STRINGS
Cover art by Charley Colman
A string is tied around your heart, connecting you to someone else, someone who might squeeze, pull, tear you apart. You follow the string to the ends of the earth, unable to find the other end. You were torn apart and the 17 stitches are held together by a string. A snarl of strings maps out an investigation board, outlining the most heinous of crimes. The string of an old guitar hums in a corner, the vibrations reverberate through your skull.
In this edition of Spotlight, the values of limitation, manipulation and abandonment are assessed. The crossroads between material thread, concepts that suck air out of the room, leaving us breathless, and all-consuming satisfaction are layed out plainly.
Your strings don’t define you, but be careful not to let them slip through your fingers. Welcome to the Strings Spotlight.
In this edition of Spotlight, the values of limitation, manipulation and abandonment are assessed. The crossroads between material thread, concepts that suck air out of the room, leaving us breathless, and all-consuming satisfaction are layed out plainly.
Your strings don’t define you, but be careful not to let them slip through your fingers. Welcome to the Strings Spotlight.
Weaver Working by Rose Berube (9)
Some craftspeople sing as they work. The weaver has heard them, sitting watchfully in her shadowed corners. It isn’t always good singing: crooked, off-key voices rising and bouncing off the ceiling as their much defter, much subtler hands do the real work. These people, when asked (by others, never the weaver, if she tried to speak to them they wouldn’t understand her anyway) say that it helps them.
The weaver doubts it.
For herself, she has always preferred silence. The only sound that she needs as she works is the quiet, barely audible (even to her) hush-hush of the white silk moving; the only help that she needs as she works is the feeling of it through her hands as she moves here and there, guiding it to the right places.
She is almost done with this piece, the intricate patterns almost all secured. Almost finished making herself a surefire way to get food, enough for the next few days, at least.
There--the final thread is in place. The weaver ambles, unhurried, to the centre, easily navigating the thin white threads, and settles in the middle of her web to wait. It won’t be long now; she’ll have her food soon enough.
Once, one of them hovered close to her web--a different web, a long time ago. They didn’t come too close. They didn’t land. A smarter one, maybe. The only smart one the weaver’s ever met. They asked the weaver, Do you take me for a fool?
The weaver smiled at them, such as she could smile, anyway. She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Both of them already knew the answer. (They flew away. But the weaver got her food, later, just not from the smart one. She always gets her food, always eats her fill, in the end.)
The weaver is patient. All spiders are.
The weaver doubts it.
For herself, she has always preferred silence. The only sound that she needs as she works is the quiet, barely audible (even to her) hush-hush of the white silk moving; the only help that she needs as she works is the feeling of it through her hands as she moves here and there, guiding it to the right places.
She is almost done with this piece, the intricate patterns almost all secured. Almost finished making herself a surefire way to get food, enough for the next few days, at least.
There--the final thread is in place. The weaver ambles, unhurried, to the centre, easily navigating the thin white threads, and settles in the middle of her web to wait. It won’t be long now; she’ll have her food soon enough.
Once, one of them hovered close to her web--a different web, a long time ago. They didn’t come too close. They didn’t land. A smarter one, maybe. The only smart one the weaver’s ever met. They asked the weaver, Do you take me for a fool?
The weaver smiled at them, such as she could smile, anyway. She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Both of them already knew the answer. (They flew away. But the weaver got her food, later, just not from the smart one. She always gets her food, always eats her fill, in the end.)
The weaver is patient. All spiders are.
Shattered Heartstrings by Ell Gurd (9)
Photo by Ell Gurd
With a rope that cuts through my skin, blood pouring out of my body
Yet my heart is the only part of me that aches
It tugs around me, cutting off my air
I can’t see where it begins, only the end, only me
It’s foggy, my eyes see nothing but salted tears
Salted tears and angry scars, my only memory of you
Though I cannot see where I am, my head paints a picture
It paints every memory of us, every promise
It paints every touch and every drunken kiss, every smile, every laugh
Every sob, every cry, every slam of the door, every lonely night
In the painting of my mind I see the outline of my body
Vulnerable, a display for the watchful audience of one
But I’d rather a crowd than just your eye
The promises are gone, the strings that supposedly weren’t attached
They now control my every move, they bleed me out
Only to pour more blood in to watch me go
one
last
time.
While the rope tightens, while the fog thickens
As my tears blossom and the painting fades
I cry for the one in the shattered glass, who can’t cut the string
And she cries for the one on the other side
The one who begs to know when you’ll return,
Who came looking for you
Who wants to go home.
Yet my heart is the only part of me that aches
It tugs around me, cutting off my air
I can’t see where it begins, only the end, only me
It’s foggy, my eyes see nothing but salted tears
Salted tears and angry scars, my only memory of you
Though I cannot see where I am, my head paints a picture
It paints every memory of us, every promise
It paints every touch and every drunken kiss, every smile, every laugh
Every sob, every cry, every slam of the door, every lonely night
In the painting of my mind I see the outline of my body
Vulnerable, a display for the watchful audience of one
But I’d rather a crowd than just your eye
The promises are gone, the strings that supposedly weren’t attached
They now control my every move, they bleed me out
Only to pour more blood in to watch me go
one
last
time.
