April 13

“The Fight Against Injustice” by Jane Cassidy

Calling all those oppressed, all those lost.

Calling all the hopeful, rich, young, and poor.

Calling all people, for United we must stand, or divided we will fall.

Our time is now, and our time is short, so we must make it count,

For we each hold the fate of the future in the palms of our hands.

Dwell not on the past, a new dawn is on the horizon.

 

The strong, steady heartbeat of our weathered nation energizes the voices of its people,

Broadcasting them across the world as a tidal wave of belated justice.

Poison words from poison people, human goodness is the only antidote.

Feed the world with kindness, meet evil with love.

Open your eyes and see the truth, for we are reborn

 

With the love in our hearts and the boots on our feet, we will make the world into what it is supposed to be.

Silence is the enemy, but violence is not our ally.

This is our time, and it is now.

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April 13

“The Poor Dark Knight” by Isabella Bruce

The warriors of ancestral times,

Back when they were needed,

When every breath rested in the hands of those who gave security

And behemoths and mutants formed within every crevice of the earth,

The very offspring of man and demon.

Our prized and experienced champions would be the first to use their uncanny power

To annihilate any foreign threat to the humankind.

Warriors are only needed if there is a threat,

Then the threats were slain by the hands of the strong.

Now there is only one of the forgotten knights that remain;

He rests in silence, never aging,

And fully clothed in the armour of his last battle.

In the company of his fellow soldiers who will sleep for eternity,

He waits for the evolving world to call for him once more.

 

Overlooked by the descendants of the ones who had once praised him

And left by his comrades who have gone to heaven,

The only thought of him remained in the mind of the reincarnated soul

Of the dame he had once saved,

Known,

And loved.

Returning from the seat next to the throne of heaven

She comes unto the earth as what she was once called,

The Ladybird.

 

Now, wickedness no longer slithers through the shadows of the dead and claws at the light.

Corruption has soiled the hearts of men into a thick dull mush

From what was once alive and beating.

The sleeping Knight had awoken to the absence of pure and pounding hearts,

Replaced by the crackling and depleting souls of tar.

The darkness of the cold walls surrounding him ruptured when they sensed his awakening,

But the cries of the pure-hearted were more apparent.

The cries of being dragged into the center of the earth

Were heard by the listening ears of the silent Knight.

A whir of a ladybug, red as wine, flew into the tomb through an eroded crevice in the wall.

It caught his eye for it appeared familiar to him,

But gave no attention to the beastie as it didn’t seem to move after it flew onto his shoulder.

 

The doorway of the mausoleum opened at the presence of the awakened warrior of old.

He paid his respects to the ghosts of his old friends,

Leaving the gift of his armour at the entrance of the crypt,

But still baring his sword for safekeeping,

Now he only wore fine linen to protect himself from the elements.

 

Vocalizing to the song of the ancient rocks and the breathing wind,

Venturing to where the horizon is all that you can see,

He saw the sun kiss the ocean.

There the young lady, as a ladybird beetle,

Tucked herself into the folds of his clothing.

The Knight could sense the pulling of hearts into the orange waters.

There his tune deepened, and

Even then its wondrous looks couldn’t mask what was being drowned within.

Taking steps into the water, its density didn’t phase him,

Walking deeper and deeper

The hearts pulled at him,

Calling him to the deepness of the ocean.

Gone to the coldest trenches, the sun no longer kissed the sea

But fell to the hollows of night.

The entrance of where the souls were being stolen

Seeped out evil like oil,

And pooled at the portal that lay at the deepest part of the ocean.

Approaching the opaque entryway, the oily substances gravitated towards him,

He clutched his sword close to his waist, but

The froth stuck to his clothes and sunk into his skin

Staining it a coral grey,

But the absorbancy of his blouse protected the small ladybird.

The oil turned his hymn into the cracking of vocal cords

Until his song was no more

And his soft voice taken.

Prying into his eyes, they rotted and decayed from inside his head.

