Isaiah Jones

Vina Chen

Samuel Rivera

2020 in a Nutshell by Xavier Goodall

What exactly does the future of the world look like? I don’t know. Will we actually be around for it? Well, in order to figure out what the future will be like post-2020, we should probably take a look back at what the year has been. In case you didn’t know, it’s garbage. Let’s take a look through the garbage: we got an idiot president, an idiot human race, as well as the fact that every month of this year has been like an episode of a TV series we all want to end thanks to each one having its own separate problem or disaster. 

Oh, did I forget to mention that this is that time of the century when the whole world gets sick? Don’t know what I mean? Let’s look even further back. 1720s? We got the smallpox. 1820s? We got cholera with a side order of yellow fever. 1920s? I’m sure we’ve all heard of the flu. You know that disease that makes you feel all sneezy and coughy and crappy and stuff? Yeah, that. It wasn’t fun. 2020? Basically, it’s God thinking “Oh wow, I did not expect humanity to be this dumb. I immediately regret this” and decided to try and wipe us out. That’s right, folks, we’ve been given a virus that just won’t die. Why won’t it die? Because humans are idiots, that’s why. “Let’s practice social distancing,” said the humans who immediately gave up on that idea and made the sickness worse. “I don’t need a mask. I’ll be fine,” said the president who now has the sickness. “Let’s stay inside so we don’t get sick.” “How does one do that?” “I don’t know. Wanna have a party?” “Sure, man. Let’s invite the entire school. I see no reason why this is a bad idea.”

So the future of the world? Well, let’s hope humanity becomes smart and actually learns how to kill the sickness and actually elect good leaders. Because currently, the only people who are actually being smart about this are people on some islands off the coast of Australia. Think about it: a whole country being less sick than some small, white building in DC. What’s up with that? Come on, guys; I thought you were better than this. 

In other news, Japan has giant robots now.

Untitled by Ezra Kaye

The somewhat salty, clean, moist, mediterrainian breeze brings life to the trees in Kfar Nordiya. The nearby farm wafts the warm feel and earthy smell onto the two story, blocky, 80’s style living quarters. They’re painted in two different shades of blue, one accenting the corners where two walls meet. The ground is hot, and the brisk sea water is cold. The food was merely okay; however, Kfar Nordiya was made mostly by the people I shared it with, and the people I didn’t. 

Nothing but warm memories fill my mind when I think about it. Nordiya was the birthplace of my relationship. And the place where I began to grieve for my Grandmother. The fresh pomegranates that we picked everyday were like the feelings I had there, bitter, then sweet. I woke up every morning at 5:00 am to see the yellow sunrise over the clear-blue sea. The light always pierced my eyes so I had to squint. I could feel the warmth on my skin, and the sand beneath my feet begin to disappear. I saw her, my Grandmother, she told me that there was more to this place than met the eye. I spent the last four days there trying to figure out what she meant.

On the third to last day I wrote something to be said at her funeral. I talked about the Arab saying, “What is to come is better than what is gone.” Each day at Kfar Nordiya, what came to me was better than what populated my past. It was hard to say goodbye when we left on the last day, and I still hadn’t figured out what my Grandmother meant. It wasn’t until I returned two weeks later that I figured out what she meant. There was so much that was so beautiful superficially. The water glistened in the sun, the warmth made me feel welcome, the architecture created an atmosphere of freedom, the food was just okay. Below all that was the power, and the magic that brought so many together, fostered hope, nurtured love, and most of all created a world that felt like it was just on the border of heaven and earth.

Scotch Tape by Elayna Kemp

Growing up with divorced parents, my life always felt polarized. One week, I was sitting on a big fluffy couch, watching Spongebob on a large flat-screen TV with my mom. The next week, I would be sitting on an old hard-wood floor with my dad, among the dust and old cat hair the carpeted the house, struggling to understand the “adult shows” like I Love Lucy that came on an old box TV that only got a few channels. Naturally as a kid, I felt more comfortable whenever I was with my mom, and always dreaded the Fridays when I was taken to my dad’s house. My dad’s house was not the prettiest place one could imagine. An old row home in Baltimore City that he got for free from his grandparents, it was never up-to-date. With an old, rusty shower in the basement, no air conditioner, and nearly no modern technology, I couldn’t help but count the days until my mom would pick me up. 

Eventually, these feelings changed. I decided that instead of complaining and daydreaming about what I would be doing if I was at my mom’s house, I learned to make the best of the situation. The good thing was that with a sister less than two years older than me, I was never alone. One day, on the dining room table piled with old books, CDs, and random sheets of paper, my sister and I found a roll of Scotch tape. This scotch tape would be the fuel that powered our imaginations for weeks. While my dad was napping that day, we ran through the dusty floors, up and down the creaky steps, and even down to the cold and wet basement to find more supplies. Still having no plan or idea what we would do, we managed to find cardboard, old blank pads of paper, crayons, and scissors. 