While the rope tightens, while the fog thickens
As my tears blossom and the painting fades
I cry for the one in the shattered glass, who can’t cut the string
And she cries for the one on the other side
The one who begs to know when you’ll return,
Who came looking for you
Who wants to go home.
Therapist Friend by Millie Farley (10)
Art by Jori Poulin
When we were young, you took a cotton string and wrapped it around my heart five times and tied it in a bow. I liked the bow and I liked you. I took the other end and tied it around your heart. The string kept us together even when we were not. When we missed each other and needed each other, we would tug at the line. Our hearts would ache a little, but in a loving way.
But what do you do when you are loved and needed too much? I can’t keep up. Every time you are sad, you tug at my heart. And because I love you, I’ll come running to you with my comfort and affection. So then you’ll be reassured, happier for a while. You’ll lay down the string, the tension will release and my heart will relax.
But since November, something has shifted in you. What used to be tugs are now wrenches. I know you only pull when you need me but you have been needing me more and more often. I struggle in lessons and lose focus at dinner. Do you notice that? I comfort you and you stop pulling, but then, you start again next morning.
One night, you pulled so hard, the tissue of my heart muscle must have been cut and there I was, bleeding out in my bedroom. Blood traveled down the length of the cotton string, staining my dress, sticky droplets falling to my floorboards. You’d never made me bleed like that before.
In my fierce anger and panic, I ran down the halls to your room. I stood in your doorway, lightheaded and I ranted to you, “Tula, can you not find a single outlet for your pain other than me? I come to you when you need me and I try to help you but everyday you are just as sad. Nothing is doing anything, we are going nowhere, we are going backwards, these past months have been too much,” I took an aggressive inhale, “and I am FED UP. I love you but TULA YOU ARE TAKING UP MY GODDAMN LIFE.”
I made you cry. I made you cry a lot and you told me you would leave me alone and get out of my life. I didn’t want that—I think you knew I didn’t—but when you’re upset, you say these sorts of things to me. I melted at your tears. I wiped your pink cheeks, told you I was sorry, and I left. When I got back to my bedroom—accidentally stepping in the uncleaned blood—I felt so awful and guilty that I undid your bow and instead tied a tight knot. A double knot. I was not going to leave you. Not when you needed me most. You were going through worse than I was, your heart was bleeding worse than mine was.
Only a week went by. I doubled my efforts, spent every moment I had with you, but you were still suffering just as much as ever. And I was struggling to sleep.
One day, we went on your balcony under a beautiful sunset. Neither of us paid it any attention. I comforted you, all evening. Once the sun had fully set, leaving us with a gray sky and lifted, slightly happier faces, I turned to you with my hand over my throbbing, hurting heart.
“Why are you still pulling at our string?" I asked. You told me you weren’t.
A crashing realization came down on me and suddenly the air around me had turned bitter and cold.
Little Black String by Liv Kelford (10)We had a string tied around our fingers.
It was thin and black, a little knot in the middle. “To tie us together, always and forever”, We’d say, laughing and bright-eyed. It feels so long ago now, The happiness we shared — the memories, When it’s really only been a few long months. She’d always sit on the left, me on the right, Because she’d write with her left hand. The other kids looked at us weird, Because at thirteen, Who was tying strings around their fingers? We were closer than you could imagine, Every waking moment spent together. “I will never forget you”, I promised her, our fingers intertwined. She had a reminder in her phone, To text me every day for the next 100 years. Every morning, we’d say hello. Every night, we’d say goodbye. Our souls were one and the same. There was a string tied around our fingers, Yours on the right, mine on the left. It bound us together, We’d never be apart. Not when I left, not when she stayed. Not when I made new friends. We knew that’s how it would work. We’d always be tied together, By a little black string. The months passed. I left, she stayed. The string we had tied around our fingers- It frayed and wore out. Time and distance had its effects, And for us, it meant slow separation. She deleted the reminders from her phone, I wished her happy birthday, And four months later she wished me the same. The string was split in two. I had one half, she had the other. It couldn’t be repaired, now that it was severed. I look at the little black string now, The end wispy and cold, And think about the days when she sat there, Beside me, smiling and laughing, The little black string dangling between us, When we thought we’d be friends forever. But what is forever? When all you have, that is keeping you together, is a little black string. 
