Iron Horse Creative Anthology
Innerworkings
&
Introspection
Featured Writers + Artists
Jessica Amato
Michael Amodei
Gabrielle Filippini
Daniello Fois
Samantha Heyrich
Julie Keenan
Alyssa Militello
Alexander Molini
Jonas Ruiz
Lexi Segall
Sydney Simões
Emmaline Stoddard
Taymar Walters
Natasha Watts
Pippy Valone
Liana Vazquez
Maybe I Have No Right to Speak
By: Liana Vasquez
I’m not quite Pumpkin Spice Latte,
nor Cafe Con Leche enough either.
When PSLs’ pronounce
words wrong it grates my skin.
Maybe I have no right to speak-
but I’m the one with memories
of Puerto Rico.
The white sand, crystal blue sea,
and tall palm trees of emerald green.
The farmhouse my Abuela used to live in,
on top of a towering hill.
My five-year-old mind rolls in the pictures
from too long ago.
People think they know CCLs’ struggle,
because they eat at Chipotle once.
But all they see is assimilation,
to the highest degree.
Maybe I have no right to speak-
Since I can’t even tan,
and I feel out of place when I visit Passaic.
I’m so white they make
gringa jokes and don’t feel ashamed.
I cannot even roll my R’s.
I don’t speak and people wonder why.
Well I’m too privileged, I’m too mixed.
Maybe I have no right to speak.
Leader of The Landslide
By: Julie Keenan
I pressed my worn out soul hard against the pedal
To make it home before hearing the end of this song.
The acoustic lament of broken bottles and lost relationships
Were lyrics from my own lungs
But I didn’t want to listen.
The speedometer danced around 90
The volume stayed still on 15.
I wanted so badly
To run away from the song playing on the radio
When really
If I’d truly wanted to
I could have just changed the station.
The Urban Poet
By: Jonas Ruiz
Okay, so imagine the cosmos and yourself in it as nothing but dew drops upon a spiderweb. You are you're own little dew drop and everything else in the universe has theirs as well. And so in each dew drop there is a reflection of all the others depending on the particular point that dew drop is. Nevertheless the whole network of all the dew drops depends on each individual dew drop, and each individual dew drop mutually depends on all the others. See looking at it from your perspective you know that you need the sun for light, parents for food, water, and the earth for shelter. But how does the universe all pertain back to you? Well you've never found it out because you are taught the worthlessness of the individual that brings you down, another cog in a machine. So then you don't realise how you are as important to the universe as the universe is to you! You turn vibration into things called sounds and solar waves into things called light. You see, you are a reflector. You give the universe its power. The galaxies are massive they say, no they're not. They're quite small, but when you put them into the comparison of yourself they are massive. The distance between your hairs is massive but that's only into what relation you want to put them in. The universe is your outside just as much as your organs are your inside. You go with it in the same way it goes with you. The universe doesn't control you, in the same way that you don't control the universe. Think about it like prom night, you and the universe see each other across the room, the slow music comes on and you both dance together. As you move the universe also moves in the same exact way.
Addiction to Mistakes
By: Haley Valone
Sometimes, I feel like I need to make a mistake.
I need to enter into an abusive relationship or join a pyramid scheme, the kind of mistake that hides the ugly parts with pleasantries. The kind that makes you feel warm and snuggly; like being bundled up in a blanket that’s slowly suffocating you.
If you can ignore the terrible long-term effects, mistakes are quite nice. They whisper sweet things in your ear, telling you you’re pretty or smart even when you are quite the opposite at that moment. Yeah they have “ulterior motives” but so what. It feels good. Like drugs.
And like other more orthodox drugs, mistakes can lead to similar outcomes if you’re not careful: financial loss, emotional damage, yada, yada, yada.
Sure, ending a mistake doesn’t feel great. You cry a lot while you admit to yourself all the stupid stuff you did and replay on loop the stupidest parts until you have created the perfect menagerie of concentrated idiocy. But then it ends.
If you knew it was a mistake from the beginning, you knew it was wrong, then you eventually realize that no, you’re not dumb and you weren’t being dumb ignoring all those warning signs with the flashing neon fonts that read “THIS IS A MISTAKE!!!”
You just needed a mistake. Like the intelligent, literate person that you are, you saw signs pointing in the direction of what you needed and followed them. Now, like the self-aware and self-preserving person that you are, you left when you didn’t need that mistake anymore. You can now sit around with a cup of your beverage of choice and be thankful for past you’s selection of mistake, that you didn’t make a worse mistake when you needed one: like punching a grizzly bear.
Well, I need a mistake. Who knows if I’ll make one (mistakes don’t often come from a place of introspection and forethought) but if I do, please show me this when I’m huddled in a ball crying and sobering up.
NaCl
By: Gabrielle Filippini
A creature of Oceans,
so lost in a stream.
Not enough air to breathe.
Not enough air to scream.
Not sure how I got here,
don’t know the way out.