Cardboard, old blank pads of paper, crayons, and scissors: Our imaginations ran wild. 

Together, my sister and I ran up to the old full-sized bed that we slept in together. The old stained mattress didn’t have any sheets on it, but the surface was still flat enough to convert it into our own little workshop. Eventually, little pieces of paper and strips of cardboard were flying everywhere. My sister and I used the materials and our imaginations to craft telescopes, airplanes, fans, dolls, and anything imaginable. My dad was distraught by the mess when he woke up but he was proud that we found a unique way to keep ourselves occupied. 

As my sister and I grew older, we stopped going over his house little by little. It went from every other week, to every other weekend, and is now just on random days, whenever we have the time. It was a mix between the lack of resources like wifi and printers that we needed to complete school work, and my dad’s own problems with his health. Nonetheless, we do still visit and every time I walk up the old wooden steps to his house, open the yellow paint-chipped door, and make my way through the cluttered spaces to the living room, I see more than just a dusty, messy, old-fashioned house. I see memories. I feel my imagination. 

I may no longer live there, but I still consider it my home. 

The Hero by Martha Hankins

Soft murmurs fill the hall. Outside thunder roils and rolls, lighting crashes against the side of the castle. The court is sheltered from the rain. The rain is cold. The king sits on his throne. He is neither tired, nor relaxed, yet he slouches, his eyes fixed on the door. There is no knock, the only harold is a boom of thunder. The door swings open and there, backlit by a flash of stark lighting, nearly blue in color, stands the hero. At first, he is but a shadow, dark and thin, but as the lightning fades, he comes into focus. He is dressed in whites and greys, silver brocade adorning his breast. He wears no armor, no cloak, and is drenched to the bone by the rain.

He does not shudder.

In one hand he grips his sword, a blade as thin and sharp as starlight. It is held with the ease of a master and the deadliness of a serpent. In his other, he grips a horn still attached to the head of its massive host. The tarrasque smears dark blood over the floor, its hulking form sending courtiers scattering as they try to get as far away from the beast as possible. The king on his dias does not flinch, does not move. His eyes glitter as the hero approaches, black as the night sky over an icy waste and twice as cold.

They are a study of opposites.

The king on his throne is adorned in deep reds. The golden crown winking the fire light nestled in his dark curls, the velvet cloak that spills past his shoulders, the vividly scarlet tunic sewn with golden thread. He is a phoenix, a firebird, a sun brought to earth and bound there in the weights of precious metals and jewels.

The hero is a fallen star, bright and sure.  To the dark curls of the king his is moonlight, to the obsidian sharp eyes his is poisonous green, to the stolid and sturdy frame his is the lithe willow. Despite this, as they stare at each other, their similar iron is brought to their surface.

“The beast,” the hero says, “Like you asked.”

With one arm he throws it, this monster several times larger than himself, at the king’s feet. There is contempt in his voice, dislike in his face, and hate in his actions. The nobles hold their breath.

The king curls his lip, and it is almost a smile.

He raises his hand, and a gasp is heard, the crowd inhaling as one as they wait for the pretty head of the hero to roll. Quite a few feel some sorrow for the loss.

Instead, five guards rush forward, waiting for their cue, and gather up the tarrasque. The hero sneers at their struggle to lift the massive thing, and his dislike is evident. He turns back to his apparent sovereign and holds out his hand.

He is expecting his reward.

The king nods and waves again, though neither break from their hateful stare. This time the court physician hurries out, fumbling a small clay bottle. Almost as one, the nobles lean forward, each quietly jostling each other as they jockey to get the best look at what it may be. Elbows are dug into ribs, feet are crushed under heels, and clothes that took hours to assemble are torn, all casualties of the court gossip.

Unfortunately, the bottle is a nondescript clay, pale pink with a cork stopper. The hero snatches it viciously out of the physician’s hands and the glare he gives the poor soul turns the knees to jelly.

He sweeps the room in one last look, harshening his glare on a specific few unlucky souls, and gives the king his parting bow, if it could even be called such. It is mocking and contemptuous, full of as much malice as it could possibly fit, and with an overdramatic and sarcastic end flourish, the hero makes his exit through a small side door, servants and nobles alike scurrying out of his way.

And, like the storm passing overhead, the sky clears. Outside, the wind and rain quiets, the last of the thunder rumbles its cries, and the nobles return to their idle chatter. If it is, perhaps, a little more subdued, and a little more focused on the hero, then that is nobody’s business but their own.

◃◈◉◈▹

Beauty is the Beast by Kaitlynn Beahn

They say this palace was once a dwelling for the Gods. Their presence caused magic to seep into the cracks of every pillar, or gap beneath a door. When the Gods left the castle to their human subjects, this magic lingered, birthing a mysterious, sentient force. It is fickle and clairvoyant, a built-in Mandate of Heaven lurking just beyond the doors. It senses when things go awry, and drives the culprits mad until they flee, or pass on.

