I captured her smile perfectly.

Sometime after that we found ourselves on a park bench by the river. “I missed you,” I whispered as I carefully slid my hand into hers. The people near us rushed by without a care, unaware of how much pain both Ella and I dealt with each day.

At the young ages of 22 and 23, we were promised so much more happiness than we ever received. That didn’t matter, however, when we had each other in moments like these, and Ella didn’t question who I was. These times allowed us to grasp a small snapshot of the life we could have had.

Ella leaned her head on my shoulder and turned further into me. I felt her tears slowly glide onto my skin and tried to turn to hug her, but she stopped me. “I’m so sorry I don’t remember, Evan.” She choked out.

I gently pulled her chin up and turned to face her. With the pads of my thumbs I softly wiped her tears away before looking at her seriously. “Ella, it’s okay. We’re together right now and that’s all that matters. I love you, okay?” I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and tucked her head back into my shoulder.

“I love you, too,” Her voice came out muffled against the material of my t-shirt, but that was okay. It was amazing just to hear her say it.

We spent a little more time at the park before we began to return to her apartment. I was just about to hold her hand again when a car sped by us, too close to the sidewalk for me not to worry. Ella gripped my arm tightly and almost fell before I caught her. I stood her up and looked in her eyes, which were wide and shifting, seeing memories that were best left behind.

I smoothed back the hair on her forehead and attempted to bring her out of the memory she was in. “Ella, listen to me. It’s okay. The car’s gone, sweetheart.” I could tell it was too late as she was shaking her head and pulling away from me.

A car accident a year ago took Ella’s memory and left broken pieces for the rest of us to pick up. Even now, a single car could trigger Ella to fall back into a confusing maze of memories. It was a rare kind of amnesia that puzzled the doctors. After all, how could someone recall all her memories one day and overlook them the next? It was like Ella stood in front a mirror that reflected all her loved ones back to her. Then the glass shattered into pieces that couldn’t be connected again.

I tried to reach for her but she pushed me away. She completely crumbled on the busy New York City sidewalk and I could not stop it. Then she looked at me again, this time with eyes that possessed a fearful glint. “Who are you?” And just like that, Ella was gone again. A distant memory I could not wrap around my fingers. She was in front of me but her mind deceived her into believing I was a stranger.

The prospect of the pain I would have to deal with for an indefinite amount of time was slowly becoming my reality and it panicked me. Could I continue lurking in the shadows, simply waiting for a moment when Ella remembered and loved me once again? Would the occasional picture I was able to capture be enough? Should I put the camera down and leave the damaged memories behind?

However, these were questions I would have to ponder later in the darkness of my apartment. For now, I had to take care of the girl I loved.

The Third Night by Chelsea Cahill (Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

To pass my time when I was younger, I used to explore my grandparents’ estate in order to see what treasures could be found. For a long time, there was nothing. I was searching in the wrong places. Treasure isn’t always buried beneath the earth. Sometimes it’s buried above it. On the seventy-fifth day of my search to nowhere, my grandfather brought me into his attic where I instantly knew my unsuccessful days of finding ‘buried treasure’ were over.

He supervised my adventures, making sure nothing was broken in the process of pursuing my fictional life as a hero. An old video game console caught my eye on the eightieth day. My grandfather seemed to have forgotten that he owned it to begin with. How insulting. I’m only twelve years old, therefore video games are my life. I went on one last grand adventure to find a game named Campbell to place in the console.

I soon became obsessed. Passionately obsessed more so than any other game I ever played. My grandfather happily sent me home with his old possessions to keep after a straight week of playing them. From morning until night my stubby fingers frolicked across the controller. You would think school was my escape, but every piece of my brain that held potential to hold any new information the world was offering me was preoccupied by my game. I started failing tests in classes I usually aced. That was the final straw for my mother. She took Campbell away.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Should I start going back on adventures at my grandparents’ estate? Maybe my mother gave the demon back to the man who dished it out. I could find it again if I wanted. Or should I just try to forget about it? There was the key word: try to forget. I couldn’t forget. On the third night that I was left without my fairy tale friends, I shut my eyes to go to sleep and I had the most vivid dream. It was so clear that it could have been reality. I was talking to the King in his castle. He appeared the same as any other time I saw him.

“My crown has been taken by the creatures who guard the Ice Palace on the other side of the kingdom. I would retrieve my property myself, but I cannot leave. A curse has been placed upon me. If my crown is not returned, all of Campbell will end in total war.”

He offered me the chance to take the quest and become the hero I always dreamed of being. In my most impressive voice, I accepted.

Chelsea Cahill has participated in the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute at Hagerstown Community College. She attends Palmyra High School in New Jersey and has been one of the editors of the yearbook at her school for the last two years. She is also a member of the Spanish National Honor Society, Student Council, and the National Honor Society. Cahill has written two young adult novels. She is currently working on her third.