Photo by Liv Kelford
Ode to Jeff Buckley by Eleonore Brunelle (10)Play your syrupy acoustic yearning,
my golden-toothed man. In absence of kin, play the ocher filigree work knitting together the grey patches of my skin. Play your incandescent four-stringed guitar, so my heart may melt into honeycomb. Come taste the viscid sap, kiss the sweet tar. Your lips would crust, sugar over, and foam. Play your song, the reverberating one. My golden-toothed man. Bring tears to my eye. How could one describe the bronzing sun? You, you who let this blooming monarch fly. My frame of weightless driftwood, pale as bone, would wash to your abraded feet once more. You sing to yourself, the gilded waves groan. You serenade the lonely lulling shore. So this is love? Is this divinity? For you: a consuming affinity. 
Photo by Andy Van Dinh
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Gold is Embroidered in your Skeleton by Logan Henriksen (9)Loop this thread around your wilting finger
It embroiders the walkway in your skeleton This thin, invincible string is already coiled in your broken ribs He stitched his “i love yous” before my seam ripped and my honey thread no longer wanted to kiss his haunted canvas A hundred years ago, golden slithered beneath a tender door frame the shards of my universe unraveled and he knit a garden of hope between my lungs I was the swollen sonnet my tragic moth called home and he was just the soft hands cupping the gold that bled from my pinky Thumbs could no longer find where the string began and where it ended My broken nails begged to gash the rope they called Sunshine (only because they were embraced by its rays) I was done swimming in mistaken S E A S But we’ve choked up constellations of hurt and yet our strings kept untwisting because we were destined to never change the violet of our bruises The amber strand will still gossip of our fate, but one day we’ll stop listening and just wait to see the beguiling butterflies Chewing on our doom We’ll cup the twine in our sobbing palms You’ve blessed galaxies with the trail of your S t r i n g We are the stories bound with golden wire and-- Stop. Your string ends here. Drip. Drop. by Abigail Jennings (9)Drip. Drop.
Rainwater in a bucket. Rusting on the floor. July rain is merciless. The ceiling is dripping. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow. Drip. Drop. Drip. It makes an okay metronome. Inspiration takes control. I fiddle with the strings until– something strikes my fancy. I’d like to write that down. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. I’m vaguely aware of my pen Slithering across the page. I keep on fiddling with the strings Treasuring the feeling. Drip. Drop. Itsy Bitsy Spider by Mar Nicorescu (10)Your Web,
Your beautifully petrifying web, The fresh raindrops glistened upon the silk, but in reality they were just tears’ Tears from girls, Not just mine, But Your Web, Your ravishing web, It's mesmerizing, the fear only adding to its beauty I stepped in Your Web, Got intangled in Your Web, Your sticky and disgusting web, How long will we all be trapped in Your Web, So many girls, so many victims, Like a bug that mistakenly flew right into it’s demise The cold gluey feeling is something I'll never be able to forget because, I was in Your Web. 
Image generated by Picsart AI
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Limitation by Mar Nicorescu (10)We’re like a gravitational pull
No matter how hard you try Nothing can tear us apart A force that tries to pull Two things together Even when they so desperately Want to be apart Like two atoms connected by Chemical bonds We form together making one No matter how hard I try and Escape from your grasp I find myself showing up at your door Like one thick invisible string That wraps around my heart And each time I follow the threads I find you on the other end 
Photo by Mar Nicorescu
Star-made Bond by Anamika Dave (9)Everywhere is h o m e with them.
Two grew up with each other, their minds already bonded, their hips already stuck together. One came from a hateful place and one hated the place she came from while one dreamed about this one. The e a r t h and the s t a r s willed us together. Different minds, different personalities but the same c o r e. The same tragically beautiful core that makes something out of nothing. The kind of core that creates masterpieces out of events that would dismantle others. The universe asked the stars to use themselves to create a s t r i n g One simple string of g o l d used to tie us together. The particles of gold loomed off of it, while it slowly roped around us. January 9th, January 15th, January 31st, July 15th, September 4th, November 6th. The stars traveled, making their ways to our souls, and now they no longer a c h e My soul no longer aches for its missing pieces. Before, my soul lay in dust. It lay unnoticed and untouched. Now, my soul is f l o u r i s h i n g, it is thriving. It lives in the heavens. Thank you, it says, day in and day out. T h a n k y o u 
Photo by Anamika Dave
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Thread of the Stars by Sadie Johnstone (11)Our eyes connected and time stopped for a moment
Because time couldn’t fathom our worlds were about to change You keep me on my feet, grounded and tethered to the earth beneath me Don’t let go because I don’t know what I’d do without your grasp your hand in mine, tracing circles repeating a mantra of “you’re okay” When you’re gone the balance of my universe shakes The stars are dimmer like a city polluted By your side I’m camping far from civilization We’re sitting on the grass together staring up at the night sky, gazing into the twinkle of your eyes Every star and every planet, you point to and I wonder Do you think we’d find each other in each universe? from one to the other, that one to the next Cuddling cats, ducks waddling together on the beach, wild cats that roll and tussle each other and play Two crows picking at shiny things In any universe am I the black cat sat alone Out on a fencepost, my tail swinging forward and back Am I the crow that flies alone Missing my companion to pick up my wings Would our fates have crossed and the stars aligned Because I know you and I were destined to meet in each and every way imaginable You and I are connected by a string of fate a thread of silk of the stars we may never be what the world needs but together we can patch our burns and scars You bring me to life with sparks of light I know in every universe our paths would’ve crossed We’d meet at a stoplight, lock eyes on a crowded street I could find you in the middle of the night Because on the darkest of roads and most somber of streets You’ll still shine a radiant glow You’d turn your head and flash a sweet smile And I’ll follow you everywhere, your moon in orbit It’s impossible to miss your sunlight The room was empty, black but for you golden hair and eyes sharp and blue I met your eyes and knew we were destined to intertwine you’re someone I was destined to find Your love was the flame and I am the moth drawn to you And if ever I drift away I pray our strings will untie And I’ll find my way back to you We’ll grow old together Our hair turning gray I wish I’d met you when I was a little younger, maybe my life would be changed. the wrinkles etched on our faces from the passing of time do nothing to sizzle and burn out the fire we made forever, until the end of time, we will stay. |
String Beans by Astrid Nannini (12)I hate steamed vegetables.