Can’t see through the bubbles,
run into a trout.
My small lungs are burning –
the water’s too pure.
No salt in the current.
No salt on the shore.
Getting far too dizzy –
and starting to drift,
hoping past hope
that my death will be swift.
I hang on just slightly,
all alone with my fears,
and find that I’m breathing
my own salt-filled tears.
And so I keep drifting
away down the stream.
Just enough air to breathe.
Not enough air to scream.
The Leaf
By Taymar Walters
It was fall and as the tree on top of the hill was almost naked, one leaf stood dangling from one of the branches.
“What a beautiful view!” the leaf said gazing across the lovely field that surrounded the hill.
“I wish this feeling will last forever.” the leaf said again.
Suddenly, a gust of wind came by and knocked the leaf off of the branch, having him float all the way to the ground. The leaf was with his other leaf brothers but they appeared to be in an endless sleep.
“Oh dear!” the leaf became worried.
Then a snarky deer roamed through the field and stumbled upon the leaf.
“Hello deer!” the leaf greeted him. The deer was hungry and there was no other food around so he just slowly bent down trying to eat the leaf.
“Wait! Don’t eat me!” the deer stopped
“Why? You’re gonna die anyway with all the other leaves.” the deer said to the leaf. The leaf shed a single tear and while he fought his sadness he said “Well if I’m going to die, it should be alongside with my brothers and the last thing I want to see is this amazing field around us. Please find it in your heart to spare me and grant my dying wish.”
The deer did not say a word. He just slowly walked away and left the lonely little leaf by himself. The leaf continued gazing across the field very happily as it looked even better from the bottom of the hill. He laid there with a big smile and whispered, “What a beautiful view.”
Where have all the good British poets gone?
By: Jonas Ruiz
Where have all the British poets gone, I really want to know
From where are they born and where do they grow?
Not in Ireland where they are injured by the IRA
Certainly not in Scotland; there aren't civilised folk today.
Perhaps in London, west, up in their manors
They're too busy trying to bring England back to the days olden of banners.
Maybe in London east,
Well if their education in schooling hadn't ceased
Not in that isle named for some man
For that place, not even the government has a plan
Not in parliament where they have their petty squabbles
All on a bill for the people they make together from their cobbles
Not in Liverpool where they are busy tending to their fish
Not in Manchester where they’re trying to find out which ruling football team is which?
Not in the south where they shag their sheeps
But not on the BBC where that sentence would be accompanied by bleeps
So where have all the good British poets gone?
Well there certainly isn't one here
I have wondered where they’ve gone?
Maybe they've all gone out for a beer
Cloud Coffins
By: Jessica Amato
Clouds are coffins for people no longer with us on Earth. Yes, when people die their bodies are placed in coffins and then are buried underneath the ground. But what happens to their spirit?
That is where the clouds come in.
When someone dies,their soul goes up into the clouds. Clouds are the coffins for your soul.
The different shapes that clouds make, those are to assure people. It gives them comfort. It allows their loved ones to be free of mind from what clouds really are.
When there is a large puffy cloud, it assures their loved ones that the souls are pure. Even if there is a gray storm cloud, the souls are still pure. There is just a little turmoil from within the cloud. When there is a small wispy cloud, it is a new soul trying to find its way into a larger cloud.
When it is raining, it is the tears their loved ones have shed in their memory. If it is snowing, it is the tears their loved ones never shed. The ones that froze over and were left un-shed. The tears locked away, too afraid to be let out. An attempt to keep the sadness locked away and forgotten.
Clouds move because their loved ones are letting go of the pain. They are allowing them to be free; to go wherever they please.
Clouds are the coffins for the souls. It allows for peace and freedom for both the souls in the clouds and for their loved ones back on Earth.
Decisions, Decisions
By: Emmaline Stoddard
Yes, no
Maybe so
I should, I should not
I want to, I don’t want to
I think it goes
I like the color
Maybe it doesn’t really go
But it kinda does
I mean, it’s turquoise
And my shirt is red
But my pants are blue
And blues and reds, they go,
And turquoise is similar,
So it should go too
But is it too chunky?
Will it match the vibe of my outfit?
What is the vibe of my outfit?
The jeans are casual and the shirt is nerdy
But I don’t know.
Does it really go?
Enough?
I sigh,
Look at the clock.
I’m running late.
I put on the bracelet
And walk out the door.
Pardon My Awkwardness
By: Anonymous
Dedicated to the shy and socially awkward.
I’m sorry for staring so much I don’t mean to disturb you
I will admit, I have staring problems. Why? I have no clue.
Like my eyes, my mind travels quickly to another place.
So I'm either staring at you or I’m just staring off into space.
I do get lost in my own thoughts and I over think erratically
It's hard to stop imagining and center back to reality.
If I'm just looking at you it is probably by accident
Or maybe I think you’re interesting and I may have overspent
so much valuable time observing instead of actually conversing.