I never believed it. Here we were, without any evidence our Gods existed, yet we were so certain this castle was haunted? I’d traveled the hallways hundreds of times, and never seen or heard a thing. Not a candle was out of place. The floors were covered in dust, disrupted only by the footprints my friends and I made. In honesty, the place felt soulless, untouched. There wasn’t anyone here besides us, exactly the opposite. We were completely alone.

So, when I finally met it… it was all the more disturbing.

We’d been fighting. Tensions were high; our people were dissatisfied with our rule. We were crumbling, and it wouldn’t take much before our authority was lost. The monarch was beyond hopeless; many essays could be written detailing her faults. Still, the rest of us in the royal court were no better. We had spats constantly. Previously close, the state of the world was making us anxious. I blamed them, they blamed me, and we’d return to our beds at night, begging the wind to clear us of our guilt. We pleaded that better times would arrive, and then did nothing to cause them.

One day, someone died. That was when the spirit snapped.

I was in another room, but startled by the scream, so I ran to the source. What I found on the other side of the wall scared me… more than who I found.

A rainbow of light shone down onto the floor. The window above him had shattered, he must have been knocked into it. What was left of the pane took the sunbeams and showered the whole space in color. The broken shards in his hair all became iridescent crystals, glimmering with each breath. He was brunette, so it appeared as though a miniature cosmos swirled around on his head. His skin was deathly pale, and as I stared, parts of it would morph into marble. The lines on his face were the marks of a meticulous carver. Finally, and I shudder to say, but I swear it was the case… the red that spilled out of his wound was made of feathers. Perfect scarlet feathers. They tumbled to the ground in slow motion, and as much as I knew it was his blood I couldn’t erase the thought that his death was… so… beautiful.

He’d look human, then like a lifeless artwork, and back again. I was seeing my friend, watching him die from across the room, and yet, was I? Could I be so sure that this was nothing more than a canvas or decoration in front of me? Was that really his face, or was I admiring the creation of someone else’s thoughts? My mind struggled against a powerful, cold entity, shoving these ideas of beauty and inhumanity in my face, and I fought to keep them at bay. With all my might, I pushed everything away, reminded myself that it was my dear colleague in front of me, and no matter how many threats I’d made the last few months- I really, truly, did not want him to die.

In an instant, the vision was gone. My legs went out from under me, and I resisted the urge to throw up. The next few moments were a blur, but I rushed to his side with my eyes squeezed shut. I held my friend’s hand, attempting to stem the flow of his wound, feeling a wave of relief when my tears grew enough to blind me.

Eventually we were found, but I fear it was too late. The queen discovered the attacker, banishing him from our castle. As I watched him leave the grounds, heading in the opposite direction as my friend’s body, I felt a crushing weight upon my shoulders. I had not been able to save him. I was too late to fix my mistakes, and he was the one who paid the price for me.

That day, and that illusion, is permanently etched in my mind. I am dreading the spirit’s next appearance, though I wonder if it may have already happened. The weight on my shoulders didn’t disappear until later that night. As I wept in my quarters a sudden chill ran through the room, and carried that pressure with it. I glanced around to see if anyone was there, but I was alone.

It dawned on me soon after, what had happened. The “wind” had finally answered my call, finally given me a sign of approval. Yet, my guilt still lingered. It coiled around my heart and soul, sinking deep inside. I knew from then on that there was no escaping this spirit. Even if I fled, this icy feeling would follow me. I now know the full power that this castle holds over me. The only way I’ll be free is if I see this out until the end. I must fix my kingdom.

In the meantime, I can only hope to keep the castle’s favor. I will do whatever it takes.

To Choose Me by Makensey Vanderburg

To choose me is to choose insight.

To choose me is to choose cicadas chirping in the cool, sticky
summer night.
To choose me is to choose a hot phone pressed to your ears as the stars wink down.

To choose me is to choose life. Life in the way your lungs ache
when you tap the blue bottom
of the pool. Life
in the way your calves burn after a long walk.

To choose me is to choose victory. Olympic medals,
and the Macy’s day parade. Sweat shimmering down
a brow.
Bottled water falling and permeating
the skin.

To choose me is to choose frustration. Frustration in the way I huff
and stomp
and deny. Frustration in the quirk of my lips and
the fumbling of my words.
To choose me is to choose fear in the way I’m simultaneously afraid of everything and
nothing.

No one can stop me,
omnipotent,
but I pause myself.
Afraid of no heights but the ones i can reach. Afraid of everything and nothing,
I am my greatest adversary.
I am the pillar
I am the mountain
I am the beast.

To choose me is unwise.
Unwise in the way I shatter everything I touch, but
am addicted to its cool feeling on my
fingertips.

Unwise how I open myself up continuously, everlastingly,
eternally.

To choose me is unfathomable. Like wet raisins or gum in church.

To choose me is to choose failure, and
no one ever chooses
me.

Jayden Rhodes