I hate the way that broccoli gets soft. I hate the way that carrots lose their crunch. I hate the texture of steamed potatoes. But I love steamed string beans. I love the way the butter melts onto them. I love how easy they are to eat, With salt and pepper; I love the simplicity of steamed string beans. Sometimes my grandma takes me to the farmer’s market for fresh string beans. She says that they are better than the ones in the store. I’m sure she’s right. That woman cares more about her string beans than most people care about anything in the world. I guess I care too. She used to cook dinner every night for my grandpa. Religiously. Chicken scallopini, roast beef, spare ribs. Mashed potatoes, carrots. And always string beans. Simplicity. He loved them. Something easy. A dish that goes with everything. He ate them when he was sick, too. Nothing too complicated. He ate them in recovery. He ate them before he died. She never stopped with the steamed string beans. It’s been a few years. We still go to the farmer’s market, carefully selecting the best beans. I help her steam them more now than I used to. I never did like her steamed vegetables, But I will always eat her string beans. |
Till Death Do Us Part by Olivia Dubelt (10)Elizabeth
My husband has been missing for 3 days and 6 hours. No call, no text; nothing. This wasn’t completely out of the blue for William. This past year he’s been working later than usual, more work trips. But he tells me it’s for the better good of this family. The kids have been starting to ask questions.This is the only time I’ve genuinely not had an answer. Although, it’s clear that my oldest daughter is beginning to catch on more than she’s letting me know. I’ve been going back and forth from the police station for the past three days. While the kids are at school, I’ve been talking to the police about locating my husband. It wasn’t until today that I came across someone who appeared to be doing the same thing. “Hello, I’m Stephanie and I would like to report a missing person”. I faintly heard that high pitched voice from behind me. I turned my head enough to hear everything I needed to. “Yes, my boss William. William Murphy. He’s been away from work for three days and no one’s been able to contact him.” I heard her say. “Alright, please follow me ma’am. We’ll see what we can do,” a young officer replies. I almost let out a slight chuckle. I was wondering how long before that floozy came barging in here claiming to know my husband. For all I know, she knows exactly where he is. |
Forever Tied by Avalon Fischer (10)You are here
I am here, we are here because every time I run away I am pulled back to you. Every time I leave I am returned to that august summer night, to the warmth of your arms to the familiarity of your eyes to the comfort of your smile. You laugh at my jokes, they aren’t funny. You tell me I’m not crazy, but I know I’m not sane. You stay when I need it, that way I’m never lonely. You strung yourself through my heart and through my love tying you to me, tying me to you. Forever unweaving But never running out of string. You will never lose me, even if I lose you. |
Photo by Avalon Fischer
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Keeper and Weaver by Tarian Kylie (10)
Art by Jori Poulin
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum. Perhaps someone would question why the castle was so silent, but it appeared as if no soul with a pondering mind had ever entered the grand golden gates.
Set into the side of a towering mountainside, was the castle, a gorgeous structure. Pillars of polished white stone and golden accents climbed the walls. Each carving was a different form of excellence. Statues of winged children and beasts found only in campfire stories stood guard at each edge of the castle.
The interior of the castle was, unfortunately, quite empty. Where magical furniture and eccentric paintings could have been, there were instead only smooth, undecorated walls. There were no signs of humanity, no signs that the winds of life had ever whispered through the halls, yet no dust piled in the corners.
Despite its appearance, the grand castle Fastrum, was in fact, a home. In the very middle of the structure, was a room where the stars, sun, and moon lived in equal measure. The room contained only a spinning wheel, threaded with an iridescent red string.
Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked, was a woman of inconceivable beauty.
Her eyes were a depthless black, impossible to escape, her face, a series of harsh lines carved from stone. Her very being seemed to glow, as if she existed to hold time, space, and reality.
