May 2017 – Post Script Magazine.

2016-2017, Issue #03

Letter From the Editor

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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

2016-2017, Issue #03

Index

Posted on May 17, 2017May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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

2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

Acrostic poem #9

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Non-Fiction

I Cannot Explain the Things I Fall in Love With

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

if you want to reach for your dreams

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

Mr. Fatherless

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

Success in a World Full of Shortcuts

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

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.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Poetry

True/False

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

By Maddie Lynn

There is a girl trapped in a moon.
A cat meows at 11:59 every night.
There are rocks in my shoe.
The rain bounces off the tin roof (and)
She can’t hear the arguments.
Always look for the brightest star.
Her name is Pluto.
We all believe in ourselves, even if just a little.
Angles don’t have wings.
Nothing ever makes sense.
This paper airplane has a message inside.
This is not true beauty.
She is stuck in the middle.
I don’t have a good side.
Everyone has a reason to stay.
Love is spelled C-A-U-T-I-O-N.
There are no warning signs.
Water is not transparent.
Neither is she.
Owls always ask why.
Days are longer when spent outside.
Hospital bills are way too much for a poor family.
My pockets have holes in them.
Penguins are afraid of the dark.
Brownie batter bubble gum.
Time moves on.
The bananas are brown again.
We need to go to the store.
Some plants need more water than others.
I want to grow.
You never grow out of childhood.
The people in this poem are all imaginary.
These angels are complementary.
The clock is stuck at 3:15.
The homeless poet has a home.
Flowers don’t need food.
She is wearing a fishing hook for an earring.
Everything is accidental.
Everything is theoretical so the people you don’t want to exist don’t have to.
The moon is flat, and we are living on top of it.
Grab a jacket.
The answer.
My mouth is a zipper.
Baby it’s cold outside.
And it is full of marbles.
Her mouth. His lips.
You are made of glass.
You are an owl.
You ask yourself so many questions (and)
Go to number 42.
Maybe the people in this poem are real after all.
We all play Kristen Bell.
Our lives are just living in fiction.
My roots are overgrown.
The 14th floor is the 13th if there isn’t a 13th.
You can’t avoid bad luck.
I put dominos in my tea.
Always chew on dice.
The sky has cracked down the middle.
She lays down on her bedroom floor.
C h em i cal s.
This water doesn’t work anymore.
Organs don’t have keys.
I don’t know what my zipcode is.
The Queen bee refuses to make honey anymore.
She kamikazies into a car window.
We’re all going to die someday.
Slurpee slipping through a straw.
She’s finally in adult sizes at Target.
Dying young has comfort in it.
Virgo. Virg. Virgi. Virgin.
I am both, and maybe you didn’t need to know.
The glass pyramid is not the glass castle.
We can never achieve perfection.
I ask myself how they ended up together.
Nothing is impossible.
I’ve been told conspiracies don’t exist, but I believe.
Everything is everything, but nothing all at once.
Nothing has meaning until you assign it.
I gave a boy meaning, but he didn’t caution me back.
Constellations remind me of how many sprinkles can fit into a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
Eating lettuce won’t help you lose weight.
I know too much about the L Word.
There are always 13 sides to every story.
The rain forest will be the only place to find trees.
I’ve never learned how to read
people.
I change the lyrics in songs to fit how the moon feels.
This poem can only last so long.
Mayflies, bye.
The worst things in life are the most expensive.
Wikihow doesn’t have an article for How to Pay For a Funeral When You Don’t Have the Money.
You have to move quickly.
Maybe the sky has 42s.
I overthink everything that happens to fall in my path; maybe he just doesn’t like looking at the stars.
He always brings beer in opaque bottles, but doesn’t think we know what he’s doing.
96.5. Even at the hospital where she was born.
This was the first time he’s ever held a baby, even after having two kids of his own.
Water has memory, but does it remember?
I’ve written about you so many times, that my pen automatically begins to cry.
This world is just a big crater, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Everything always has to be a little extra.
This is the end of the phone call where I say goodbye.
You are at the prime of your life.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Non-Fiction

It Started With a Book

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

By Sara Malott

A new assistant pastor was hired at our church. He’s a small, older man with glasses and a bald head. He has a dry sense of humor, but he’s very friendly. He’s all dad jokes and pats on the shoulder. Typically, I don’t connect well with older adults. I have a handful of experiences when I have been caught in an awkward situation with an older person and they never end well. Usually I am just stuck staring at the ground, observing my shoes, and coming up with my best excuse to leave. I have a feeling this is why most adults write teens off as antisocial when in reality it is just a struggle to find common ground.

