Pathways
Cover art by Sofie Henschel
“It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. It couldn't change things.” -Ray Bradbury.
Every day, we make choices, whether consciously or subconsciously, creating new pathways in our lives that can affect us for the better or worse. Sometimes, our paths can intertwine with others in the most unexpected ways. Pathways are what form our lives, from the small decisions we make, to the larger ones. Each step we take leads us into a new direction. Our Spotlight edition showcases the variety of choices we make, from meeting new people to exploring different possibilities.
Every day, we make choices, whether consciously or subconsciously, creating new pathways in our lives that can affect us for the better or worse. Sometimes, our paths can intertwine with others in the most unexpected ways. Pathways are what form our lives, from the small decisions we make, to the larger ones. Each step we take leads us into a new direction. Our Spotlight edition showcases the variety of choices we make, from meeting new people to exploring different possibilities.
AND... LIFE GOES...
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Artwork by Elizabeth Wilkinson (10)
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TRUE, TRUSTABLE AND NOT SCAM
By Millie Farley (11)
Dear Recipient of this Email (The Chosen One),
Have you heard of the faraway Principality of Sealand? We are a Micronation Monarchy off the coast of England and I am their Lost Prince, Maximillium Perfectium.
You are the pathway to my freedom. Let me explain.
I am emailing you from the only wifi router of my prison. Mist is spraying up from the crashing sea below, gulls drop white smatterings on the deck. The marching of guard’s boots has become a familiar background rhyme to me in my time here. I fall asleep to the beating thumps of their heavy soles. I’m stuck somewhere unknown, surrounded by gray-blue sea. The water looks the same here as it does at my dear missed Sealand: it looks endless. At home the endlessness used to feel comforting, but now... it can only fill me with despair. I can taste the salt in the air from behind the rusted bars of my prison. I have never felt so trapped in my life. But keep reading, please, even though you are not able to find me, you can fund me.
Have you heard of the faraway Principality of Sealand? We are a Micronation Monarchy off the coast of England and I am their Lost Prince, Maximillium Perfectium.
You are the pathway to my freedom. Let me explain.
I am emailing you from the only wifi router of my prison. Mist is spraying up from the crashing sea below, gulls drop white smatterings on the deck. The marching of guard’s boots has become a familiar background rhyme to me in my time here. I fall asleep to the beating thumps of their heavy soles. I’m stuck somewhere unknown, surrounded by gray-blue sea. The water looks the same here as it does at my dear missed Sealand: it looks endless. At home the endlessness used to feel comforting, but now... it can only fill me with despair. I can taste the salt in the air from behind the rusted bars of my prison. I have never felt so trapped in my life. But keep reading, please, even though you are not able to find me, you can fund me.
The End
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Artwork by Sofie Henschel
I knew you (did you find what you were looking for?)
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eternal |
method |
by Abella Vasquez (10)
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when i sleep at night,
never to be seen, a sob rings through echoes of light, wishes fall to blackened wings, crushed and tired, cathedral choirs only weep, and i beg for silence will there be a saviour, when there’s no way back, through the eyes of those who’ve seen, what i’ve offered, what i’ve sacrificed, what i’ve cried for. how does it feel? please tell me. |
through a soft moonlight kiss,
never to be felt, as feathers flutter weakly, lifted high by calloused hands, working severe, solemn songs of beauty, everlasting. will there be a god, when you’ve come to seek, how much i’ve judged, and prayed, and sinned, and grieved. to beg and crawl to my knees please for there has never been a creed more devoted. |
Untitled
By Steve Long (10)
“Well, I remember falling.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else.” He sighs, “Look, I don’t know where this happened, I don’t know… I just… Just stop asking. All I remember is that feeling, that feeling of weightlessness.”
The man looks at him speculatively.
“Okay, I think that’s enough questions for now. Your friend here can help you with any confusion you may be experiencing.”
“Thank you.”
He exits, leaving just me leaning on a wall and Oregano sitting on the examining bed. He’s hunched over with his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at a spot on the floor. I give him a solemn minute to think before he breathes in to speak.
“I- I’m just, I don’t know.”
“Well, okay…” He looks up at me as I talk. “We were at the park.”
“Right.”