Her nails, painted a blood red and sharper than any mortal blade, carefully plucked at the string on the spinning wheel. She paused her movements, sitting unnaturally still as she seemingly examined the string.
Her eyebrows scrunched together and she cocked her head to the side in one sudden move. Gracefully, she wound the thread around her finger, leaning in close.
“Ostentus,” the voice that came from her mouth did not match the serenity of her appearance. The voice was startling, rough, and reverberated through the ground. Syllables rolled in the tone of a person unused to speaking.
Set into the side of a towering mountainside, was the castle, a gorgeous structure. Pillars of polished white stone and golden accents climbed the walls. Each carving was a different form of excellence. Statues of winged children and beasts found only in campfire stories stood guard at each edge of the castle.
The interior of the castle was, unfortunately, quite empty. Where magical furniture and eccentric paintings could have been, there were instead only smooth, undecorated walls. There were no signs of humanity, no signs that the winds of life had ever whispered through the halls, yet no dust piled in the corners.
Despite its appearance, the grand castle Fastrum, was in fact, a home. In the very middle of the structure, was a room where the stars, sun, and moon lived in equal measure. The room contained only a spinning wheel, threaded with an iridescent red string.
Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked, was a woman of inconceivable beauty.
Her eyes were a depthless black, impossible to escape, her face, a series of harsh lines carved from stone. Her very being seemed to glow, as if she existed to hold time, space, and reality.
Her nails, painted a blood red and sharper than any mortal blade, carefully plucked at the string on the spinning wheel. She paused her movements, sitting unnaturally still as she seemingly examined the string.
Her eyebrows scrunched together and she cocked her head to the side in one sudden move. Gracefully, she wound the thread around her finger, leaning in close.
“Ostentus,” the voice that came from her mouth did not match the serenity of her appearance. The voice was startling, rough, and reverberated through the ground. Syllables rolled in the tone of a person unused to speaking.
Who Killed Lottie by Kye Rogers (10)
Image generated by Playground AI
It all started with the murder of Lottie Carleson.
After that, everything went wrong.
Violet Quinn sat in in a chair, looking at a board. A board covered in pictures, articles and strings.
So many strings.
Red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, and so many more.
And at the top were the words: “Who did it?”
A storm raged outside, lightning flashing every few minutes. The perfect night to uncover a mystery.
It had been three years since Lottie Carleson was murdered, on October 13.
Of course, it wasn’t any 13th, it was Friday the 13.
There are so many reasons for people to want her dead, but none of them were a good enough motive.
The detectives gave up after a few months, saying it was impossible to find a murderer who doesn’t want to be found.
But I haven’t given up hope of finding the person who killed my best friend.
~~~
The lights flickered out and everything went quiet, deathly quiet
Until a voice cut out into the silence. A familiar voice, but Violet couldn’t place it.
Where had she heard that voice before?
The brunette girl turned in a circle, trying to look through the darkness.
A form came into view, it was small, and almost non-existent.
Violet looked at the mysterious thing in the darkness, picking it apart with her eyes.
The darkness slowly creeped away, taking the form of a person with it, but not before Violet saw who it was.
A blood curdling scream came from Violet’s throat.
How could she have not thought about the possibility?
Of course that was who killed Lottie.
But it doesn’t make sense;
Why would Violet kill her best friend?
After that, everything went wrong.
Violet Quinn sat in in a chair, looking at a board. A board covered in pictures, articles and strings.
So many strings.
Red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, and so many more.
And at the top were the words: “Who did it?”
A storm raged outside, lightning flashing every few minutes. The perfect night to uncover a mystery.
It had been three years since Lottie Carleson was murdered, on October 13.
Of course, it wasn’t any 13th, it was Friday the 13.
There are so many reasons for people to want her dead, but none of them were a good enough motive.
The detectives gave up after a few months, saying it was impossible to find a murderer who doesn’t want to be found.
But I haven’t given up hope of finding the person who killed my best friend.
~~~
The lights flickered out and everything went quiet, deathly quiet
Until a voice cut out into the silence. A familiar voice, but Violet couldn’t place it.
Where had she heard that voice before?
The brunette girl turned in a circle, trying to look through the darkness.
A form came into view, it was small, and almost non-existent.
Violet looked at the mysterious thing in the darkness, picking it apart with her eyes.
The darkness slowly creeped away, taking the form of a person with it, but not before Violet saw who it was.
A blood curdling scream came from Violet’s throat.
How could she have not thought about the possibility?
Of course that was who killed Lottie.
But it doesn’t make sense;
Why would Violet kill her best friend?
Yarn by Eleonore Brunelle (10)
Photo by Eleonore Brunelle
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When I was 9, I was an acolyte, very fit from doing CrossFit twice a week, and enrolled in a gifted education program at an unfamiliar school. I was not attending school consistently though. On weekdays, I would claim a corner in my mom’s office to do “self-directed learning”. This included but was not limited to: finger painting, advanced math, Vi Heart YouTube videos on repeat, and Rainbow Loom bracelet-making. I had a lot of time on my hands.
