Scattered
Banner art by M.P.
We are built of scattered minds, seasons and faces. Circumstances far too complex to be reduced to something singular; we are omnipresent and all-encompassing. You’ll find fragments lurking in obscure crevices, safeguarded by warm hearts or harbored in traitorous minds. We are scattered and it is only fitting that we belong to a scattered world.
Homesick for someone who is still scattered in me, by Logan Henriksen (9)
Photo from Logan Henrikson
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Your blonde braids are wreathing
through overgrown weeds The ivory tags ripped from all of your tees Dandelion fuzz dusts your face when you sneeze Doughy feet tip-toeing across apple trees Tomato sauce freckles from your spaghetti Chipped blue nails stroking a velveteen bee |
a velveteen bee
I’m homesick for someone who I used to be When thumbs crack me open you’re in the debris I never got to say goodbye You’re still scattered in all of me G O O D B Y … |
Untitled, by Henry Spratt (10)We all have to leave.
Leave that place of freedom That place of peace. We stand in a field of towering oaks, Looking down at the water, Its shine travels through trees, Through the bushes, And through the air, Just to reach our watering eyes. We all have to leave. We stand in the home of many, Birds sing their beautiful songs, Foxes bark their staccato bark, Loons cry their mighty wail. Yet the birds will fly away, The foxes will scurry into the woods And the loons will dive back beneath the surface. They all leave. Just as we all have to leave. 
Photo by Cole Huey
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Birthday Candles, by Larissa Egarhos (10)
Photo by Avalon Fisher
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Scattered Weather, by Millie Farley (10)
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It is a humid day. The cicadas buzz obnoxiously. My shirt sticks to my back. The heavy air pulls down the vines on the fence. A slow rain begins, just sprinkling, as I sit protected on the porch. I swing my head around, soaking up the green plants around me. This rain will do them well on such a hot day.
The bugs leave as the rain and wind picks up. Cicadas replaced with the sound of rainfall. I sit, watching, for a long time. My uncle comes out to smoke a cigarette. We watch the rain together—the big tree swaying, the vines bobbing up and down. He flicks the orange butt out into the garden, then leaves back into the house. The wind howls at his back as the flimsy metal door slams behind him. The rain scatters down. There’s something unusual about the wind, I notice. On one side of my garden, the plants are being blown towards me, rain splattering the wood planks in front of my shoes. But then on the other side, my neighbor’s hedge is blowing out to the alleyway. I stand up and poke my head out, leaning on the railing. Outside of my backyard, the world is calm. There’s no summer storm, just heat and humidity. My neighbors’ gardens sit in their heavy, still heat, trees reaching over to try and grasp some precious rain from my garden. But here, in my little world, the wind twirls and twirls. In a circle. In, a, circle. I don’t know what could possibly be happening but it sure doesn’t feel normal. Well, it barely feels real. The wind whips my hair wildly in front of me. I push it back with my forearm. The wind is bringing things up in the air now—leaves, plant stems, loose grass. Is this a tornado? Some supernatural, wild tornado that has decided to grace my garden, and my garden only, with its presence? The unrealistic idea seems pretty real as soon as the leaves start blowing upwards, spiraling. |
Photo by Millie Farley
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Untitled, by Anamika Dave (9)
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this time, im begging.
im on the floor, my heart bleeding my emotions s p r a w l e d out, begging the universe to make this last. oh, how i desperately want this to L A S T. w i l l i t ? or will it be subject to the same fate of all the others; an end. i wonder how it will go down. will it go out in a blazing fire, enticing energy growing from it or will it go out slowly, like a small wave that seems to cease to exist? am i living in delusion if i believe it will work? because it feels like all the others now. |
because it feels like all the others now.
i dance with my heart and overthink with my mind. with them i could be anyone. but this time, i am scared to put myself out there. i have a guard up, preventing them from seeing me. there are so many who know parts of me; parts that are now s c a t t e r e d across the universe, living within a soul that shares memories with a girl I’m not even sure still exists. what if they’re just like the others? the parts of me that are d i s p e r s e d throughout leave me with merely nothing to give. what do i do if they deserve the world and i cannot give it to them? what happens when they discover that i’ll never be enough? i guess all i can do is h p o e that i will be. |
Pictures, by Kathryn Burns (10)
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I think I'd feel better
If only I could remember Hundreds of polaroids Cloud my mind and floor Printed images Of faces And places I don't remember taking them But they're scattered across my room I think I'd feel better If I knew there were others Just outside the frame But I can't remember If I was alone |
I ought to burn them
But this sadness is comforting I long to go back To when the monster was real And not strange shadows In old pictures I think I'd feel better If I knew who I was But I've lost half my memory And half my friends too Everything about me My life My thoughts My existence Is just too scattered |
Photo by Kathryn Burns
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Greenhouse, by Lily French (10)
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The daffodils are decaying again.