“We were just messing around, you know? You fell.”
“I’m making you repeat things you’ve said already. I’m sorry, dude, it just doesn’t seem real to me.” I nod understandingly and let the silence hang for a moment.
”You know, it didn’t look bad to us. But we came over, and you, you were all the way passed out. We called, and well, you know, eventually an ambulance came by, and they picked you up.”
“Yeah, okay. Right…” He sighs, “I’m sorry, I know you’ve told me this too many times now.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” I smile at Oregano, “… You do… remember my name?”
“Yes! Of course! I haven't forgotten you, Basil, I haven't forgotten anyone. Well, of course, I guess I wouldn’t know.”
I can see another question forming on his lips, but he stops and thinks. I let him have his silence.
When the doctor comes back, he asks if Oregano's acting normally. I tell him he’s fine, and he tells me that’s good. I ask him why he’d worried he’d not be himself.
“Well, how do I explain this… personality is a product of many small parts of the brain, and a traumatic brain injury to any of these parts can often affect someone's behaviour. Amnesia is also common, but a TBI can actually have a wide variety of effects on someone's psyche. I think there have been maybe ten or fifteen documented cases of TBIs resulting in something called “acquired savant syndrome”, where people have gained, well, I guess what can only be described as extraordinary abilities.”
“So basically, I have superpowers?” Oregano chimes in.
“What else?”
“Nothing else.” He sighs, “Look, I don’t know where this happened, I don’t know… I just… Just stop asking. All I remember is that feeling, that feeling of weightlessness.”
The man looks at him speculatively.
“Okay, I think that’s enough questions for now. Your friend here can help you with any confusion you may be experiencing.”
“Thank you.”
He exits, leaving just me leaning on a wall and Oregano sitting on the examining bed. He’s hunched over with his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at a spot on the floor. I give him a solemn minute to think before he breathes in to speak.
“I- I’m just, I don’t know.”
“Well, okay…” He looks up at me as I talk. “We were at the park.”
“Right.”
“We were just messing around, you know? You fell.”
“I’m making you repeat things you’ve said already. I’m sorry, dude, it just doesn’t seem real to me.” I nod understandingly and let the silence hang for a moment.
”You know, it didn’t look bad to us. But we came over, and you, you were all the way passed out. We called, and well, you know, eventually an ambulance came by, and they picked you up.”
“Yeah, okay. Right…” He sighs, “I’m sorry, I know you’ve told me this too many times now.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” I smile at Oregano, “… You do… remember my name?”
“Yes! Of course! I haven't forgotten you, Basil, I haven't forgotten anyone. Well, of course, I guess I wouldn’t know.”
I can see another question forming on his lips, but he stops and thinks. I let him have his silence.
When the doctor comes back, he asks if Oregano's acting normally. I tell him he’s fine, and he tells me that’s good. I ask him why he’d worried he’d not be himself.
“Well, how do I explain this… personality is a product of many small parts of the brain, and a traumatic brain injury to any of these parts can often affect someone's behaviour. Amnesia is also common, but a TBI can actually have a wide variety of effects on someone's psyche. I think there have been maybe ten or fifteen documented cases of TBIs resulting in something called “acquired savant syndrome”, where people have gained, well, I guess what can only be described as extraordinary abilities.”
“So basically, I have superpowers?” Oregano chimes in.
UNTITLED
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Artwork by Tobias Dorsemane (9)
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Moonflower
By Abigail Jennings (10)
There’s a mess of canopy above my head, in big red and yellow stripes, probably a re-fashioned circus tent, from back when they still had circuses. There’s whispers of something; something past; a hoard of children in pinafores and saddle shoes; flat caps and vests. Dressed by their envious mothers, women robbed of their own childhoods, who now spend their days avenging the thieves by dressing them up as little porcelain dolls. Pale little faces blushed at their edges, from incessant pinching and prodding. Their sin is nostalgia.
I can never picture the fathers at the circuses, though I’m sure they must have gone. Their faces always blur, to me, into hazes, like strange wise giants with their heads in the mist, hoisting little pinafores up into the air, whispering: Touch the sky, my dear, reach for it and don’t let it stop you. Reach into the stars, the heavens, and bring back a pocket full of stardust for me. Let it run between your fingertips and slither away, dissipating into the night. Let the stardust grow up, let it become its own, let it bloom and flourish into a moonflower, beautiful not despite, but because of its uniqueness. Their sin is hypocrisy.