Tears poured out from the holes that once held his eyes,

For the gift of Melody, given by the one he once loved,

Was stolen from him.

Evil poisoned his mind with every spray,

However, the liquid could not reach his heart.

The rest of the way, his allured heart guided his movements.

One step into the thick liquid and he slowly descended into the grease of the ocean.

At the center of the pool, he was fully submerged and entered a realm without color,

Seemingly endless empty space

Filled with the evil that clawed at his mind.

The pleading hearts were silenced,

This is where they were being collected and corrupted.

A fellow friend came out of the confines of his shirt

And somehow flew its way through the water.

She emitted a soft glow that provided warmth as a guide through the oily space,

And though unsure, the warmness felt comforting, so he followed.

The evil could not taint her

For her light, given by God,

Was her protection.

Only when her light shone the brightest she bore his protection.

 

The warmth of the light stopped moving,

She landed somewhere.

The knight blindly swam to where he felt the ladybird’s aura come to a halt.

He could sense the presence of the shadow’s core there.

Lifting his hand, he felt the warmth of the ladybird crawl into the safety of his sleeve.

He pushed his hand forward to feel a slick glass wall

Infected with the glacial breath.

The ancient warrior knew

He had arrived at the center of the earth.

Without a knock, he disrupted the stillness with three strikes of his fist

And with a boom, the glass shattered into thousands of pieces.

The pieces refused to move from where they stood,

But even so, he was unaware and swiftly passed through.

Warm air greeted his body as he took a step past the broken barrier and onto the ground,

Appearing as if he took one smooth step out of a pond of ink

To be standing upright on the moist, stony ground.

Finally breathing in air, he felt calmer, lighter,

But he was the very being of monochrome,

And he knew the darkness hadn’t left yet.

 

His unnatural senses heightened,

He heard a soft pulsing,

Beating,

Like a slimy heart

Bubbling and gurgling of ink and decay.

Moving closer to the sound it grew more eerie and gruesome to the ear.

The stench was of death’s breath, and

Soon he could feel the pulsating of this mysterious object.

Its contents pounded faster and harder every step he took,

Violently shaking the ground beneath him.

Trembling at its greatness,

The knight knew what was before him.

He drew his sword

And with a swift inhale

He plunged his sword into the rotting mass and the smell grew fouler than before.

Shadows in the form of the most unpleasant creatures

Flew and crawled out of the opening from the sword,

Taking the form of rats, maggots, flies, and all other putrid parasites and animals

That would disgust you at the mention of their names.

The possessed beasts chased after the blind knight in a swarm of wickedness

And the warrior waved his sword at his unknown opponent,

The buzzing and stinging of the insects slowly overwhelmed him,

His supernatural strength weakened as moments passed,

And the weight of the sickly animals grew heavy on his body as he tried to shake them off.

He fell to his knees and felt the heat of the ladybird quickly escape him.

She was no longer with him anymore.

The pressure of the darkness grew too great for her light to fend off;

She could not glow at her brightest,

For the sting of a deteriorating wasp drained the light and color out of her,

Making her a cold and blackened mite.

Straining to find the bit of warmth that fell out of his sleeve,

He was met with an icy prick in its place.

At that moment, God revealed the ladybird’s identity to him as the maiden he had once loved

And he finally understood who it was that assisted him in the world without light.

His soul cried out

And his heart tore in two.

Where the most powerful shadows could not reach,

The death of her young soul shattered his passion.

Even the tears of Heaven silenced the swarm of shadows around him.

Pleading with the King of all kings he wished to be a sacrifice,

The knight rested a finger on the ladybird

And despite the sting, he pleaded

As the shadows silently watched.

The stillness of the bird was replaced with the color of love,

But the illness was given to the knight.

He then lay his hand on the closest creatures beside him,

And color returned to their beings as well,

Still infecting him with their poison too.

From every beast, the shadow within was drained and taken in by the knight,

And the weight grew heavier and heavier.