During this period of particular childhood oddity, three of my aunts decided separately that they were all going to take up crocheting concurrently. Each of them would send me photos of their creations (plushies, scarves, hats) on and/or next to their dogs. The association of crochet and dogs lit a fire under my boney ass. Though my abilities were limited, I was nevertheless inspired to start my first crochet project. The idea for my project was absurd. It wasn’t a complete or respectable concept, but no one was going to get through to me on this matter. I was fluent only in simple, single crochet loops. Sticking to my strengths, I started with a chain of crochet links, then continued to loop…and loop…and loop. My technical ability did not progress in the slightest, regardless of my initiative and passion. My desire to grow this one chain of crochet loops was obsessive. Inherently pointless as well. This reaction to the photos my aunts were sending me was not at all appropriate in extremity. |
I Always Forgive You by Olivia Dubelt (10) Image by Olivia Dubelt
An apology without change is
Manipulation. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only joking. I’m sorry you feel that way. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why are you always making me the Bad guy? I can’t do anything right. Well if I’m such a bad person, then leave. Why don’t you talk to me anymore? I won’t do it again, I promise. Fine. I never wanted an apology, I wanted change. Stitches by Maya van B. (10)As long as I can remember, I’ve been holding myself together with little pieces of string. Empty spools line my windowsill, their threads stitched across my flesh, entangled in my limbs. Covering me in tiny holes that stretch across me in methodic lines, dotted with red droplets. They hold me together and keep me from spilling out onto the floor.
The pressure shifts and it becomes too much. It becomes the weight of the world, wrapped up in flesh and bone. Things are starting to break through. Words, carving with their sharp-edged indifference. The razor letters cutting from inside out. Words fall onto the floor tinted red. Everything falls apart. Skin and bones, my arms are by the door, my ribs are in the other corner, and my nerves are spread out like a road map linking all of the pieces together. Everything is red. Scattered across all of it, around us, are all the words I never said. Every detail nobody wanted, all the thoughts I buried and buried and covered and carried in the bags under my eyes, the things that have been following me for years, they’re just there now. They sit there between us on the floor, illegible. Blood-splattered and unrecognisable, but clearly words. Clearly mine. He is confused by them. Me. I sit there for a while, until the silence becomes too much, the pain becomes unbearable. I get up. I am still bleeding blood-red words and it's starting to get on the rug so I think I need to go somewhere else. I leave. On the sidewalk in front of his building, the goodbye I forgot to give him bursts onto the floor, forming a splattered bloodstain on the concrete. He follows me, but he trips over my words and we fall out. He scrapes his knee on the way down and I didn’t mean for that to happen. But I did mean all those things. Those words were true and he stepped on them, and it hurt. The truth is not polished, it’s jagged. We were supposed to be okay with that. We weren’t. Everything goes red. I wake up in the emergency room, but I don’t know where I am. I can't hold a map without bleeding through it, the roads connecting me-and-you and here-and-home turn red and red and red. I fall asleep. I wake up. My threads are back, holding me together. Stitches all over, strings strung through my sides. I feel lighter than before. Emptier, too. The words aren’t gone, but they don’t mean as much. They don’t carry the weight of the world. I start to wonder where you went but someone tells me you drove home hours ago, bruised, only a little scratched up. It’s fine. Love Me, Love Me Not by Bella Amador (10)I’m still human.
Everything you’re feeling, I can feel too I don't want to be scared of what's out there But all you do is hold me back. You pull me by my hair , Yanking me backwards You mold me into someone I’m not Something I’m not not Until I’m no longer me Just a figment of your imagination You continue to jostle me Twisted me into someone I fear. You’ve pulled each and every string, Until I’m nothing left, Just a monster I don't recognize My mirror was once something that held my reflection But now, I don’t know who’s staring back. All I can see is you. 
Image generated by Picsart AI
The Women by Astrid Wasteneys (10)The women weave, they weave strings of gold, strings of black, and strings of white. The women weave, they weave through golden days, black nights and white mornings. They eat raisins and pears, rice and figs. The women weave, but never bleed.
One woman bleeds. She weaves white. Hers by far the palest, the truest, the purest. The woman is young, her finger not yet calloused, but still, she weaves. She weaves through golden days, black nights and white mornings. She eats raisins and pears, rice and figs. Even still, one day, she bleeds. Her fingers, rubbed red and raw, split. From her wounds pours the reddest blood the women have ever seen. Even as she bleeds, she weaves. The women weave, they weave strings of gold, strings of black, strings of white and strings of red. Crimson red, blood red. They weave through golden days, black nights, white mornings, and red evenings. They eat raisins and pears, rice and figs, pomegranates and peppers. The women weave, but the girl bleeds. 