They do not wish to admit what I have become, I think bitterly, of the imaginary fathers. Their little girls, among whom I used to dwell, to count ranks, to dare on brave endeavours to become the pirate captain or the fairy queen– I must be leaving. No, I really must be leaving, my friends. I must say my goodbyes, like a family dog, who they tell you is going off to better places. “She’s of that age”, parents warn, “she might bite without warning, you mustn’t begrudge her for it. Soon she’ll go off, she’ll leave us and do wonderful things.” The parents lie about both our destinations, both our futures. We are not dying, but to them we might as well be. To exist outside of their bubble is to cease to exist entirely. Exaggeration is our fault.
I wonder, as I take my seat in the circus-no-longer, no blue-and-pink popcorn in hand, no jolly bouncing music emanating from atop the bleachers, if the girls on trapezes ever cried. You hear all the horror stories, of course, but I cannot bear to hold that image in my mind. Instead, I must imagine them ambivalent to it all. Like a dull little office man, clad in a sad gray suit. Like the paragon of a spy, a little gray man, a little gray dot from the top of the tent, and a little gray speck from the twilit sky above it, where little girls may dream. One must imagine monotony, regular activities, routine, tradition; one must imagine an utter absence of choices to satiate oneself. It is silly to imagine pathways, to imagine choice. Dreaming is my sin. I cling to it, like contraband, a secret childhood relic.
Our sins, in summation, are regret. The lucky ones may walk down pathways; we are simply thrust down them: forkless, narrowing roads, eternally. We envy bikers at pit-stops and rabbits dodging the clutches of birds. We linger on the once-was, foolishly, like present tense on a tombstone.
I can never picture the fathers at the circuses, though I’m sure they must have gone. Their faces always blur, to me, into hazes, like strange wise giants with their heads in the mist, hoisting little pinafores up into the air, whispering: Touch the sky, my dear, reach for it and don’t let it stop you. Reach into the stars, the heavens, and bring back a pocket full of stardust for me. Let it run between your fingertips and slither away, dissipating into the night. Let the stardust grow up, let it become its own, let it bloom and flourish into a moonflower, beautiful not despite, but because of its uniqueness. Their sin is hypocrisy.
They do not wish to admit what I have become, I think bitterly, of the imaginary fathers. Their little girls, among whom I used to dwell, to count ranks, to dare on brave endeavours to become the pirate captain or the fairy queen– I must be leaving. No, I really must be leaving, my friends. I must say my goodbyes, like a family dog, who they tell you is going off to better places. “She’s of that age”, parents warn, “she might bite without warning, you mustn’t begrudge her for it. Soon she’ll go off, she’ll leave us and do wonderful things.” The parents lie about both our destinations, both our futures. We are not dying, but to them we might as well be. To exist outside of their bubble is to cease to exist entirely. Exaggeration is our fault.
I wonder, as I take my seat in the circus-no-longer, no blue-and-pink popcorn in hand, no jolly bouncing music emanating from atop the bleachers, if the girls on trapezes ever cried. You hear all the horror stories, of course, but I cannot bear to hold that image in my mind. Instead, I must imagine them ambivalent to it all. Like a dull little office man, clad in a sad gray suit. Like the paragon of a spy, a little gray man, a little gray dot from the top of the tent, and a little gray speck from the twilit sky above it, where little girls may dream. One must imagine monotony, regular activities, routine, tradition; one must imagine an utter absence of choices to satiate oneself. It is silly to imagine pathways, to imagine choice. Dreaming is my sin. I cling to it, like contraband, a secret childhood relic.
Our sins, in summation, are regret. The lucky ones may walk down pathways; we are simply thrust down them: forkless, narrowing roads, eternally. We envy bikers at pit-stops and rabbits dodging the clutches of birds. We linger on the once-was, foolishly, like present tense on a tombstone.