Soon the shadows from the inky portal were drawn to him as well,

Screeching on the way into his body where they knew they could be contained.

The stains of every person in the world were being dragged to the center of the earth,

And there they were being enveloped by the knight’s ancient body,

Turning him from achromatic to the very color of darkness.

Because it was the darkness that stole from him,

His eyes and song were returned when he gained the essence of the shadows.

 

The ladybird transformed into a wonderful lady, dressed in a thin gown of the purest white,

And with a thin red ribbon tied in her long black locks of hair.

She awakened as if she had been in a deep sleep,

Silent and refined.

Looking up she saw the face of her love

And a bright smile appeared on her face.

Upon seeing the angel that guided him

The knight grew strength to bear the load of the world,

And when it was finished, he gazed into her soft blue eyes once more

Then fell asleep.

 

The knight woke up the next morning above the ocean, on soft grass,

And in a forest away from the horizon.

The two were carried by angels away from the center of the earth onto someplace peaceful.

The knight heard his love humming,

His ladybird,

His darling,

And they got up and traveled back to his fellow warrior’s crypt peacefully,

For the darkness was no longer in the outside world to him.

They spent the day’s travel together exploring the modern world of new plants and flowers,

Savoring every moment together,

Feeling as if it could last forever.

However,

They both knew that could not be possible.

Once they got back to the mausoleum,

They could not be together.

The knight gained back his eyesight and enchanting song

And saved the world from the corruption they didn’t even know they had,

But by doing so he took all the wickedness of this world and placed it upon himself.

Whilst his dearest was the very being of purity,

The dark knight was not.

He bore the weight of the world on his shoulders

And knew it would eventually and inevitably infect her with the illness as well,

Slowly killing her.

 

Upon returning to the mausoleum,

The lady clung to the knight as she always had,

Trying not to think of what she knows will happen.

She wished she wasn’t the reason why he had to leave,

But she is the essence of purity,

Which is why he must go.

 

Standing at the entrance of the crypt

They stood in silence,

Embracing each other as they wept.

After a long moment of time, he knew he had to say goodbye,

So he let go of her warm embrace and their lips met,

But only for a moment,

Or else he would’ve been tempted to stay.

She mustered a smile on her face and squeezed his hand

Never wanting to let go.

He gently pulled her soft fingers off his hand and began to walk to the corner of the tomb.

She cried out for him, grabbing his arm,

Pleading for him to stay.

The Poor Dark Knight gazed at her face one last time as he shed tears in awe of her beauty,

And she let go.

She watched her knight turn the corner of the tomb and disappear around the wall.

She ran after him one last time,

Around the bend,

 

But he was no longer there.

 

Still baring the wickedness of the world,

He watches the one he loves in the darkness of the shadows

As she goes on about her life.

He sings a song of his loneliness and sorrow,

Hoping she would be able to hear.

 

When asked the Knight

Where the Shadows roam

The Poor Dark Knight

Bears this burden alone

When asked the Knight

What was he doing there

The Poor Dark Knight

Sees his lady fair

 

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April 13

“The Teenage Mind” by Jane Cassidy

So many thoughts rolling around in your head,

Your mind is the universe, constantly expanding.

The bright lights of the world echo the sounds of hysteria pounding in your head.

The lens you see the world from is the size of a dime, yet you are still afraid of what you see:

Paranoia, sacrificing freedom for safety.

 

A vision written on the back of a napkin, thrown away to get ready for dinner,

Your future is riding on a piece of paper,

And you’ve got another headache today.

 

Surrounded by warnings and opinions,

The only thing you worship is the radio, but you will just sing in the shower.

There’s no date on the calendar for when you’re all grown up.

 

You feel too old to be a child yet too young to be old.

Your paper soul is in limbo, like a bud waiting to blossom.

They say not to dwell on the past, but you are stuck in your future,

Putting pressure on a person that has yet to exist.