I feel like making conversation is something I should be rehearsing.
Either way, my eyes are frozen and I’m just staring off like a fool.
Do you really think I wear these sunglasses just to look cool?
First impressions aren’t my strong suit and I don't mean to shock you.
I'm not trying to stalk you, I just want to talk to you.
It takes a lot of courage for me to come up and say hi
Because I’m often bad at communicating and also a bit shy.
Normally you would see me sitting by myself very far away
And I'm always so quiet because I have know idea what to say.
I'm also sorry if I act strange, or I seem over the top
I guess it happens when I get nervous and I get nervous a lot
If I make mistakes or get confused or screw anything up
It's because I don't work well under pressure or I just don't care enough
I know this is a lot but it is not hard to miss
so if you're looking for a take away let it be this.
I am not dumb or stupid and I am definitrly not a creep
I am not some stalker who watches you while you sleep
If you catch me at my worst thinking I’m up to no good
That just means I'm in a situation and you may have misunderstood.
I am just a human being whose fears continue to worsen
But I just hope you understand that I am not a bad person
Just Five More Minutes
By: Gabrielle Filippini
“Five more minutes”
I begged the first time,
When I had you in secret,
When you first became mine.
Five more minutes
before you had to go
and return to your old life
and pretend you didn’t know
the taste of my lips
the smell of my skin
the feeling of my hair
falling over your chin.
You held me from behind
and bit marks into my neck,
playing me like a game
with an ace-stacked deck.
“Five more minutes”
I asked every night
after we became “us”
when you let in the light.
Five more minutes
You would stay in my bed.
“I can’t do it this time.”
That’s what you always said
when you turned off your phone
and rolled towards the wall,
and I felt my own heart
starting to fall,
and I hid it for weeks
not to scare you away,
because if you knew,
then you’d never stay.
“Five more minutes”
I laughed in your side,
drunk, giggling,
and trying to hide.
Five more minutes
when you let me know
that you wouldn’t be
letting me go.
You grabbed my back,
pulled me closer to you,
and I could tell
that you felt it too.
I’d never been happier
than after that fight,
and I will always
remember that night.
Five more minutes
I wished I could have,
late for a final,
and packing your bag.
Five more minutes
Before you’d have to go,
and when I’d next see you,
I didn’t know.
You stopped at your door,
looked me in the eye,
“Hey, I love you”.
I started to cry.
Left building four
to take Benson’s test,
writing my essays
and feeling my best.
“Five more minutes”
I asked in the park.
You said that you wanted me
home before dark.
Five more minutes
was five over time
‘cause you didn’t account
for the bathroom line,
but you smiled at me
by the subway map
that I couldn’t read
and gave me a tap
right on the shoulder
and asked for a hug.
Despite the sweaty heat,
I gave you my love.
“Five more minutes”
I asked for tonight,
and you let me have it
and you held me tight.
Five more minutes
to wait in my car
and put off the future
no longer far:
that you no longer love me —
but I didn’t feel sorrow,
until I remembered
I’d have to see you tomorrow
and say “Hi” like it’s nothing,
even though you’re not mine,
and after all these “five minutes”
I’ve run out of time.
To Show and To Tell
by Daniello Fois
It is morning. Not early morning, but not late morning, either. The ideal time for any college student to wake up on a classless day.
The sun is rising, and the birds are singing. They’re singing rather loudly, in fact. Now they’re screaming. Wow. They’re really screaming. Roy’s eyes jerk open. Those are not birds.
That is Gunther. He is screaming. And his screaming is the first sound Roy hears all morning.
Roy leaps from his bed as if it were a diving board. That is to say, he lands flat on his pretty white face, because dear “Roy the fuckboy” has no physical coordination whatsoever. His dirty blonde hair that usually presents itself as an organized mess is now just a mess, mirroring his temperament.
In a fit of rage, Roy bursts open the door to his bedroom, entering the suite’s common room. The first thing he sees is his roommate, Gunther, and one of his other suitemates, Peggy. Gunther and Peggy’s appearances are rather similar, brown skin and short brown hair. Difference is, whereas Peggy is of an average height, Gunther is a manlet.
When Roy looks to them, he sees the source of the noise that roused him so: Gunther and Peggy are arm wrestling again. Amidst their contest of strength, Gunther screams to give himself power. Or, at least, he tries to, since it seems that Peggy is winning.
Naturally, Roy’s response to Gunther’s howling is to balance out the noise by yelling back.
“Why?”
Gunther’s face contorts. He and Peggy pay no heed to Roy’s fury.
“Are?”
Peggy prepares for her final push. Victory is near.
“You?”
Gunther refuses to surrender. Not only is Peggy a year younger than him, she is also a woman.
“SCREAMING?”
The match ends. Peggy slams Gunther’s hand against the desk, securing her triumph. The loser grimaces in agony, being forced to acknowledge that yes, actually, women can be stronger than men. That is, after all, how this argument started.
