Letter From the Editor

Dear Reader,

Hello and welcome to Post Script Magazine.

We’ve come to the last edition of Post Script for the current school year.  At the beginning of this year, we were tasked with continuing the magazine to share what we love doing.  Through our works, we have shown some of the things most important to us.  The end of the year comes with a lot of stress as everyone’s involved with final exams and portfolios and performances, so this last issue is a bit smaller than our previous two.  However, the pieces are still thoughtful and well-written.

With this final issue, we’ve turned to the future for our theme.  We’ve chosen to focus this issue on “aspirations.”  While there is a lot of stress that comes with the end of the year, there’s also a lot of talk of reminiscence and hopes for whatever is down the line.   It’s full of speculation and planning for the future, full of excitement.  These are the hopes of our writers.

I want to thank everyone who has been a part of Post Script within this past year as I’m graduating and passing on the role of editor in chief.  It’s been a lot of fun working with you all and I’m glad to have had this opportunity to work with you all.  Thank you for everything.

So please enjoy, be inspired, take these aspirations as if they were your own.  And as always:

speak loudly, write louder.

Sincerely,

Max A. Gamerman

Editor in Chief

Find the index for our third issue here

Index

Poetry

Acrostic poem #9 / Derek Frazier

I Cannot Explain the Things I Fall in Love With / Maddie Lynn

if you want to reach for your dreams / evette davis

Mr. Fatherless / Derek Frazier

Success in a World Full of Shortcuts / Sean Callahan

True/False / Maddie Lynn

Nonfiction

It Started With a Book / Sara Malott

Paleontologist / Derek Frazier

Fiction

A Friend at the Door / Sara Malott

Goddess of the Moon / Aevin Mayman

Normalcy / Aevin Mayman

Acrostic poem #9

By Derek Frazier

Prophecies and fate aren’t things I believe in.
And yet I have never felt this sure about anything before. It’s
like writing my name, a part of my identity, a way to
express who I am and how I want to leave my stamp
on the world. I have dreamed of this profession for hundreds of
nights, ever since I was four years old. You don’t just choose
to ignore something like that, to turn your shoulder when all
of the signs scream your name like a coliseum’s crowd. I
love this career and, for the life of me, I do not fully understand the rhyme
or reason as to why I crave the words “Doctor of Paleontology” like an alcoholic with
gin. And I doubt I ever will.
I was put on this planet for a reason. I have a whole life ahead of me but the most
single truth I know is that this was what I was built, designed, crafted, engineered
to do.

I Cannot Explain the Things I Fall in Love With

After A. Papatya Bucak’s “I Cannot Explain My Fear”

By Maddie Lynn

I am in love with everything I see. Dancing daffodils, daisies, dandelions that we make wishes on under the summer sun. Fireflies, mason jars, sidewalks that have been turned rainbow by gritty chalk and tiny fingers. Words, books, the way alliteration sounds as it slips out of parted lips.

I am in love with everything I see. Folded shirts, bright new shoes, packed suitcases sitting by open front doors, waiting to go on adventures. Open bags, cute mugs, travel-sized shampoo bottles from every hotel room. I am in love with the bright colors of horizons, and recyclable water tins, and big dinners with a mix-and-match family that was always too large to fit at the dinner table. Empty bottles of lotion, smooth skin, a hand to hold as we walk together, toes in the sand.

I am in love with everything I see. Soft features, marble eyes, a smile that only shows once in awhile, when ocean lines and late night chatter make him giggle. Oversized t-shirts, strong cologne, calluses on long slender fingers. Ripped jeans, dimples, freckles dusting his nose, when the sunlight hits it just right, to make a constellation. Stars, galaxies, the possibility of worlds colliding in outer space. Illumination, the way that vowels drag on, a simple metaphor. A writer’s heart learns to love these things over and over and over again.

The way clothing falls over coat hangers, and sweaters drape over cold shoulders.

How riding a bike is something you’ll never forget, and how my sister had to teach me because my father wasn’t there.

How sunlight feels on bare skin, and the way fireflies sound
tapping inside mason jars.

The way that teardrops are the perfect shape, and how mascara runs in perfect lines.

Big bellies and big hearts.

I am in love with everything I see. The color black, simplicity, the crinkling sound plastic makes. Keys on a keyboard, smooth pens, the way that nothing rhymes with purple or orange so they stand alone together. Sunglasses, melted chocolate, fresh fruit. Roses. Raindrops. Rhythm.

I am in love with the lack of religion. The lack of a string pulling us all together. The lack of control, rigidity, stiffness.

I am in love with freedom. Dancing. Movement. The way that water flows from river to river, stream to steam.

I am in love with the way we all flow together. People with a similar belief. I am in love with the way we fight together, fall together.