 

You are defined by entirely a number,

And you work tirelessly trying to swim against the rigid flow of genetics,

Changing a body you’ve barely explored,

Anxious to find the box you think you belong in.

 

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April 13

“Weeknight Magic” by Sophia Kuzminski

Kya

I glared at the pencil I had thrown onto my bedroom floor a few seconds ago. The lilting, sweet notes of my sister’s flute drifted in through my shut door, followed by a loud clunk and a “drat!”.

Ren was practicing some sort of levitation spell. It didn’t appear to be going well.

I sighed and ducked to pick up the mistreated writing implement. For a myriad of reasons, I had to master this spell.

One was that I had a quiz tomorrow I needed to not fail, to maintain my precarious B, to maintain my increasingly imperiled honor roll designation, to maintain my life and future as I knew it.

Drama queen? Nah.

And, I knew for a fact this was actual important life knowledge. No math magician had ever gotten a decent, rewarding job without knowing how to take the integral of a function.

So I had been told.

And they definitely didn’t get to be a policy expert without knowing how to deconstruct complex international problems—much less an alarm clock—down to their basic parts and concepts. If I was going to follow in my parents’ footsteps like I’d always wanted, I had to figure this out.

Ren

I glared at my penciled in notes on the stand in front of me. This wasn’t working. Why wasn’t this working?

This was the most complex spell I’d ever written. Last night, I’d levitated my stuffed animal with a few bars, and now I wanted more. I wanted to make the flimsy giraffe fly. I’d called in Pepper for help because our magic together would be easier.

Pepper was my best friend. He was currently perched on my desk with his bassoon, craned over to read the notes I kept changing every five seconds, and watching me warily. It seemed like a remarkably uncomfortable position to play in.

My piece didn’t violate the rules, did it? I didn’t see how, but the rules were always violated when I least expected them to be. Magic had rules and ethics. Neither were to be broken—rules couldn’t be, and ethics shouldn’t be. The ethics were easy: don’t hurt people with magic. The rules were harder: magic can’t violate the laws of physics. The problem was the laws of physics.

I had a C in physics. I knew I couldn’t make something out of nothing, but the laws seemed to me to change depending on what was being done and it was difficult to keep track. I couldn’t see how the spell I had in front of me was attempting to break any rules. There must be a different problem stopping Lulu the giraffe from sailing through the air.

I crossed out the three notes at the end of the fourth measure and changed them. “Again,” I told Pepper.

Kya

I redirected my gaze to the notebook paper and rewrote the equation for the thousandth time, hoping starting again would finally work. I underlined each part, granting myself that this was no basic anti-derivative, no simple deconstruction. The alarm clock faced me menacingly. I pictured the sweater I’d successfully unwound with the power rule, and the pen I’d taken apart with the quotient rule. I scrawled these rules in the margin and willed them to work on this function.

The third attempt had promise, the alarm clock top falling off and the numbers blinking into oblivion, but by the end it just beeped annoyingly.

I sighed. My sister could do this with a sweet sonata, quick and pretty; I’d seen it. My dad could take this same pencil and the clock would appear on the paper in seconds, deconstructed on my desk in moments. My mom could achieve the same with a few colorful brushstrokes.

I’d wanted their magic. It was technically inherited, after all (so I was saved from having cooking magic, it never having appeared in our family tree), but forgotten magics often reappeared after generations. I adored my parents’ art magic, but I’d suspected early I didn’t have it; my 2nd grade teacher had called my kitty cat illustration a beautiful banana. Next, I’d hoped for music like my sister; I adored my violin after all, and this was when she was having such fun learning beginner spells.

But on my decision day, when I met with my counselor and she “suggested” my magic was math, I agreed instantly. We both knew: I could do my times tables faster than anyone in my class and my paper turning colors when I was doing sums was becoming a common occurrence. The week before, my paper mâché flower art project had burst into flames when I tried to divide fractions.