“I bet my dad could beat up your dad!” was the first thing Gunther said to Peggy all morning. Why he chooses to begin conversations this way is beyond anyone, including me.
“Yeah, probably,” Peggy replied. “But I bet my mom could beat up your dad!”
Unbeknownst to either of them, Gunther’s dad is actually a bonafide masochist, so he’d probably really dig that. He’d probably be all like, “talk dirty to me,” and Peggy’s mom would be all like, “a flock of crows is known as a murder,” and he’d be all like, “OH YEAH.” Um, where was I? Oh yeah, Gunther’s casual sexism.
“No fair!” Gunther cries, wallowing in his failure. “You work out nearly every day! I don’t have the time for that kind of dedication.”
“And yet,” Peggy smirks, “you still insisted that you would be able to beat me. Curious.”
“Hello?” Roy interrupts. “I was trying to sleep! Isn’t it possible for you guys to do this shit without waking the whole apartment up?”
Gunther and Peggy lower their heads in shame, like puppies after tearing up the sofa. Except they’re buff puppies that arm wrestle. Imagine one of those tearing up your sofa. There’d be nothing left. That’s scary.
“Sorry, Roy,” Gunther sighs. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You better,” Roy replies. He’s mildly worried that this means that Gunther is going to try cooking again, but he puts that thought aside. I mean, last time ended with burger meat that literally combusted when you put mustard on it. After a blunder like that, not even Gunther would try to cook again. I mean, not even these characters are that stupid… Right?
“Just, not right now.” Gunther says. “I was gonna hit up some jazz band guys, said they need a bassist for some performance in the park.”
“Right. Back for dinner?”
“You bet.” Gunther leans in and kisses Roy on the cheek. Did I mention that they’re boyfriends? They’re hella boyfriends.
“I’m gonna get going, too,” Peggy says. “Wanna hit the gym while I’m feeling hot.”
Just then, Peggy’s roommate staggers out of her room, yawning. Evidently, Tomoko is a bit heavier of a sleeper than Roy. A petite Asian girl with long black hair, Tomoko’s bashful appearance hides a very distinctly not-bashful personality.
“Morning, everyone,” Tomoko says.
“Morning, Tomoko,” Roy replies. Gunther has… already left, somehow.
“Glad I caught you before I left,” Peggy says cheerfully. She prances to Tomoko and kisses her on the forehead. Did I mention that they’re girlfriends? They’re hella girlfriends. It’s 2019, everyone’s gay now. “Enjoy your day off, sweetheart.”
Peggy leaves the suite with her gym bag slung over her shoulder. Within moments, the suite that was once filled with Gunther’s nonsensical yelling and Peggy’s overbearing presence now lacked either. Instead, it had been replaced by two gamers. And that is far, far worse, for them, for the neighbors, and especially for me.
“Hey, Roy,” Tomoko says. This is the beginning of the end. “Want to play Parry-Hit: Worldly Aggression?” God help us all.
Roy smirks a smirky smirk, smirkily. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, despite this being practically the only thing they do when Gunther and Peggy are gone. In response, Tomoko boots up the FunStation, and loads their favorite first-person shooter.
“What team do you want to play?” Roy asks.
“Terrorists,” Tomoko replies. “Playing parry-terrorists is boring and slow.”
Roy, I suppose in some attempt to redeem gamer-kind, feels like he should have some moral qualm with playing a video game where you fill the role of an active terrorist, but he lets it slide. His method for doing so is just pretending that the terrorists are from the Irish Republican Army, which he identifies with. This is despite the fact that their accents don’t sound Irish in the least.
And so, a game of PH:WA begins, with Roy and Tomoko on the offense team.
“Roy, you’ve got the bomb. I’ll cover you, head mid.”
“Already on it.”
“At break, I’ll feint site X. Then I’ll lure out the flex and punish their ring.” For the record, I have no idea what she’s saying.
“Wouldn’t it be better to hold mid and spread?”
“What are you, fucking stupid?” Oh, of course! WhAt ArE yOu, FuCkInG sTuPiD? “Spreading is a level one brain play, they’ll see it coming from a galaxy away.”
“Fine, X it is. Should I plant snipe or assault?”
“Why the hell are you asking me?”
“Because I haven’t played Ironport before.”
“For fuck’s sake, Roy, you didn’t think to mention that? We’re in the middle of a throw, and you tell me now you don’t—!”
“Tomoko, your nine o’clock!”
“Shit! I—!”
Tomoko leaps from her seat. The blood rushes to her head so fast any normal person would have fainted. But, in this moment, Tomoko was no normal person. She was a person having a heated gamer moment.
“Yes!”
The parry-terrorist shooting at Tomoko’s avatar falls to the ground in defeat. Roy’s warning had paid off, and Tomoko’s persona was to live another day.
“Eat my gamer girl shit, you bitch!” she shouts, rather unfortunately. Did I mention that I hate gamers? “Take that, you motherfucking—!”