Crouching at the base of a wooden trellis whose peeling paint drifts to the floor like mint green feathers, their emaciated, sun-blemished arms reach upward as if trying to cup forgotten rain. They, like the bluebells, the azalea, and the once velvet-soft orchids have withered in their terracotta pots; not a hand to grace them. Incongruous is ivy. Her curling tendrils lace the greenhouse’s chipped tiles in celadon shades, spiralling chair legs, and kissing spring-misted glass ceiling panes. Wildflowers seep shyly into the calid air. It is silent here, save for the Tick- Tick- Ticking of a grandfather clock, its hands wheeling three minutes behind. Porcelain figures dressed in pressed collars line the foggy windows with glazed eyes and muted mouths. Pushed haphazardly to the corner of the greenhouse is a desk. On it sleeps a pastel tea cup, half-slipped from its coaster, and half-sipped from its lavender drink. |
Photo by Lily French
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Ignorance, by Hailey Robertson (10)It mattered when it happened to me.
It mattered when it happened to you. Although it didn’t. Shamefully. Ignorance. Behaviour I supported, permitted. Ignore the truth, rather Than face the consequences. Irreparable. Inconsistencies. Remain steadfast Until it is your behaviour critiqued. Shamelessly. My scattered beliefs. But I make my way back to the truth. It mattered when it happened to you. |
Confusing future, by Taylor MarinerWhen I was younger
Being a teenager seemed so fun They all seemed so carefree Staying up past bedtimes Going to the mall with friends They were allowed to do anything they wanted. I counted the days until I could be that age Now I count back the days to when I was younger When I wake and watch cartoons Eating all the icecream I wanted School was doing art and running around Teenage years seem so mumbled together Everyday the same draining routine Everyday feels the same Wake up, school, homework, bed Why are teenage years not fun, and easygoing Younger me would be so confused. |
Photo by Hailey Robertson
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Photo by Taylor Mariner
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Synergy, by Samantha Lee (10) |
The Prawns III: Revenge of the Silverfish, by Maya VanBeek (10) |
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The sky is blue. It shares the spotlight with whispers of white clouds that compliment the vibrant colors below. An array of vendors line the cobblestone street. From their stalls delicious smells are carried to you in the wind. The various scents along with vendors' bold declarations lure you in. The best! Only here! The words reach your ears only to be bombarded by millions of others all with the same goal in mind; listen to me. Desperately, you try to cling to something, anything. Your eyes dart around unwilling to commit before finally settling on an old lady selling dolls. From her shop forty pairs of inanimate eyes watch you, expectant. They watch as you smile. They watch as you wave to their creator. They watch as you take a step. They wa-
Your own eyes, reflected on porcelain bowls, watch you. They watch you stop. They watch you search for the little old lady. This time you see it happen. The bowls seem to glitch and just like that they’re gone, replaced with a selection of raw meats. The cycle continues. Again. Again. Again. It makes your head hurt, like flashing strobe lights. Disoriented, you don’t realize the hand, hot and clammy around your wrist, until it is too late. Another hand, this one cold with deft fingers latches onto your arm. They pull you in a game of tug a war, clamoring for shreds of attention. The best! Only here! The owners yell, each with conflicting objectives. Mind divided between the blue sky, the smell of baked goods, the old lady, the porcelain bowls, you are scattered. You are made up of a million different pieces and now they are hopelessly scattered. 
Photo by Samantha Lee
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Scattered silverfish
Blue on the tiled floor, thoughtless Jealous of the prawns Their easy ways and Unrequited victories Silver floats on sea glass Kincardine haze, smoke The elementary school On the glory sea The prawns are our example, our golden standard and silver is what comes after. The silverfish yearn for freedom, for Grunhold. They are diseased, but the cure has expired. Prawns extend hands of peace and yet only wasps arrive, bearing messages of discontent for the silverfish. They have no peace, no war. Only their podiums, and their own inconsistencies. The prawns know how many years pass in a summer, and the silverfish can sense it. The end is approaching, and we will all know when she is here. But the prawns will know first, and the silverfish will follow. They exist in the Green Bay, suspended for vandalism, dependant on the convection currents, scattered to the world. They will stay after the restaurant closes, the waiter leaves, and only then they will pay the bill. The prawns will never leave, and the silverfish will be squashed if they stay. They stay together despite it, held up by their valency. 
Photo by Maya VanBeek
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Glimpses, by Hailey Robertson (10)
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Parts of my heart, scattered.