Me by Madeleine Gaines (Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute)

My door has been locked for 3 years, 8 months, and 26 days. I have explored this 25′ x 25′ room over and over again. Waking, pacing, eating, searching, sleeping, and then starting the process again for 3 years, 8 months, and 25 days. It took less than a week for it to become my monotonous routine. Doing it over and over and over again…
Some nights, after a long day of pacing and pacing and pacing, nightmares consume me. I scream, even after I wake, with no one to console me. No mother to hold me close, no father to check under my bed for monsters. But in this room, with its broken toilet in one corner and a too-small blanket and ratty pillow in another, there  is no place for the monsters to hide. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
For 1 year, 6 months, and 19 days, I’ve been thinking about the bare door, locked from the outside. For 1 year, 4 months, and 7 days, I’ve pondered the fact that this eternal darkness I’ve been shrouded in has become comforting. That the unidentified meat that falls through a hole in the ceiling is appealing to me. That I can’t remember a day when there weren’t voices echoing through my mind.
It took me 2 years, 2 months, and 7 days to realize that the bare door was to keep something inside, not keep something out. It took me 2 years, 4 months, and 19 days to realize that the reason why there’s no one to console me, why there’s no mother to hold me close, no father to check under my bed for monsters, why there’s no one to protect me….is because they can’t save me…..from me.

Into Ashes by Alyson Flora (Nora Roberts Writing Institute)

Each breath bites my lungs, the smoke coursing through my battered body. I lay in burning rubble, embers drifting above me, disappearing into the hazy night sky. I gather all my strength and stagger onto my feet, suddenly noticing the presence behind me. Whipping around, I come face to face with an elderly man. His face is smeared with ash, and his eyes are distant and grey.

“You’re a lucky one, you are.” He grunts, coughing in-between words. I nod my head, flashbacks from the scene that had just unfolded flooding back into my mind. Only a few moments earlier, the crackle of flames had jolted me awake. Opening my eyes, I was immediately overwhelmed by the fiery blaze consuming my bedroom. My mind went blank; all focus shifted to getting out. As I began bolting toward the door, not a single thought about turning back crosses my mind. It’s not until now that I think back on the others who had been in the house, sleeping through the dancing flames.                                             “There’s nothin’ ya could’ve done, boy,” He says, glancing up as my face twists in horror, “The riots are gettin’ worse by the day, good luck kid.” He pats my shoulder and trudges away, sending a final sad smile before turning away. If only he knew what I had done. I could’ve saved every person in that house, but no. I hadn’t even given them a second thought. What does that make me, a killer? An orphaned killer at that, alone in the ruins of an empty town.

The streets are littered by survivors. They wander the town, mourning the dead and pitying the living. I silently tread past them, forcing my gaze from their distant expressions. All I want to do is scream; scream until there’s no one left to hear. Everything I ever knew lies in ashes, innocent bodies buried for the sake of the foolish. Nothing matters now, because now I am nothing. There’s nothing left to live for. Walking beyond the wreckage, I find myself among a street that remains untouched. The homes sit peacefully under the smoky stars, unaware how terribly close they are to tragedy. I smile to myself, somewhat calmed by the little piece of town that still remains. In the distance, the darkness begins to slowly fade away. The sky is washed orange overhead, and I patiently wait for the morning sun to appear. It never does. Eyes widening, I run toward the source of the glowing color, instantly recognizing the scene that is laid out before me. The last home on the street is a living inferno, spitting flames in every direction. I listen for an alarm, but hear only the crackle of flame. The family has no warning that this could be the end. Soon they’ll be gone, just another thing lost. Anyone left inside that house has no chance of ever leaving; this is it. Suddenly, I bolt toward the door, holding my shirt collar to my face. This is for every soul lost to the flames, every future burnt by death. I may not have anything left to live for, but at least now I have something worth dying for.

Alyson Grace Flora is presently a student at Oakdale Middle School. She has honors in Language Arts, and was admitted into the Highly Able Learner program for advanced learning abilities through her reading and writing. She was presented with a young author’s award for poetry, and attended the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute during the summer of 2014.

 

The Dreams I Can’t Forget by Jacob Basset

Jacob Basset

The Dreams I Can’t Forget

I dreamt of you again last night:
Golden, auburn shackles gripping
Lifeless pools, shallow crystal probing
Speckled snowfall in hapless bounding
You didn’t see me; I didn’t speak.

I dreamt of you again last night:
Hollow echoes joyfully doubled
Rare thoughts dutifully offered
Branding touch so coyly forced
You wouldn’t leave me; I couldn’t breathe.

I dreamt of you again last night:
We share a dying situation
We hold the time by hurting
We live, clinging, suffuse the air
You say you love me; I tell you, too.

I dreamt of you again last night:
Sick of what I say
Tired of who I am
Frustrated with my mind
Disappointed by my body
Insisting nothing changed but
Burying me
Drowning me
Strangling me
Leaving me
You apologize; I can only beg.

I dreamt of you again last night:
I still marvel at your silken hair
I still stare at your eyes, transfixed
I still find your pale skin perfectly flawed
You won’t look at me; I don’t know why.

I dreamt of you again last night:
You laugh with him, unfazed
You talk with him, the same
You draw him close, but more
You love him, maybe; I used to love.

I dreamt of you again last night:
Sky broken open, forever dividing
Ground bent, drawing together
Connected, severed
You are the same; I am the same.

I dreamt of you again last night:
The air between us is stagnant
The moments are unbearable
This will never change
We cannot return
Even though we never left
This, too, will never change
We aren’t in love
You always seem to be
This will never change
You are for someone else; I am for you.

I will dare to move
I will run from you
I will crawl out of my darkness
I will flee from this terror
I will change
I will become something new
I will do everything to improve
I will turn myself into a hero
I will live to please you
I will, I will
You don’t know; I think I do.

But for now,
I dream of you every night.