I assumed that the new pastor and I would have next to nothing to talk about, so I’d try to avoid standing near him for long periods of time. This was a tedious task considering our little church. I’d smile, wave and give an occasional hello, but the minute I thought he was trying to speak to me I’d dart off. Maybe teenagers are antisocial.

Last sunday, he had me cornered. He told a few others in the church that he was looking for me and he had something to give me after sunday school. The moment I got down the stairs he caught me.

To my surprise, he handed me a book. He patted me on the shoulder and smiled.

“I was cleaning out my library,” he said, “and I wanted you to have this.” The book was Why I Write by George Orwell. This man that I had never spoken to before had taken the time to learn my name and the fact that I was a writer. I was flattered, but I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I took the book back to my seat and thought about his act of kindness.

A few moments later I saw him stand before the pulpit. Coincidentally, he was preaching. I rested my head on the pew in front of me and closed my eyes. I wanted to take in everything he was saying. His sermon was about who we will become. He was talking about the people who get confirmed in the church and then never come back. He spoke about people who radiate goodness everywhere they go. He told a story about his old sunday school teacher and how, at ninety-two, the only thing left that she could do was pray.

I’m glad the world still has people who pray for the rest of us. Heaven only knows how badly this world is in need of prayer. But I’m also glad for people like this pastor who still hang around. We are so selfish in thinking only about what we need to do for ourselves. I’m not sure I believe in people who only radiate goodness; we all have our baggage. But I do believe that goodness is still here.

Do something nice for someone this week, but don’t tell anyone about it. Write a note to your best friend. Give someone a hug. Make a batch of cookies for your mom. Visit a nursing home. Take your little brother to the park. Help your dad move boxes in the garage. Your act of kindness will never go to waste. We are all on the same journey. It’s easier if we can manage to make each smile along the way.

2016-2017, Issue #03, Non-Fiction

Paleontologist

Posted on May 17, 2017 by Post Script Magazine

By Derek Frazier

My mother is the reason I want to be a paleontologist. I was raised in a very warm and comforting middle class home. No matter what my sisters and I wanted to do as an occupation we were never told “no.” We were always encouraged to follow our dreams and to focus on what made us happy. My mother has always claimed that paleontology is the only career she sees me doing. “You’re going to go and dig in China,” she told me once jokingly. “You’re going to play in the dirt and I’m never going to see you again.”

Beyond this, my whole life I have been surrounded by the Jurassic world. I grew up watching The Land Before Time, Dinosaur Train, and Walking with Dinosaurs. My favorite book besides The Hobbit was Dinotopia. To this day I have a giant plastic tub of dinosaurs in my basement and stuffed dinosaurs in my closet that I will never give away. I have cookie cutters shaped like a t-rex, stegosaurus, and triceratops for when I’m baking.

I don’t really know why I love paleontology. I just do. For as long as I can remember my childhood dream has been to go to college and study until I graduate with a doctorate degree. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and no one has told me no so my plan is to keep dreaming.

It’s somewhat ironic that my lifelong dream and goal involves heat and math. I’m not a very mathematically inclined individual, personally I believe that the Romans conquered the Greeks as payback for creating algebra. And my ideal temperature is mid sixties with a cool breeze. Yet there I will be six or seven years down the line in a 100 degree desert using calculus to plan an excavation zone to dig up thirty foot long reptiles while still being paralyzed by my fear of snakes.

Fate has a sense of humor.

Also it’s a little mind boggling. I am a junior in high school, and in a few weeks I will be a senior, and then after that I will graduate and move onto college. I remember sitting in my elementary school classroom thinking “Man, I have to wait eight years for college?” And now, having only one year left to go is truly a surreal realization. I am so close to achieving my dream. It is the greatest tease, to be close enough to start planning colleges and initiating that part of my life, but remaining far enough out of reach that it is still an ambition.

Ambitious is definitely a word I would use to describe myself. I don’t want to be a celebrity I simply want to be recognized for my discoveries and for my assistance in making the Earth’s past all the more clear.

I have never met anyone who has told me that my dream to become a doctor or professor of paleontology is unreachable. I know that it will be challenging and that it will be a long road, but that’s what I signed up for the moment I held my first t-rex toy. I will allow nothing to stand in my way. I will stand among the mighty heroes of my childhood and smile because I was meant to be there.

Je suis prest, I am ready.