Artwork by Rosalie Chan (10)
Hiking Trails
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The Tapestry
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The Beach
By Ari Van Loon (10)
The beach is gray in the moonlight. A shattered beer bottle lies scattered across the shore, swallowed bit by bit by the rising tide. Cigarette ash blends into the sand.
An arm wraps around my neck. I jump. “Jesus!” He laughs as I catch my breath. “Don’t do that man, I could have hit you!”
He shoves me with one bony elbow. “Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt that much.”
I feel myself smile as he takes a seat beside me on the sandstone. “Got tired of the party?”
“Nah, just went to find you. You disappeared, and I find you moping on a rock?”
“I’m not moping.”
“What are you doing then? Contemplating? Meditating? Posting another corny ass quote on MySpace?”
“Just thinking.”
His smile falters a little. “About what?”
I bite the tip of my tongue. Fiddle with a hangnail. I look over to see him staring at me - still waiting for me to respond. “I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?” He smiles again, but it’s dimmer. “What’s up with you? You’re so… weird lately.” When I still don’t respond, he shifts and clears his throat. “You can talk to me.” It’s awkward and a little forced. I still appreciate it.
“I think I’m gonna leave.”
“The party?”
“No, Dieppe.”
A thick silence swallows both of us.
“What?”
“I’m leaving Dieppe.” I say.
An arm wraps around my neck. I jump. “Jesus!” He laughs as I catch my breath. “Don’t do that man, I could have hit you!”
He shoves me with one bony elbow. “Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt that much.”
I feel myself smile as he takes a seat beside me on the sandstone. “Got tired of the party?”
“Nah, just went to find you. You disappeared, and I find you moping on a rock?”
“I’m not moping.”
“What are you doing then? Contemplating? Meditating? Posting another corny ass quote on MySpace?”
“Just thinking.”
His smile falters a little. “About what?”
I bite the tip of my tongue. Fiddle with a hangnail. I look over to see him staring at me - still waiting for me to respond. “I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?” He smiles again, but it’s dimmer. “What’s up with you? You’re so… weird lately.” When I still don’t respond, he shifts and clears his throat. “You can talk to me.” It’s awkward and a little forced. I still appreciate it.
“I think I’m gonna leave.”
“The party?”
“No, Dieppe.”
A thick silence swallows both of us.
“What?”
“I’m leaving Dieppe.” I say.
Photo by Ell Gurd (10)
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To Know You
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Untitled
By Elina Vepsa (10)
The suffocating darkness was all she knew. She was trapped, wholly isolated from what she was. She wanted to scream, to cry, but the darkness stole that from her too. It took everything. There was no sound, no life. How long had she been there? What was she? She couldn’t move, didn’t bother. She knew there was no out.
A delicate breeze drifted by her, so subtle she thought it was her imagination - deemed it so - until she felt another a moment later. It called to her, the glorious brush of air. A moment of release from the darkness's pressure. A surge of hope bloomed. Could she escape the darkness's claws?
The breeze murmured to her, whispering encouragement. It sang a sweet lullaby of freedom. There was a way out, she could feel it now. She craved it now. She felt the chains that encased her, and she pulled, each movement growing harsher and more determined. She would get out.
The wind now roared around her as she pulled. The darkness began to retreat, almost seeming cowardly, scared of what was becoming of its prey. The fog that shrouded her sense of self was retreating too, the rust that coated her began to fall. Tremors shook the darkness, it began to collapse around her. Steadily, it fell away, replaced with trickles of light. She was so close, she began to feel. She knew what she was, the darkness bottled her up, but she was almost free. Soon only the chains are what bound her, the light battled the dark until it was nothing. Broken sobs retched free from her as she broke through her chains. She was glowing. She was a whirlwind of emotion. She let herself free, let each feeling drift through her as she followed the pathway back to her heart.
A delicate breeze drifted by her, so subtle she thought it was her imagination - deemed it so - until she felt another a moment later. It called to her, the glorious brush of air. A moment of release from the darkness's pressure. A surge of hope bloomed. Could she escape the darkness's claws?
The breeze murmured to her, whispering encouragement. It sang a sweet lullaby of freedom. There was a way out, she could feel it now. She craved it now. She felt the chains that encased her, and she pulled, each movement growing harsher and more determined. She would get out.