A part of me rides the bus with her every morning. A part of me, forever on repeat, when listening to the music that he recommended. A part of me, I only see when I visit her burial place. All the same. Parts of my heart, scattered. I only get a glimpse. When my reflexes reach for the yellow cable as I approach her station. When the first note plays and my heart again sinks. When in the quiet of cawing crows, failing flowers and faded photos. I only get a glimpse. But those parts of me are still there all the same. Parts of my heart, scattered. A part will always belong to them. |
Photo by Kayla Nixon
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A Dark Chasm Filled With Spikes, by Jesse Schmidt (10)
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When people are lost they turn to The Smiling Man
He sits at a club, behind a table, in a dark room You walk in, and sign a contract Signing your life away Once you do this, you lose Signing this is to absolve him of all guilt for what is about to happen Now, you must play a game with him The highest stakes game you will ever play I do not know what the game is, but I do know the consequences If you win, you simply leave with cash If you lose, it is much more drastic Your soul will be lost Shattered Thrown to places across the worlds And you must find them That is truly what The Smiling Man offers Entertainment For himself And for you If you came to him, you had nowhere else to go Nothing to do He gives you something to do A quest To find the pieces of your life Scattered across the worlds I don’t know if anyone has ever done this successfully |
Photo by Jesse Schmidt
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The shards of my friendship with you, by Sophia Lewis (10) |
Colours, by Julia Sampaio (10) |
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It’s 2024.
We’re 15. I don’t think I know you at all anymore. I used to know everything. You’re so far away from me But I’m almost certain That some part of my soul Still lies scattered around your house in shards One block away. Do you still think of me? We met up for coffee at 14. (That was the last time I saw you) I felt you slipping away already at 13. (Did you feel that too?) Did you know? At 12 (When everything went to shit) You were my only real friend. At 8 we had matching halloween costumes. At 7 we played dress up in the basement. At 6 we had picnics in the yard. At 5, At 4, At 3, At 2, At 1, You were always there. I think I’m still there sometimes. Maybe I’ll come pick up the shards someday. |
My mind is like paint
splattered on a canvas. Brilliant colours sprinkled randomly: pink, green, yellow, blue all around, with no regard for how the viewer might interpret them, for how I might feel. The colours swirl around in my head in waves, at random, in chaos, all over the place. When I try to find yellow, her radiance that warms my heart, blue barges in, cold and unforgiving, blocking my view. Green follows in suit. Sometimes she comforts me; out in the forest she calms my mind, in the leaves that form a canopy over me, sheltering me from the world around, But not now. Now she blends with the others, creating something entirely new, unfamiliar, strange. Unwelcome. I reach for yellow, but blue, green, red and black appear instead. Swirling around, scattering my thoughts, breaking my mind, leaving me confused and blind. They cover yellow, consume her, drown her out. Aggressive splotches, gentle strokes of paint in all the wrong places. They don’t paint a pretty picture. |
Photo by Anna Marie Muise
Eroding girl, by Sophia Lewis (10)She lies on the floor of the living room, legs up on the ledge of the windowsill.
Her hair scatters out beneath her, splayed like seaweed washed up on shore. An old lace curtain billows over her legs, casting broken shadows onto her face. She drowns in the sun pouring in through the window, downing light ‘til it swells in her lungs. The shadows carve caverns into her skin, splitting glow into pieces. Dressed in gold and in darkness, she yearns to be something whole again. She is a luminous creature with abyss in the gaps, shedding pieces day by day. She lies on the floor of the living room as her body erodes, waiting for the day that she shatters. 
Photo by Sophia Lewis
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Through the Wind, I Am the Messiah, by Jesse Schmidt (10)He walks razed cities
The buildings barely standing Surrounded by rubble There is no one to be found The people have fled But still, he searches for them In The Wind Only him The Prophet The Soothsayer The Oracle He is called many names, by many people, yet they don’t know his true moniker He carries firearms, as the cities aren’t kind to those unknown to them The Gunslinging Messiah, as he is most well known He wanders The Lands, attempting deliverance To whom is he delivering? It most definitely isn’t God Of that I am sure In fact, he seems to despise God To live in this world is to laugh in the face of the notion of a higher being It seems he pities us The Messiah He hopes for salvation To save The Ones In The Wind I am not one of them I am but an observer Watching him From skyscrapers From sewers I am confident that he knows I am here He seems to be indifferent to my presence He likely wouldn’t kill me, though I doubt he would save me 
Photo by Jesse Schmidt
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Sonder, by Lily French (10) |
Shards, by Julia Sampaio (10) |
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We are as brazen as blights
We will not surrender We will not be ignored We are white-collared industrialists We bathe in our riches We will Kick You Down We are inventors, the intelligent elite We will colonize the moon We will shatter the earth We are leaders, sheep-herding conquerors We are prideful and lonely We are vain and vengeful Tongue-lashing Eye-gouging Back-stabbing Throat-slashing Hit where it hurts We are an iron-blooded civilization We are selfish and scheming We Are Not The Same Is this humanity? 
