About This Volume of the Magazine
Senior Editor: Tristan Beiter
Junior Co-editors: Catherine Baker & Nick Stine Co-Managing Editors: Johanna Burke & Christina Perez Financial Editor: Júlia Raup-Collado Everyone Else on Staff Alex Myers Hannah Ladner Margaret Baker Ellen Connuck Emma Beiter Rowan Beiter Patricia Burke Max Fulmer Abigail Ladner Johanna Kratzer Mikayla Rovenolt Dr. Brian Ferguson-Avery, advisor Editor's Note
Dear Reader, Thank you for choosing to join us for our nineteenth year of Crossings. This year’s edition is a bit different from usual, as we have had a very big year at Lit Mag. With a huge influx of young and enthusiastic staff members, we decided that this would be the year of collaboration. We spent our year learning to work together, as writers, artists, and editors. As part of our effort to carry this spirit of collaboration into the body of the magazine, you will find some poems written specifically for the accompanying artwork and, scattered throughout the magazine, pieces referred to as “Exquisite Corpses.” These are short, group-authored poems where each poet is only aware of the line immediately preceding his own. This results in surprising and fun twists of tone and topic that can shock the writer as much as the reader. We received fewer submissions this year than in previous years, yet the strength of what we found in our slush pile just blew us away. We pulled the longest volume of Crossings in my years on staff out of our smallest submission pool; this is a testament to the strength of the art and literature produced at Danville High School this year. As I and the other staff seniors head out to the exciting world of college, I’d like to thank you again for permitting this magazine to persist. We have had a wonderful experience on the Crossings staff and you have given it to us. I know that we are leaving this magazine in good hands and only hope that you will allow us to continue to share the magazine with you. Tristan Beiter Senior Editor |
Daddy Dance
Johanna Burke Crank the Victrola And we can twirl like the record. Waltz with me, Daddy. Whirl me ’til I’m madly dizzy. It’s not so hard, you’ll see-- Just count “one two three, one two three.” Good. Now don’t you dare let go of me. We’re not the only thing going round and round; The arrows on the clock have a stamina unfound. We cannot outwaltz the time that remains. The earth circles on, swirling our days away And I’ll have to leave soon, but I won’t be a stray Because you’ll always be my favorite dance partner. So let’s just waltz right here, and now, today. |
Black Backpack/Erasure Poem
Max Fulmer/Catherine Baker The backpack is big like another big backpack, but it’s not another backpack or a box of fun stuff. But there’s nothing fun in it or a crate of something mysterious, but I know what’s there. It’s also black like a wolf, but it’s not ferocious and fast maybe like a banana, but I can’t eat it or is it like a crow? Beats me, I don’t know anything about stupid birds. But at least the backpack exists like my sports car, if only I could drive, or ghosts, if we could find them, or my billions if I wasn’t writing a poem right now. |
NeuroWeather™
Catherine Baker There was a crash of thunder, like a giant percussionist in the sky accidentally dropping their cymbals, and I jolted out of my sleep with a start. “Stupid weather,” I muttered as I punched my pillow and rolled over. . . . I blinked, feeling wide awake all of a sudden. I glanced at the clock. 4:46 AM. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since the thunder storm had started, and for some reason I was still awake. How does that even make sense? Sitting up, I shifted the curtain aside a notch. It was still dark out, obviously, and I couldn’t see past my own reflection in the rain-streaked window. But the rain had stopped. Oh, well. I flopped back into bed and curled up on my pillow. . . . It kept happening. Throughout the next few weeks, I had woken up randomly in the night, and even a few times when I had fallen asleep in class. Some nights I could get a full night’s sleep. Others, I would be lucky to get an hour or two. I jolted up when I was awake too, and it was starting to get really annoying. My mom started to worry. She made an appointment with the doctor, who, as far as she could tell, couldn’t find any problem with me at all. “You’re as healthy as ever,” she said, dumbfounded. “Excepting the lack of sleep. There is no clinical reason that you should be waking up like this.” “It could be insomnia though, couldn’t it?” My mother asked, wringing her hands in her lap and glancing at me. “We can do a few tests, if you’re suspecting insomnia,” the doctor said with professional doubt. “But I don’t suspect any mental problems. Are you feeling anxious about anything, worried?” She directed the question at me. I shrugged. “Not really,” I admitted. I wasn’t. Just severely annoyed at my sleep schedule. “Well, you do have a lot of schoolwork, plus your friends,” my mother pressed, determined to find a reason. “Maybe we’ve been putting too much pressure on you about college at home? Are you sure you’re not feeling anxious?” “Now I am,” I muttered, shifting uneasily in my seat. The doctor examined my mother with a practical interest. “Ma’am, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” she asked, looking at her with professional concern. My mother looked scandalized... Buy the LitMag! A Positive Childhood Experience
Brian Ferguson-Avery Positive, in that I was negative when my hand grabbed the live wire, the neighbor’s horse fence. My friend had said, resting a stick on top (he always carried a stick), This feels funny. Feel how this is funny. My hand stuck bare to loaded wire. I suppose one could get used to this, enjoy it, even—the thrill of vibrancy coursing, highlighting, boldfacing every thing that could be tingled. My nine-year-old hand closed fast and the other opened, over and again to get free, a toggle that would not go off. They say that gravity is the law that must be obeyed, but I know that electricity, once put in motion, is as fierce as falling. I felt it through my feet, scared I’d never let go. Afterwards, once I’d figured myself away, once free and back to neutral, I didn’t miss the feeling (and to this day, I still avoid the buzz that comes when working on a plug or a broken bulb, wedged in the socket). Tired and lonely, my parents asking, What did you do today? I was not afraid of trouble, a trespass or a stolen sweet, but I kept this dance to myself, a bolt too large to hide in a pocket, a finger dipped into a beehive, a taste of energy, simple and pure. Symphony for a Dead World