The wind now roared around her as she pulled. The darkness began to retreat, almost seeming cowardly, scared of what was becoming of its prey. The fog that shrouded her sense of self was retreating too, the rust that coated her began to fall. Tremors shook the darkness, it began to collapse around her. Steadily, it fell away, replaced with trickles of light. She was so close, she began to feel. She knew what she was, the darkness bottled her up, but she was almost free. Soon only the chains are what bound her, the light battled the dark until it was nothing. Broken sobs retched free from her as she broke through her chains. She was glowing. She was a whirlwind of emotion. She let herself free, let each feeling drift through her as she followed the pathway back to her heart.
Nihilism
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Fumes, Rubble, and Wilt
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A Melancholic Ending
By Massimo Patullo (10)
The late afternoon sun streamed through the big glass windows.
There's an unspoken agreement between the students in the class. This is their last day, it’s loud
and rowdy because we know we won’t see each other for another two months, so we might as well get along just for the day.
We’ll be completely different people the next time we see each other.
“HAPPY SUMMER!” Is written shakily on the chalkboard.
I sit at my desk with an empty stomach, not really feeling anything but content
I stare at my yearbook. My friends' signatures are an array of colours, pink, blue, red, yellow, and red. They wrote long paragraphs detailing moments from the year, and smiley faces, and hearts.
The air conditioned room is keeping me cool for now, but I know in just a couple of minutes I’ll have to face the burning summer heat.
Sweat going down my spine, my bulky backpack clinging to my shirt, full of knick knacks, binders and shoes.
My mind drifts back to the snow, the dark evenings and the stress of time caving in on me as each day gets shorter and shorter, with more and more assignments piling up on my desk. I’m distracted by the thought of a new year, the big fifteen, the candles and the cakes, then I’m brought back to now, with all my current memories and choices strung out in front of me. How can ten months go by just like that, the final bell rings and I sigh. I'm glad it’s finally summer, but it just feels a bit melancholic.
There's an unspoken agreement between the students in the class. This is their last day, it’s loud
and rowdy because we know we won’t see each other for another two months, so we might as well get along just for the day.
We’ll be completely different people the next time we see each other.
“HAPPY SUMMER!” Is written shakily on the chalkboard.
I sit at my desk with an empty stomach, not really feeling anything but content
I stare at my yearbook. My friends' signatures are an array of colours, pink, blue, red, yellow, and red. They wrote long paragraphs detailing moments from the year, and smiley faces, and hearts.
The air conditioned room is keeping me cool for now, but I know in just a couple of minutes I’ll have to face the burning summer heat.
Sweat going down my spine, my bulky backpack clinging to my shirt, full of knick knacks, binders and shoes.
My mind drifts back to the snow, the dark evenings and the stress of time caving in on me as each day gets shorter and shorter, with more and more assignments piling up on my desk. I’m distracted by the thought of a new year, the big fifteen, the candles and the cakes, then I’m brought back to now, with all my current memories and choices strung out in front of me. How can ten months go by just like that, the final bell rings and I sigh. I'm glad it’s finally summer, but it just feels a bit melancholic.
Untitled
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Every Path Leads to Growth
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Artwork by Rosalie Chan (10)
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Nature's Path
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Trajectory of Consciousness
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Photo by Ell Gurd (10)
It was impossible to tell how long the tracks dragged along could have been the edge of Earth, looping along unseen nooks and corners in an indefinite loop of picture-perfect scenery and desirable landscapes. How difficult it was to enjoy something wonderful when something equally as awful blanketed it. How simple it was to deem yourself unlucky to view such perfect portraits and know that these pathways were nothing but a prison, binding you to the tracks of this train, run over again and again by your own desperation to leave something so perfect, so discreet.
Run over again and again by your own hesitation to leave something so perfect, so discreet. Commit. |
The Return
By Ari Van Loon (10)
If you follow the decade to the very end, there’s a quiet little summer waiting, bright as oranges.
Water draws the sand to your shriveled feet, leaving trails on the road.
Asphalt soaks up the late heat.
The popsicle sun melts away, dyeing the sky.
Warm night settles in, like a cat with a thousand white eyes.
Shed the weight, follow the lighthouse.