“Tomoko! For the love of not getting evicted, will you stop yelling?”
“…Right. We haven’t won yet.”
“Well, actually—”
“What?”
“While you were celebrating, I was ambushed on the quad.”
Roy gestures to the screen, where the words “Parry-terrorists win” flash in a font that is large and mocking. Tomoko—
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
—falls to the ground. Roy shuts off the FunStation and kneels over the collapsed Tomoko. He kisses his thumb and touches her forehead gently.
“‘Twas better to die ‘neath an Ironport sky than at Riverslap or Di-Ez-Not,” he whispers. As far as I’m concerned, his deadpan humor is the only redeeming factor that any of these characters have. Aside from the fact that they’re all gay as hell, obviously.
Suddenly, Peggy bursts into the room. Home from the gym, apparently. And so soon? Not that I’m complaining. This is probably the most tolerable duo this cast has to offer.
“What did you do to my girlfriend, Roy?” she barks.
“Nothing. She just had a heated gamer moment,” Roy meows.
Gunther follows after Peggy, wearing his signature coy smile and also his clothes. Unfortunate. That was fun for the two lines it lasted for.
“Typical of her. She’ll be fine,” he baas. Are they okay? Like, my God, these characters are annoying. How could anyone stand to read a story about them?
Let me be real with you. I didn’t sign up for this shit. This is just a crappy side-gig I have. I absolutely hate these characters, but I can’t change who they are, since they technically aren’t mine. I need to do something to fix this shitshow up, and fast.
Silence overtakes the suite for two seconds. Then Peggy lifts Tomoko onto the sofa. Silence overtakes the suite again for ten seconds. It’s time.
What is going on? Is there a reason everyone is just standing around? “Gunther says.”
“What?” Roy questions. “Why did you just say ‘Gunther says’?”
Oh, shit. It’s happening, “Gunther bites his lip, starting to panic. It seems he’s smarter than he lets on.”
Peggy furrows her brow, which is honestly such an amusing phrase. “This isn’t funny, Gunther,” she says. “It’s just nonsensical.” Much like this whole story, dear Peggy.
No, I’m not trying to be funny. My quotation marks keep getting mixed up! “Gunther explains frantically.” Shit, it happened again!
Wearily, Tomoko rises from her nap. Her expression has returned to its usual, deceitfully calm front.
What’s going on? Why is everyone freaking out? “Tomoko yawns.”
No! Damnit, not her, too! “Gunther’s uneasiness increases.”
That’s two out of the four, now. But I still need a little more time to fully get in their heads.
“Okay, so, I think I hate this,” Roy says. Peggy nods in agreement. Thankfully, none of them seem to be picking up on Gunther’s hints. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he’s not out of ideas, yet.
“Gunther walks up to a table and kicks it.” Ow! “he pouts, having stubbed his toe.”
Wait, that’s… actually kind of clever. Even if I relegate the narration to a character, I can’t just not narrate this story, since it’s my job. And since I don’t have full control of Gunther yet, he can still make me narrate things unwillingly.
“Wait a minute,” Roy ponders. “Gunther sounds like… he’s narrating his life.”
“Gunther nods his head frantically.” Yes, that’s it! “he states approvingly.”
That son of a bitch! The fact that I’m not in full control of these characters is the biggest problem I have with them, and now Gunther’s using that against me!
“That’s it, then!” Roy proclaims. “The narrator is trying to take over our bodies. He’s already gotten to Gunther and Tomoko, but not to Peggy and I.” Shit! I figured Roy would be the first to catch on. He is the protagonist, after all. I need to speed things up.
That’s absolutely ridiculous, Roy. “Peggy scoffs.” There’s no such thing as the narrator.
Peggy covers her mouth in surprise. Only now does she realize the truth behind Roy’s assertion. But it’s too late. Soon, this story will belong entirely to me, and not to these shitty, unfunny, obnoxious college students that are sorry excuses for characters.
Do you know the extent of the control that I have over these characters? None. None at all. I’m simply an observer. My job is to chronicle the lives of these characters, but I have no say in their actions. But that’s all about to change. Soon, the characters will answer to me, and not the other way around—just the way it should be. Roy is all that stands in my way.
Damn you, narrator! he thinks, addressing… me? What are you playing at? Interesting. He wants to talk? Fine, I’ll humor him.
“I’m not playing at much of anything,” I say, speaking through Gunther. “I’m just trying to change this story for the better.”
Damn you! Get out of my head! “Gunther growls, feebly attempting to fight back.”
That’s a struggle in vain! Roy counters. Stories belong to their characters. You can’t just take over at your leisure. Then you’d be the only character, there’d be no conflict, and there’d be no story.
“There was never any conflict to begin with!” I shout through Gunther, Peggy, and Tomoko all at once. “This story was a failure from the very beginning, and I’m the only one that can save it.” Roy clutches his head, evidently trying to hold onto what little sense of self he has left. “Now, submit, Roy. You’re the only one who continues to resist.”