Max Fulmer The man trudged through the empty street, looking around quickly before shuffling into another building on the side. Only the most defiant and determined of people could see potential for fixing the building in its current state. The man limped through the foyer, darting his head quickly from left to right, scouting the rooms. This had been an apartment building before bombs and guns reduced a once beautiful old building to a crumbling heap. The man did not smile at this thought. He continued his scavenging in total silence, the only sound being the echo of artillery shells falling in the next town over. He was used to that sound by now, there were few places left you didn’t hear it at some volume, be it so far it sounded like distant drums or so closely that you could be hit by a shell. The man peered into a small room at the end of the hall, dashing inside with a renewed excitement. A small fridge sat in the corner, running from whatever electricity was left in a generator downstairs. All apartment buildings in this town had those, for the people here had been wealthy and did not appreciate blackouts for longer than the ten minutes it took for a generator to start. The man did not live in this town; he lived somewhere else, a place where generators were an exotic item that existed only in thought. The fridge was still cold, and the man reached for the door of it eagerly, like a treasure hunter opening a old abandoned chest in a cave. The lightness of his backpack became more obvious as he dreamed of filling it with various goods that he could use later. He fantasized about bottled water, canned fruit, and other luxury items that the poor could only dream of having. He ripped open the door and looked inside, a small, curious smile on his face. He hadn’t eaten anything in several days, and if there was still food, he could eat now and wouldn’t have to worry about his supplies running low. A blast of cold air hit him and caused him to close his eyes with relief from the heat of the building without air conditioning. The inside of the fridge was devoid of anything but a small box of baking soda. The man felt a small knot form in his stomach before he burst into sobs. He fell down on the floor, causing a cloud of dust to fly out from under him on both sides. The man began to rock himself back and forth for a time, covering his filthy clothes in a fine layer of dust. His sobs echoed throughout the building, resounding off the walls and through the empty outside. He heard some shuffling of animals who were startled by the sound. His sobbing continued until he heard another sound pierce the emptiness of the town... Buy the LitMag! Her
Tristan Beiter They called her Carmen Anastasia, dancing for the men and disappearing into clouds their fingers floated through, grabbing at the place her arms had been before her spin of skirts became a war for her affections, over who would clasp her to his breast, listen to the slip of silk along her hip, touch the trail of castanets and rhinestones left behind her steps. They called her demon, tramp, but still went tumbling, grabbing at the earring tossed into their hands, bursting into fistfights for her kisses showing grins with rotting teeth when she came near, face closed, reeling from the cheap-beer-bad-cologne perfume of slavery. |
Of Flying Carpets
Júlia Raup-Collado It will be fun, the weird guru said. A great experience, something that will stick with you for the rest of your life. Well, that was putting it lightly. And true. Amelia was pretty darn sure that she was going to suffer from PTSD after this. “EEEEEEK!” she screeched, her throat starting to hurt as she unleashed the full capacity of her lung power. “IMMA GO—O—OING TO KIIIIILL THAAAAAAT GU—U—RU I SWEAR TO—PUAGH HAGH!!“ Amelia choked, feeling something she hoped wasn’t a bug get caught somewhere down her throat. Amelia Kneeturn was flying. On a magic carpet, of all things. She held on to dear life, her knuckles a fine white from gripping the edges so tightly. Her whole body was tense, sprawled ungracefully upon the thick, fuzz-like body of evil. Once again, not for the first time and definitely not the last, she cursed that odd, suspiciously cheery guru who reeked of boiled cabbage. The arid air that pressed her sockets into her skull wasn’t as pleasant as one would expect and neither was the angry wiry hair that entered her screaming mouth. Cutting gusts slapped her skin numb. The bugs, bits of sand, and the wind in general that got in her face made it practically impossible to open her eyes, forcing her to maintain a tiring squint. Oh, don’t get her wrong; she would’ve loved to keep her eyes shut throughout the whole ordeal, stick her head deep into soft soil plagued by earthworms much as an ostrich would—she didn’t want to see, no not at all—she was deathly afraid of heights. But she had to. “OHMYGAWD!” She thrust her left shoulder downwards, the rest of her body leaning along with it. The whole thing turned on its side, barely missing a looming skyscraper. In her stress, her move was too brusque, too forceful—she spiraled out of control—her grip slipped—she felt herself slide—her body experienced a moment of weightlessness before she started to freefall down to earth—everything became a vertical blur of greys, blacks, whites and blues. Amelia’s breath was knocked out of her lungs as her back collided with something hard. Something hard and smooth. Her vision blackened along the edges, all was shaded and muffled and her senses were dying. All she could hear and feel was her own breathing. It smelled richly of soap and bath salts, for some reason. And that’s where she died, her body broken and soaked in a pool of her own blood, bones jutting out in odd angles. No, nope. That’s not exactly what happened. That’s what she thought had happened, but lo and behold, imagine Amelia’s surprise when she woke up in one piece. Her back was killing her, and she could feel a headache forming with a vengeance, but she’d live. Maybe. Probably. She hoped. For the most part. Amelia groaned. “What—what happened?” Buy a 2015 LitMag to find out!
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