The buildings are asleep. The sails of waiting boats flap slowly and with purpose.
The wind moves deftly through the streets, one final sweep for the silent watchman.
Remember the way, follow the lighthouse.
The path turns from pavement to dirt and rocks, you’re closer now. The waves rush and retreat over the shore like a soldier. You keep walking.
There’s a little town waiting on your weary heart.
Water draws the sand to your shriveled feet, leaving trails on the road.
Asphalt soaks up the late heat.
The popsicle sun melts away, dyeing the sky.
Warm night settles in, like a cat with a thousand white eyes.
Shed the weight, follow the lighthouse.
The buildings are asleep. The sails of waiting boats flap slowly and with purpose.
The wind moves deftly through the streets, one final sweep for the silent watchman.
Remember the way, follow the lighthouse.
The path turns from pavement to dirt and rocks, you’re closer now. The waves rush and retreat over the shore like a soldier. You keep walking.
There’s a little town waiting on your weary heart.
Go Home
By Theia Taylor (9)
Will is lying on the creaky bed in a motel room, staring at the big crack running down the popcorn ceiling, and he wants to go home.
He feels like one of those little kids who cry and whine to their parents that they “want to go home”, even as they sit in their princess- or dinosaur-themed bedroom. We all belong somewhere, and as we get older we start to separate from the visceral need to be there one hundred percent of the time. Except sometimes it fights its way back into your body. Usually exactly when you need to go home.
Will needs to go home. He is trying to figure out what home is.
The idea of going back to his parents’ house is immediately shut down. He can still feel the sting of the cuts in his cheek and more importantly, the sting of slurs and venom. He’d rather die here in this motel room than ever step foot in that house again. That wasn’t even an option for his home.
He could go to Nancy’s. The last time he called was three weeks ago, a couple days before their parents threw him to the streets. She’s living in a tiny, slightly roach-infested apartment in Chicago. She told him that he was always welcome to come crash on the couch, no cost needed, he only had to do chores for her.
Will really missed Carter. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could find him. Maybe if things hadn’t gone down the way they did, Carter wouldn’t have left. Maybe if, by some miracle, he found him, they could be brothers again and he could apologise for everything— then everything would settle like it was supposed to.
He could go to Lucy’s. Despite the firm belief that their souls were intertwined, all he knew was that she lived in New York now (distinctly without Ziggy, even though it was always her dream to live there with him) and that she was probably making music. He could imagine her playing in underground bars and on street corners, in love with the romance of it all. She probably wouldn’t find his reappearance romantic. He’s sure she’s still mad at him for… well, everything.
He finally lets it cross his mind that he could go back to Charlie’s. Charlie wouldn’t be there, not after his arrest (something that Will discovered on an old TV set, in his new boyfriend’s room), but he could imagine Janie and Tyler still living there, the door staying propped open. It’d stay propped open for him, he knows that.
He could always go to Luca’s. In any normal circumstance, he would’ve gone straight into his very-much-not-abusive boyfriend’s arms. The problem is, although Luca’s parents are the sweetest people Will’s ever met, they’d start asking questions. Staring the problem right in the face isn’t something Will is good at. That’d be his last straw.
Will takes in a deep breath, groans, and turns onto his side. He pulls the covers over his head, blocking out the giant crack and the constant question of what path his visceral needs will take him down.
He feels like one of those little kids who cry and whine to their parents that they “want to go home”, even as they sit in their princess- or dinosaur-themed bedroom. We all belong somewhere, and as we get older we start to separate from the visceral need to be there one hundred percent of the time. Except sometimes it fights its way back into your body. Usually exactly when you need to go home.
Will needs to go home. He is trying to figure out what home is.
The idea of going back to his parents’ house is immediately shut down. He can still feel the sting of the cuts in his cheek and more importantly, the sting of slurs and venom. He’d rather die here in this motel room than ever step foot in that house again. That wasn’t even an option for his home.
He could go to Nancy’s. The last time he called was three weeks ago, a couple days before their parents threw him to the streets. She’s living in a tiny, slightly roach-infested apartment in Chicago. She told him that he was always welcome to come crash on the couch, no cost needed, he only had to do chores for her.