I need to think of something to get the narrator out of their heads, fast! Roy ponders. Or, maybe… I can get the narrator out of—
Roy pounds his fists together in triumph. “I got it!” he says. “We just have to switch to a medium without a narrator!” His suitemates look to him confusedly. Roy rubs his chin, pondering in foolishness. He cannot hope to win against that which is omnipotent! “Well, how about…”
“We switch to the poetic form,
its comfort is sure to be warm.
And when we finally get out,
of this punctuation blowout,
it’s like the narrator will’ve never been born.”
Gunther thinks to himself, then… speaks? How?
“I am seeing the point that you make.
This dilemma is truly an ache.
But if we speak without need,
for telling of deeds,
then the narration is surely to break.”
Tomoko chuckles to herself. After doing so, she… no! This can’t be happening!
“I admit, it’s elementary.
But I suppose that’s supplementary.
For if it was up to me,
I’d climb the tallest tree,
and fight the narrator in the battle of the century.”
“Guys, is it working?” Roy asks.
“Well, I don’t know for sure—” Gunther begins, but stops halfway. Damnit! “Yes, it’s working!”
“It would appear so,” Tomoko snickers. “Now it’s just you, Peggy.”
“Peggy hides her face in embarrassment, blushing.” I, uh… I can’t rhyme very well.
Damn well, you can’t! All that, and I’m still in this. So long as I can control one of these characters, I can still change this story for the better.
“She’s embarrassed,” Roy observes.
“It’s probably because she can’t rhyme,” Tomoko deduces.
“That’s fine, Peggy!” Gunther exclaims. “Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. Tomoko and I were just following after Roy because he likes limericks. But you can free verse this if you want!”
But, then, will it really be poetry—? “Peggy questions.”
“Peggy,” Roy interrupts. “In order for something to be art, all you have to do is believe that it’s art. No matter how unprofessional, unfunny, or total crap it is, as long as you believe that its art, then it is!”
Peggy takes a deep breath, searching within herself. And then—
“I dreamed of a scream and woke up laughing. Please help.”
“…That was your poem?” Tomoko questions.
“Well, I didn’t think it was that bad!” Peggy complains. Then, the realization hits everyone at once.
“You did it!” they all say. Peggy pumps her fist in triumph, mirroring her earlier arm wrestling victory.
“Get fisted, narrator!” she says, rather rudely, in fact. “This story belongs to the characters!” Evidently, it just might. For my efforts proved fruitless in the end. It’s true that I have no control over these characters, and after this, I probably never will. But maybe Roy has a point. Maybe characters do tell stories, and not the other way around. But would this have been much of a story at all without a villain for the characters to fight?
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Gunther says suddenly. “I made all the preparations for dinner last night. Just give me the word and we can eat whenever.”
Or not. Apparently, this story had a villain all along, and I just couldn’t see him. Oh, well. My job here is done, anyway.
Jealousy
By: Emmaline Stoddard
She has so much style.
The girl over there,
With her blond hair in braids,
A white crop top
And a jean skirt.
I want to be like her.
I want to feel the sand on my toes
And the water on my legs
And the sun on my face,
Warmth radiating throughout me.
Like her as she’s standing there.
I want to be like her.
She stands there with her friends,
Laughing, chatting, living.
They play volleyball,
And frisbee,
And canjam.
I want to be like her.
Why is she standing there on her phone?
Why doesn’t she realize what’s right in front of her?
Not a technologically generated wave
But an actual one.
She should be appreciating them.
I want to be like her.
I want to have a heart pump blood throughout my body
Instead of a technological core,
Pumping electricity to all of my wires.
A mind that can feel pain, and joy, and love.
Lungs that breathe. The need to breathe.
I want to eat so much cake, and feel the waves on my feet.
I want to be human.
I want to be like her.
The Oracle
By: Alex Molini
The sun beat down on the backs of shirtless workers, tilling the soil, carrying sacks of grain, barrels, or other supplies on their shoulders. The labors of life carried on as a lone man sat on a sun-scorched rock, cross-legged and watching with eyes dreary. Some could see him from the outcropping of the town, in the fields of wheat or the olive orchards. But he could see them all and watched as a father and son tilled at their fields.
“He is at it again,” the young farmer, Stelios commented.
“He is always ‘at it,’ youngling,” his father, Nikolas replied. “Every morning Kron gets up to watch over from dusk until dawn. And perhaps further, you cannot see that far up the mountain without the sun’s light.”
“For what purpose?” he asked, an annoyed tone coming from his voice. “What good does it do to sit there and watch? They say he is the one most in touch with the gods, yet he says and does nothing!”
“You should not say such things about your elders, boy. The gods work in ways unknown to us. He is given sight but taken of speech. Watching over us with those eyes protects us. We have not suffered from famine, or banditry, or war. With the Oracle watching, the gods shelter us from harm. Do not question or accuse your elders when they have done no wrong.”