Photo by Lily French
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She looked around her. Everyone was chatting happily around the dining table, waiting for the last of the relatives to sit down. Her youngest cousins laughed joyously at each other’s tomfoolery as they sneakily–or so they thought–took pokes at the large bowl of mashed potatoes at the center of the table. Eventually, the last chair was tucked in and the imaginary talking stick went around the table as people said what they were grateful for. Family, God, peace, kindness, the usual.
Finally, the last thanks was said and people started reaching over one another greedily and eagerly for the best pieces of the food, seemingly having forgotten their gratefulness for selflessness and their promises to humility. Glasses clinked together and the conversation stopped for a few awkward moments as people began to eat. And so, the grand screeching of silverware against the special-occasion china began. She watched as they took a few seconds to appreciate the burst of taste in their mouths. But, as always, just as quickly as the chatter stopped, it came back in full force. She listened in silence as she ate, the discussions at each end of the table getting louder and more passionate. Politics, gossip and trashing one another were apparently the only things on her relatives’ minds; the delicious food and sweet aromas had long been forgotten. She watched as her uncles’ discussion began to escalate into an argument. She wondered to herself how it ever became acceptable for family members to purposely bring up things they knew would tick each other off—some of them weren’t even related! 
Photo by Ray Martin
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The Puzzle Life, by Taylor Mariner (10) |
C-H-E-R-R-Y, by Samantha Lee (10) |
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Some view life as a perfect puzzle
Pretty and picturesque Pieces that seamlessly fit together No rips, no scratches, no tears The perfect puzzle seems so easy to finish Everything is in place, everything is organized Though when all the pieces are together, A lurking feeling of dissatisfaction hovers. Where does it go now? It felt so much more special With the pieces scattered Ready to start an exciting journey Others view life as an imperfect puzzle, With so many missing pieces, The picture on the box is unclear It’s scattered everywhere, it’s impossible to pick up It’s uneven, bumpy, and has many scratches The imperfect puzzle seems impossible to finish The pieces could be anywhere Stuck, lost, or stolen You wanted to be rid of of satisfaction for once All of the work spent on nothing Minutes, hours, days taken For the ugly sight Of scattered pieces 
Photo by Taylor Mariner
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There, number nine across. C-H-E-R-R-Y. I didn’t know cherries were your favorite. One more word, one step closer to the finish line. Or maybe there’s only checkpoints? Getting to know you is hard, especially when you insist on making changes when I’m halfway through.
Did you know I’m being haunted by all those blank boxes? They come in groups, demanding to be assigned a letter. It’s daunting. I know that’s not your fault, but does that mean it’s mine? I don’t know. Sure, I could be more patient…and you could be more helpful. The hints you give, they’re all so scattered. I have wandering letters I have roaming letters I have useless letters like X. Just to be clear, I’m not asking for another A. A’s come with their own set of problems. I’ve skipped ahead to number 115 across, I hope you’re happy. Put in words like brilliant, considerate, diligent. Nothing bad. Never anything bad. You see, I have my facts, the things you’ve told me, and in between I have these magnificent golden bridges. Oh you’d love how they dazzle in the perpetually beaming sun. Or maybe not. Maybe the sun would be too bright and burn your eyes. Oh well. I’ve started erasing some of my answers. Supposed answers. The golden bridges. It’s a pain but I guess I wasn’t being fair. I never should have put all those great words. It’s not that I think I should put bad things, it’s just that I’ve been making you out to be more of a saint than human is all. Sorry. Also I thought you should know I figured out number thirty one. You like over easy eggs? Gross. 
Photo by Samantha Lee
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Photo by Henry Spratt
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Untitled, by Henry Spratt (10)The wet leaves stain the denim of our tattered jeans, but we don’t care. We’re in a field—a field where we can be whoever we want. Here, no one is watching us, judging us. The leafless trees represent who we are: stripped down to our barest parts, we are no more than skeletons. The leaves scattered across the forest floor, however? They represent the things we have left behind—the people we once were. Those people are gone, scattered across the ground. But with that comes new beginnings. The trees grow new leaves. Maybe I should, too.
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A Note From The Editors
Thank you so much for reading our edition of Spotlight! We would like to thank Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul for their guidance and M.P. for their amazing cover artwork. Thank you to those who submitted for making this edition possible and thank you to our wonderful readers for their support.
Hailey, Henry, Jessie, Julia, Lily, Samantha, Sophia and Taylor
Thank you so much for reading our edition of Spotlight! We would like to thank Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul for their guidance and M.P. for their amazing cover artwork. Thank you to those who submitted for making this edition possible and thank you to our wonderful readers for their support.
Hailey, Henry, Jessie, Julia, Lily, Samantha, Sophia and Taylor