I’d cried on my decision day. Everyone else celebrated: Mom made a blueberry cake and framed the spell, calming purple and blue swirls. Ren had made (a small amount of) confetti fall with a stilted etude. They clapped for me, let me light the candles with fractions, gifted me a calculator, and Aunt Lily, the only living math magician in the family, called with her congratulations and support.

I supposed I could call Aunt Lily now. That would probably get me past this quicker, but though she was fun to play board games with, when it came to math explanations, she talked too fast and was always impatient with my problem solving.

Ren

The giraffe flopped off the bureau but fell to Pepper’s feet. He poked her tentatively and gave me a guilty look.
“I missed the flat”.

I smiled, relieved it was an execution problem and not a writing problem. “No problem! Let’s do it again.” I replaced Lulu.

It was not an execution problem.

I put the flute down and sat on my bed, dejected. I needed to be able to make up spells. I was going to travel the world to learn people’s magic, to share it, to analyze it. I needed to know how I did it to know how they did. I needed to know how to create.

I flexed my fingers, considering, and my eyes drifted to the ocean painting on my wall.

My room was decorated with my parent’s art and Pepper’s. He was one of the few that had two (or more) magics. Music was his primary one, so he was in my classes, but he could do amazing things with both music and art. I dreamed of writing spells that could unite multiple magics, but multiple magicians was about all I could handle at the moment.

I took the sheet music and tapped out the rhythm on my thigh. Pepper occupied himself reorganizing my bookshelf. Aha! This measure was wrong, the counting was impossible. I fixed it, hoping to get Lulu a bit further.

Next, I added a repeat and a coda in hopes I could land the stuffed animal too. The notes sounded awkward when I tested them, chiding me for not spending enough time in my textbook. Pepper tossed the tome to me and I flipped through for guidance to smooth the piece out.

“Ok,” I announced, “Let’s play it again.”

Kya

My violin stared at me, tempting me. I gave in, not at all reluctant to forget the spell for a few moments, but got only a few wistful strokes of the bow before Ren was banging on my door.

“Kya, I’m playing!”

I groaned and put it away. It was frustrating that Ren and I couldn’t get spell help from our parents or each other. Frustrating, but common.

The best magicians were born to parents with the same magic who were born to parents with the same magic and so on. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but it was more often true. Skill and talent at magic wasn’t genetic, but complex magic was hard. Knowledgeable families helped.

Like my friend Becki. Both her parents were math magicians, and she was brilliant at it.

Becki! I grabbed the pencil and scribbled out the quadratic equation I knew by heart to call her, factoring with ease.

Her face popped up in a window over my desk and relief flooded me.

“Hi Kya,, she said, looking up.

“Hello,” I told her. “Can you please, please help me with this antiderivative spell? I have a very stubborn alarm clock to dismantle.”

“Yeah, of course, what do you have?”

More relief.

Becki walked me through the magic and after fifteen minutes, a few concerning puffs of air, and some exciting sizzles, my alarm clock had been forced into cords, batteries, and mysterious metal parts lying in neat rows on my desk.

I shouted with joy and Becki laughed at this overreaction to math gone right. My outburst mixed with the music and another loud CLUNK came from across the hall, followed by a “drat!”.

 

Ren

Lulu fell to the ground again, but it was Kya’s fault this time. I picked the giraffe up with a sigh but laughed when I met Pepper’s amused eyes. I guess she’d finally figured out her spell. Or something could be on fire, but the ensuing giggles reassured me an accident was not the case. It had been known to happen; my sister’s magic was stronger than she knew.

Mine was not. Almost everything I had ever made happen with my flute was planned, all though I’d also planned for plenty of things to happen that didn’t. We played my piece again and the stuffed animal got further, but ‘flying’ was still a stretch to describe the movement.

“Can I?” Pepper asked, gesturing to the music. He asked now before critiquing or suggesting, scarred from the many times I couldn’t handle criticism or just wanted to figure it out myself. I was embarrassed about it, but still stubborn. I nodded. “It sounds like we’re from two different worlds,” Pepper said. “In the third line and the coda. And I think we’re in time, so maybe you could change one of the parts there.”