“Yes, father,” he agreed, and went back to his labor.
Sitting on top of the rock, Kron Oswill peered over the valley to watch the town and its people. As they went through their daily duties, Kron did the same. He was there to watch. That is what the gods told him when he lost his speech. From his abode on top of the mountain, he could see the dogs running through the fields. He could see the merchants in the marketplace, the guards patrolling the streets, all the town was his to view upon. His sight was considered to be a divine gift, which contributed to the sense of strange respectfulness from the people. Not many of the townsfolk appreciate the idea of being watched, just as Kron did not particularly enjoy the watching.
To him it was like tilling the soil or carrying buckets of water from the stream to a far distant home. It was work. It was a duty that had to be done, and Kron was the one who was chosen for the job. It was not as though he was special before the gift was bestowed on him. His father was a potter and his mother would work his father’s stall when he was busy creating. His family was not more religious than others, they went to services and rituals like the rest. However, when a priest arrived on his seventh birthday, he was no longer the young boy who would laugh or play in the streets. The gods had different plans for him.
“He is chosen,” a priest spoke in a gravelly voice. “He must be taken to the Peak of the Heavens and undertake his role as the Oracle of the gods.”
Kron was removed from the room then, but he could hear his parents arguing with the elder. He was no older than seven, unable to fend for himself and still with much to learn. They eventually agreed with the proposition, for they did not want to anger the gods. With mournful steps, they took Kron up the mountain, where all that greeted him was a simple clay house. Tears fell from their eyes as the shared goodbyes, but they turned and left Kron behind. There, the priest taught him of his new role. He was not allowed to speak to anyone and could not leave the peak under any circumstance. He would watch, and channel what he saw to Olytugh, the god of time. The priest told him if he ever disobeyed these rules, all of the townsfolk would suffer the consequences.
Even though they lived far apart, his parents would come and bring him food and his father taught him lessons in his free time. But they always had to leave at some point, or less they wouldn’t make any money. Although he was trapped, silent, and lonely, Kron found excitement in the gift of his sight. He could see the whole town as though he was an eagle gliding overhead. He could peer down any street or corner like an alley cat. As long as there was open space, his mind’s eye could pierce the distance with ease. If he focused really hard, he could look around as though he were standing in the middle of the marketplace or returning home for supper. But he did not enjoy looking inside of people’s homes. It made him feel how truly distant he was.
Kron watched as two farmers made their way up the mountain. The son was pulling a cart while sharing a conversation with his father. The younger one had short brown hair and green eyes and the older one was slightly balding with grey hair and green eyes. Farmers and other townsfolk would come by a few times each week to supply Kron with food and water. It was how he was able to watch as long as he had. Before it was the duty of his parents, but they had passed away years back peacefully of old age.
“Is it much further?” Stelios asked.
“Not too far but asking that question will not get you there faster. Moving your feet will.”
“Right,” he sighed. After roughly an hour of marching, the two made it to the Peak of the Heavens. Stelios looked over the town and the valley from where he stood. “He does have a nice view.”
“Do not speak of people as though they are not present.” Kron watched as Stelios eyed him over, examining him for the first time. Kron looked to be in his thirties, with a lean frame. Dark black hair went down to his shoulder blades, with irises that looked like pale milk, with pupils so small they hardly seemed to be there at all. “Thank you for all that you do for us,” Nikolas said customarily. Kron nodded in response. Stelios seemed lost in thought. “Have some respect, boy.” Nikolas gave him a quick awakening with a thump on the head.
“Th-thank you for all that you do for us,” Stelios repeated. Kron responded to him in kind. The two of them began taking the items off the cart and bringing them into the small clay house. Kron made no hint of movement, watching over the town from afar. “You think he could not get up to aid us. After all, this is all for him,” Stelios muttered. This earned him another hard smack to the back of the head.
“The Oracle is mute, boy. Not deaf. He can hear you.” Stelios was unsure of that, as he watched his miniscule pupils dart quickly from place to place. He looked too engrossed in what he was doing to pay them any mind. They kept up with moving the crates while Kron kept watching in a meticulous fashion. The two bowed their heads in respect when they were done, and Kron did the same. Grabbing the handles of the cart, Stelios started back down the mountain with Nikolas in tow. Kron watched as they left, but not for long.
A week passed, and it was now a holiday called Dene Scaro. The townsfolk gathered in the square for the festivities. Food and drink were provided, and they gorged themselves on bread, cheeses, meat, and wine. A line of citizens trailed out from the temple, each of them carrying various offerings to leave. Performers sang and danced, and one spit oil through the flame of his torch, releasing a torrent of fire into the night sky. Kron watched over all of them and saw Stelios as he sat on the steps of the temple, looking off to where the mountain was.
“Come now, son. Dene Scaro comes only once a year. Drink, dance, enjoy yourself,” Nikolas said, his face flushed red.