Will really missed Carter. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could find him. Maybe if things hadn’t gone down the way they did, Carter wouldn’t have left. Maybe if, by some miracle, he found him, they could be brothers again and he could apologise for everything— then everything would settle like it was supposed to.
He could go to Lucy’s. Despite the firm belief that their souls were intertwined, all he knew was that she lived in New York now (distinctly without Ziggy, even though it was always her dream to live there with him) and that she was probably making music. He could imagine her playing in underground bars and on street corners, in love with the romance of it all. She probably wouldn’t find his reappearance romantic. He’s sure she’s still mad at him for… well, everything.
He finally lets it cross his mind that he could go back to Charlie’s. Charlie wouldn’t be there, not after his arrest (something that Will discovered on an old TV set, in his new boyfriend’s room), but he could imagine Janie and Tyler still living there, the door staying propped open. It’d stay propped open for him, he knows that.
He could always go to Luca’s. In any normal circumstance, he would’ve gone straight into his very-much-not-abusive boyfriend’s arms. The problem is, although Luca’s parents are the sweetest people Will’s ever met, they’d start asking questions. Staring the problem right in the face isn’t something Will is good at. That’d be his last straw.
Will takes in a deep breath, groans, and turns onto his side. He pulls the covers over his head, blocking out the giant crack and the constant question of what path his visceral needs will take him down.
The Straightforward Path to your Destination
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Revamped Road
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Next Stop
By Massimo Patullo (10)
I met you on the subway on that cold dark evening when the turned into the thick snow,
I don’t even know your name yet I know everything about you
The lights whirred in and out of my vision in the corner of my eye as I laid my head against the thick glass window
You sat across from me and I could see are eyes meet for just a moment
I want to say something- but what? What could possibly be so intriguing to a stranger that would want you to be more interested in me?
I work up the courage to pull myself out of my seat and take the empty spot next to you
I introduced myself and you responded with your name and we made small talk about nothing in particular
Then the train car screeched to a stop and you said “Sorry. This is my stop.”
You got off and the voice over the announcements woke me up and I’m back in my original seat and I see you hurry off into the crowd.
I don’t even know your name yet I know everything about you
The lights whirred in and out of my vision in the corner of my eye as I laid my head against the thick glass window
You sat across from me and I could see are eyes meet for just a moment
I want to say something- but what? What could possibly be so intriguing to a stranger that would want you to be more interested in me?
I work up the courage to pull myself out of my seat and take the empty spot next to you
I introduced myself and you responded with your name and we made small talk about nothing in particular
Then the train car screeched to a stop and you said “Sorry. This is my stop.”
You got off and the voice over the announcements woke me up and I’m back in my original seat and I see you hurry off into the crowd.
The End of the Journey
By Jiya Nanner (10)
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I wander along the rocky shore
When a glint of amber catches my eye As I move, it seems to sense the disturbance Its wings twitch Fluttering into the air Along the rocky shore I follow its path Up and down and side to side Before it comes to rest once more It’s October, and she should be gone Fluttering in the breeze to warmer places Across the sapphire lake to my side On her own little wild ride She is doomed A silent, slow tragedy As inevitable as the falling of the autumn leaves Left behind, somewhere sideways While the nectar for her small, fragile life Dwindles down to a snowy, cold nothing She takes off again A kaleidoscope in the sun The sun, which will soon not be enough To warm her wings into flight She will never make it south She will not give the last of her strength To lay her eggs and trust they make the journey back She will stay forevermore By this rocky shore, already bloomed For the next generation to find This butterfly is doomed. |
Photo by Jiya Nanner (10)
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Yo yo yo!! We actually made a Spotlight edition! We would like to thank everyone who has submitted, as well as the artists and Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul!
- Pathways Spotlight Team :) (Sofie Henschel, Jiya Nanner, Eliana Gurd, Rosalie Chan, Abigail Jennings, Ari Van Loon, Elina Vepsa, Massimo Patullo, Evers O'Farrell, and Steve Long)
- Pathways Spotlight Team :) (Sofie Henschel, Jiya Nanner, Eliana Gurd, Rosalie Chan, Abigail Jennings, Ari Van Loon, Elina Vepsa, Massimo Patullo, Evers O'Farrell, and Steve Long)