I am in love with democracy.

My love is every single inch of me. Every makeshift corner, under every layer of skin. I cannot explain my love, because I can not explain myself in my entirety.

I am love with being in love.

if you want to reach for your dreams

By Evette Davis

I. honeysuckles drip from my scalp. my hair has been falling out. there’s a sweet sting of something insane nested deep in my follicles, there are particles of honey coating my lips. i can’t let go of this anxious reality because it kisses me silent at night when these white walls won’t do sleep justice.

II. when the bluebirds scamper and leave skid marks in the air, you will find me, whitewashed eyes pulling at loose leaf hair and camera shutter eyelids. i am trying to repeat the three to five dreams i was supposed to have last night but must’ve forgotten. i just want to dream. i am tired of the sand in my eyes hauling me back to the ground from the limitless skies. i am tragically awake.

III. it is time to for all residents to arise. welcome to no man’s land, where the bluebird’s wing is crushed and it lays motionless in white.  this is not my bed. i am lying in a casket, and they are pushing me out to sea. this no man’s land is a wasteland called real life, where one hopes to remember their dreams. i feel lifeless in this casket. i clutch my eyes tighter and try to recollect last night’s fantasies. did I have three to five dreams? did i even have one? i hope to drift off holding one, at the very least.

IV. in all of this madness- the broken bluebirds, the honeysuckle hair that is strewn on the ground, the cries of the not quite dead— i aspire to dream. maybe crystallize it, too. this reality is oh so cold, but if i close my eyes tight enough, maybe one day i’ll remember and reach for my handful of dreams.

 

Mr. Fatherless

A letter to an unborn orphan whom I will adopt

By Derek Frazier

My son,
I will not be the stereotypical
American father you imagined.

When we play sports, I will
throw baseballs through your
mother’s windows and lose frisbees
in the trees of our front lawn.

On the Fourth of July, I will
be too busy making a bonfire in the grill
to actually cook anything.
And I will spend far too much time baking
and reading to watch football with you.

I do not fish, I do not like smoking,
and I do not enjoy fighting
another person’s battles.

I will, however, be a teacher.
I will show you how to cook,
how to speak other languages
and write worlds into being.
When you fall in love or become frustrated
because of some mercurial romance,
I will be there to explain them as best I can–
and I’m sorry– because with all
my experience, I will fail miserably.

I will teach you how to fight
and stand up for yourself.
To treat others with respect no matter their color or gender.
You will learn to hold the door for someone,
to look both ways before crossing a street.
You will learn to mind your manners,
your “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.”

In the end my child of Africa, China, India,
England, or even Harlem, you will learn
from a father nonetheless.
And I will give you a home.

Success in a World Full of Shortcuts

By Sean Callahan

I didn’t come into this world
to be left traveling on back roads,
blindfolded,
with no atlas,
no compass,
no first mate,
making twists and turns into lands people call colorful.
But perhaps I’m colorblind,
because I don’t see the same shades
of red and green as they do.

I came for the highways–
at least people call them this,
but me? I call them
the only way.
Hovering above millions
of little rights and lefts,
billions of hidden trapdoors,
leading to quick escapes
that no one would judge me for taking,

because a lot of people did it too.
They turned headlights to the highway,
they placed their hands
on the steering wheel that gave them direction,
and they started driving.
But they didn’t know the rough waters that lie ahead.
Highways are not easy.
They are not slow.
They are not always safe.

Highways have strict guidelines,
tolls to pay,
rules to follow,
too many wrecks to avoid,
too many exits to watch for,
And at the end of the day–
patience is a necessity.

It’s something they lacked,
the ones who gave into warm motel rooms,
the ones who took wrong exits through state borders,
the ones who made U-turns onto the closest back road,
and never dared to brave the highway again.

I don’t judge the ones who choose back roads.
They are steering their life at their own pace,
easing on the brakes at the tops of hills,
shying from busy interstates,
because they aren’t ready.
But some of them will try again.
and when they do
some of them will wreck again,
some of them will pay speeding tickets,
many of them will dread rush hour.

But there will be the ones who will brave the tightly packed roads.
After maneuvering past trailers as tall as mountains,
living off cafe coffee and hamburgers,
spending hours on a horizonless road,
their patience will have paid off.
They will be the ones who will say they have navigated the highway–
and survived.  

I know I will crash. I will reroute to the nearest back road,
I will pay too many tolls to count on my fingertips,
and I will lift my foot off the gas pedal
in my happy place.

But one way or another,
I will discover how
to drive my dream car
through glowing cities at night,
over vast hilltops,
up rocky mountainsides.
And when I look to my rearview mirrors,
I will see the millions of miles traveled
upon my highway.