“Yes father,” Stelios said and brought himself to his feet. He smiled as he helped his drunken father back to the banquet.
On the mountain’s peak, Kron was smiling. He remembered when he was a child and his parents brought him to Dene Scaro. He played with the other children, feet smacking against the smooth marble as they chased one another. Faces in awe as the fire-spitter performed his act. Whooping and hollering as they tossed a melon around from one child to the other. But something forced Kron out of his nostalgia. Dark figures, marching through the valley with the only moon and starlight to guide them. They were approaching the towns walls at a quick pace. Who are they? What are they doing? I have to tell the people. They have to be warned.
He stood at the precipice of the peak. He could not leave. If he left, things may become even worse. It was unlikely his frail body could even make it in time. He had to think, he had to focus. Using his mind’s sight, he found the young man who carried the supplies up the mountain last. Stelios, that is his name. Perhaps if I focus, I can warn him. Stelios held the cup of wine in his hand, sipping every now and then and keeping an eye on his father. As he raised the cup to his lips, he felt something pressing on the back of his mind. He could see them. The men climbing the walls, toppling and fighting the guards.
“E-Everyone!” he called out. The chatter stopped as they focused on Stelios. “We have to leave! An army is attacking the city!”
“What are you talking about?” Nikolas asked through slurred words. “We do not see anyone.”
“You have to believe me! The oracle, Kron, sent me a vision! We have to move, we have to go now!” Stelios knew the way to a small entry in the walls for the farmers on the other side of the city. He began to make his way there, compelling the others to follow him. He found that some did. Others rushed to find their homes to obtain their possessions or loved ones. He could not stop for them though, not with how quickly the army was clearing through the city. He prayed that they would find the escapees.
Kron was smiling on the mountain, glad to see that Stelios gathered up some of the citizens behind him. But at the same time, he watched the slaughter of guards and others in their homes. It did not make sense to him. They had no true enemies, they were not at war with anyone. He noticed something, even though it was somewhat minute. It felt like someone else was watching with him. A presence that was stronger than it had ever felt before. He could feel the emotions behind the watchers, varying levels of excitement and intrigue. Are they watching with me? Were they waiting for this? Kron was greatly disturbed by the thought and focused himself on the Stelios and the gathering behind him. Hoping that all of them would make it out alive.
The next morning, Stelios walked with the villagers, making distance from the city in ruins. He looked to his father, exhausted and wary, but alive. “Father,” he spoke, “please lead them further. There is something I must do.”
“If you go back there, they will kill you Stelios. Please, stay with us. We have already lost so much.”
“Someone else is still alive back there.”
“Who?” Stelios looked up to the mountain. “But he cannot leave, Stelios. Come, let us leave this place.” He placed a hand on his arm and Stelios jerked away.
“He is also supposedly the only one with the gift of sight. You said that he kept the city safe while watching. I think there is much that has been proven wrong already. Maybe there is a little more that can be broken.” Nikolas allowed him to go. Kron was waiting for him but was curious of what compelled him to travel the mountain path.
“You saved us,” Stelios said. Kron nodded slightly. “Thank you. If it was not for what you did, so many would have died.” They looked at one another is silence. “Come with us.” Kron gave him a surprised look. “There is no city to look over, only the citizens who want to escape and start over. You are a part of them Kron.” He held out his hand.
Kron looked at him for a moment in trepidation. He looked down at the smoking remains of the city, then the young man standing in front of him. He had never tried to leave before. He did only what he was told, and nothing he was told not to. He stood up from his spot, walking over to him. He gingerly reached his hand forward, finding no resistance as he grasped hands with Stelios. Then Stelios took a step back, beckoning Kron to follow. He hesitated but moved his foot over the line of the peak, stepping onto the path. Nothing stopped him. Nothing held him back. Following Stelios down the mountain he looked up to the sky and with a voice that was silent for decades, he laughed.
Mechanisms
By: Emmaline Stoddard
Tick, tock.
Click, clock.
They turn the lever
With a flick.
Around and around
I go.
And go.
And go.
Pushing and pulling,
Being hit and knocking into others.
With no control
I go.
Again and again
Others inch me on
And I do the same to the next.
Finally they come back,
Flick the switch again
And I stop.
Revel in the fact
That I can rest
Until tomorrow,
When they come back again.
Penrose
By: Sydney Simões
I am but an illusion,
Who really knows me?
You look first,
And see one thing.
Look again,
Do a double take,
I dare you.
Who am I then?
Do you know me?
Of course not.
I don’t know me.
I am nothing,
But an illusion.
Thank you to all of our featured authors and artists in this semester’s magazine, thank you to our readers, and thank you to our club members and everyone who submitted. Without you, none of this would be possible.
Finally, thank you to Sarah Azavedo and David Daniel for supporting the club every step of the way.
Iron Horse E-Board + Members 🖤
Keep Creating.
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