“The flute is supposed to be flying too far,” I explained. “And the bassoon is supposed to be grounding, but it just sounds like they’re arguing.”

He nodded but kept quiet. I picked up my pencil and reworked the grounding part, adding more echoes, a different chord. Then I let the flute swoop a little closer to the ground, a little farther into the sky, at different times.

“Again?” Pepper asked. I nodded and lifted the flute to my lips.

I focused on the image in my head to guide the sounds I was making. The notes went just a little too far up, buoyed by the bassoon part. I let the instrument sing, swooping up and down.

Lulu the stuffed giraffe sailed across my room and landed softly on my nightstand. I grinned.

 

 

April 13

“Where the Sidewalk Ends” by Amelia Magee (photography)

Inspiration: I’ve been experimenting with digital and analog collage recently and I decided to do a photoshoot with my friend Juliana for the purpose of collaging. I wanted to get better at being able to convey a story through a single frame. The color palette is one that’s really inspired me recently and I scanned the image a few times to get the grainy effect.

Meaning: I think the meaning of any art should be subjective, but the meaning I’ve developed for this piece while creating it was the story of a girl raised in a small town who feels like she’s too big to fit in it anymore. It sees her separated from the crowd, and looking up to bigger and better things.

Medium: Photography, Photoshop, scanner, and printer

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April 13

“Hopeless Romantic” by Isabella Bruce

What love grows, what love destroys,

What love chose one of many faces.

What love is choice, and what love paces

Through the mind of a hopeless romantic.

 

What love is fair and sweet and kind,

What love is pure and never dies,

What love is foolish, and what love sighs

Through the mind of a hopeless romantic.

 

Fondness feeds the devotion of desire;

One glance, one glint, known by many tongues.

Delight rejuvenates the laugh of lungs

Through the eyes of a hopeless romantic.

 

If e’er admittance should leave my lips

Spilled this passion, this plague my heart has built,

Neither friend nor cure could heal the flow of guilt

Through the form of a hopeless romantic.

 

To embrace the truth I shall not deny

I would rather wait by the gates of hell,

Than endure all ache of the hope that fell

Through the hands of a hopeless romantic.

 

Unknown by yet so widely known

Of the desire she never knew,

Her words had run and pierced right through

The heart of a hopeless romantic.

 

If love e’er brought you to think,

If love e’er drove harmonic emotion;

How to press the fountains of adoration

Being filled with depths of the deceitful ocean.

 

What wretched love can break the best of man,

The vessel blown and the galleon tips,

Dimming the spark of life to live

Another day as a hopeless romantic.

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April 6

“Awaken” by Isabella Bruce

Want pursued within a dream,

Breath of love if one should wake;

Trace sensations you redeem

And arouse your next intake.

 

I’m cleansed with lovely hurricanes,

Pleasure of furthest degree;

Loving, rushing through my veins

Flowing with the eager sea.

 

I follow you as you dive in

This current of a song,

Tasting sweetness of your skin

Ne’er longing to belong.

 

As word of your faint whisper

Flood my heart with ease,

I descend within your restful river

Enamored by your breeze.

 

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April 6

“Downtown” by Olivia Powers (photography)

“Downtown” (photography)

Inspiration: I was inspired to capture this by the elegance of this window shop. The hat perfectly balanced, the sunglasses placed in the pocket, the jacket carefully tucked just behind on the right side, the dainty gold necklace, the dress slightly hiked up. These little tiny details captured my eye while I was in Carytown, Virginia (a very small town right near Richmond).

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April 6

“Unnoticed” by Olivia Powers (photography)

“Unnoticed” (photography)

Inspiration: I chose this title because for some people it takes a second to realize that there is an angel in the picture and it’s not just 2 shutters.

Sort of like in life, you don’t always see the people that are there for you right away, sometimes it takes a second.

Meaning: Those people can go unnoticed, but they’ll always be there for you.

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