Photo by Astrid Wasteneys (fake blood)
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The Turbulent Trials of Sustenance by Quinn Wacyk (10)Fishing grandfather
Tug on the line, there is fish Fish swim away... Sad Detached by Maya van B. (10)You can’t just talk to them
You’re scared they might listen You’re terrified they won’t You are a person woven from thread a tangled mess of strings caught on yourself tied in impossible knots You will trip over yourself every time You are magnetic You don’t know anything This is what you need to learn: if you show your loose threads, they will snag on barbed wire and people. You can try to pull yourself back together but you’re tied to them now they’ll pull you to pieces in different directions until you come apart at the seams and you are strings Unravelled Loosely tied to the idea (latched on for dear life) that someone was supposed to be here but no one is if you pull on the thread it will fray and fall apart and you’ll be completely detached You’re terrified You never did talk to them You didn’t tell him anything (obviously I liked you) 
Photo by Tarian Kylie
Untitled by Bella Amador (10)7 strings crossing over each other
Everyday more and more Decorating our arms Each string fraying Reminding us of how much fun it was A home that really made us forget Where our house really was When we lined the wooden bunks Slowly rotting with age And engraved our names on the ceiling When we would sneak out past curfew To scare the boys And laugh until we grew abs When life was simple No homework No parents Nothing to worry about When we sang around the campfire Reciting chants Blowing marshmallows on fire When our strings dulled with time Wearing down The 7 strings she wore on her wrist The same 7 strings that connected two lost souls The bracelet sits in a box Untouched The purple, blue and yellow strings Stay interlaced I wish we could have to I open the box and stare at it I remember everywhere we went together The swimming hole The park The meet up spot Our meet up spot The bracelet has seen it all Tears running down my face Or laughing until I can’t breath Some better than others But I would give anything to go back I pick up the bracelet Sliding into onto my wrist I couldn’t get it past my palm I suppose that’s what happens You grow and it no longer fits We grew and we no longer fit. 
Photo by Eleonore Brunelle
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The Great Green Game of Life by Henry Patrick Spratt (10)
Photo by Tarian Kylie
Strings, really good huh?
Strings, like a prawn in the sink
Strings bad as a lawn
The green games of life
Youch! I don’t like that, game two?
How do I green heart?
Yellow fields of crawfish
Green lines of purple shellfish
Impressionable
Tramway of glory
Boars of green, yellow, and dark red
Purple grains of hate
How do I know when the day is over, how do I know when my time is done. Look to the sky and see the parting of the prawns, see the light beneath the surface of the fields in which we live. The fields in which we die. I was never part of the family business, my dad was a sour apple, and my mom was a ripe grape. I always looked for a way out, a way to escape this life. To show everyone that I could make it to the crawfish. So I left. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. I ran, towards the light, the light in which we all seek but may never find, the light that illuminates the strings of our hearts, our souls. Strings. My father was mad, he sent men after me. String. My mother was upset. She went to the ocean and swam, she swam as far as she could. Until one day she showed up not too far from the place we now call america. Her name was Jeremey Fiddlestone the leader of the sub aquatic green bay prancers.
When the day is done and we’ve had our fun I look up to the setting sun. The great game of this life that we all live, the great challenge we face. I never worked in the factories, like my baby brother Gronhold the third. Instead I yearned for freedom. I wished to see the look on my fathers face when he saw that I was what he saw in the great game that he lived and looked at when he saw me last winter. I don't know how to see into the stars when I’m running down the freeway. I wish to be one of the dancers.
Strings, like a prawn in the sink
Strings bad as a lawn
The green games of life
Youch! I don’t like that, game two?
How do I green heart?
Yellow fields of crawfish
Green lines of purple shellfish
Impressionable
Tramway of glory
Boars of green, yellow, and dark red
Purple grains of hate
How do I know when the day is over, how do I know when my time is done. Look to the sky and see the parting of the prawns, see the light beneath the surface of the fields in which we live. The fields in which we die. I was never part of the family business, my dad was a sour apple, and my mom was a ripe grape. I always looked for a way out, a way to escape this life. To show everyone that I could make it to the crawfish. So I left. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. I ran, towards the light, the light in which we all seek but may never find, the light that illuminates the strings of our hearts, our souls. Strings. My father was mad, he sent men after me. String. My mother was upset. She went to the ocean and swam, she swam as far as she could. Until one day she showed up not too far from the place we now call america. Her name was Jeremey Fiddlestone the leader of the sub aquatic green bay prancers.
When the day is done and we’ve had our fun I look up to the setting sun. The great game of this life that we all live, the great challenge we face. I never worked in the factories, like my baby brother Gronhold the third. Instead I yearned for freedom. I wished to see the look on my fathers face when he saw that I was what he saw in the great game that he lived and looked at when he saw me last winter. I don't know how to see into the stars when I’m running down the freeway. I wish to be one of the dancers.
Are You There? by Tarian Kylie (10)
“Are you there?”
Darkness encases me, a blanket weighs down my shoulders and your voice softens the edges of the tin-can telephone I press to my ear. There's something in the way you mull over the syllables of each word you utter under the moonlight. I can hear your smile. We whisper about every topic that comes to mind until the sun rises. Your school, mine, our friends, our soccer team, and whatever else mattered to us in that time.
We were immersed in this world of ours, a world of late night conversations, of summer afternoons on your tattered trampoline, and of winters spent pressed side by side. Youth tugs at the creases in our faces. We never dare to cling to it, we thought of our youth as temporary, something that would inevitably be shed, a second skin in the way of our true selves, whatever that might be.
Our tin-can telephone connects us, tied with the strongest of string. The day we found the string blends into every other hazy morning with our moms in a dimly lit haven of cheap accessories. When I pick up the can, the string tugs always taut. We talk every night, the lights of our bedrooms flicker in a code we made based on a movie with a forgettable name. When I press the can to my ear I am welcomed by the familiar buzz of your voice.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
The time doesn’t last forever. We get busy. Then we get busier. We grow our second skin like we always knew we would and allow ourselves to mature, to grow.
Darkness encases me, a blanket weighs down my shoulders and your voice softens the edges of the tin-can telephone I press to my ear. There's something in the way you mull over the syllables of each word you utter under the moonlight. I can hear your smile. We whisper about every topic that comes to mind until the sun rises. Your school, mine, our friends, our soccer team, and whatever else mattered to us in that time.
We were immersed in this world of ours, a world of late night conversations, of summer afternoons on your tattered trampoline, and of winters spent pressed side by side. Youth tugs at the creases in our faces. We never dare to cling to it, we thought of our youth as temporary, something that would inevitably be shed, a second skin in the way of our true selves, whatever that might be.
Our tin-can telephone connects us, tied with the strongest of string. The day we found the string blends into every other hazy morning with our moms in a dimly lit haven of cheap accessories. When I pick up the can, the string tugs always taut. We talk every night, the lights of our bedrooms flicker in a code we made based on a movie with a forgettable name. When I press the can to my ear I am welcomed by the familiar buzz of your voice.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
The time doesn’t last forever. We get busy. Then we get busier. We grow our second skin like we always knew we would and allow ourselves to mature, to grow.
Born to Break by Quinn Wacyk (10)
There are small strands of fiber which hold my body together.
The fleshy twines that hold together my muscle and the ropes of my DNA are always ready to break. With each movement, the cords threaten to snap, endlessly sensitive to anything that screams and bites.
There is no manner or reason for them to snap and hiss at each external force– no one else will shudder and complain at any breeze of wind. It is like I exist in a cocoon of loneliness, my struggles so distanced from that of others that the string connecting our hearts is threatening to snap, much like the ugly threads which take the place of my tendons and the ropes that take the place of my veins.
My body is a rosary of malice and fragility. I am a ragdoll of brittle strings, created to be ready to break under any pressure.
And yet, I reach and pull on the threads of others, snapping and breaking and destroying, trying to convince them to repair me. To fix me.
I was not born strong, but I could be strong. I wish I could be strong.
But, as things are now, I will never know the feeling of standing on my own- I will never know the feeling of moving without my strings being poised to break.
Because that is what I am– born to break
The fleshy twines that hold together my muscle and the ropes of my DNA are always ready to break. With each movement, the cords threaten to snap, endlessly sensitive to anything that screams and bites.
There is no manner or reason for them to snap and hiss at each external force– no one else will shudder and complain at any breeze of wind. It is like I exist in a cocoon of loneliness, my struggles so distanced from that of others that the string connecting our hearts is threatening to snap, much like the ugly threads which take the place of my tendons and the ropes that take the place of my veins.
My body is a rosary of malice and fragility. I am a ragdoll of brittle strings, created to be ready to break under any pressure.
And yet, I reach and pull on the threads of others, snapping and breaking and destroying, trying to convince them to repair me. To fix me.
I was not born strong, but I could be strong. I wish I could be strong.
But, as things are now, I will never know the feeling of standing on my own- I will never know the feeling of moving without my strings being poised to break.
Because that is what I am– born to break
You’ve made it to the end of this year's November edition of CHS Spotlight! Thank you for taking the time to read through the wonderful pieces that Literary Arts students have provided!
A huge thank you to all the people involved! Thank you to Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul for helping us with the process, and to everyone who submitted their poetry, short stories, art, original photography and more! You're the heart and soul of this operation! Thank you to Charley Colman for the gorgeous title artwork, it is truly stunning.
- Bella, Eleonore, Mar, Maya, Olivia, Quinn, and Tarian
A huge thank you to all the people involved! Thank you to Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul for helping us with the process, and to everyone who submitted their poetry, short stories, art, original photography and more! You're the heart and soul of this operation! Thank you to Charley Colman for the gorgeous title artwork, it is truly stunning.
- Bella, Eleonore, Mar, Maya, Olivia, Quinn, and Tarian