2023 Polaris: NGFS Literary Magazine : simplebooklet.com

Dear Reader,The school year’s end is upon us, and with it, the newest issue of Polaris! As always, we received amagnificent variety of submissions from our NGFS community, from stunning photography andheartfelt poems to beautiful artwork and resonant short stories. We received work from people whohave submitted before and have also added some new names to the magazine. We are truly gratefulfor everyone with the courage to add their voice to the growing history of Polaris. We had awonderful time basking in the light of such marvelous creativity, and we are honored to give you thesame opportunity.In peace and gratitude,The Polaris TeamMia JollyMcRae SprinkleEli BassettChris ShipmanCover Art: “Key to the Ocean” by McRae Sprinkle1

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Table of Contents- “Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 3- “Jet Lag” by Mia Jolly ~ pg. 3- “PickUpSticks” by Clarissa Marshall ~ pg. 4- “Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 4- “The Boy Who Flew” by Jackson Buchanan ~ pg. 5- “Dragon/Cat (for Eli) by Cary Bassett ~ pg. 6- “evergreens fall” by McRae Sprinkle ~ pg. 7- "Untitled” by Anonymous ~ pg. 7- “Untitled” by Joe’s Mom ~ pg. 8- “Untitled” by Sean2Shifty ~ pg. 8- “Untitled” by angy ~ pg. 8- “At Least There Weren’t Any Bugs” by Jackson Taylor ~ pg. 9- “Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 13- “Bird Telephone Booth” by Michelle Underwood ~ pg. 14- “PLANTS” by Langston Lindsay ~ pg. 14- “Untitled” by Julie Katz ~ pg. 15- “The Essay That Got Me Into Princeton” by Mia Jolly ~ pg. 16- “Love Note on the Blue Ridge” by Michelle Underwood ~ pg. 17- “Velvet Dream” by Cary Bassett ~ pg. 18- “Untitled Sorrows” by Eli Bassett ~ pg. 18- “Sky” by Michelle Underwood ~ pg. 19- “Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 20- “Time” by Laura Mae Allen ~ pg. 21- "Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 22- “A Question of Justice” by Jim Bassett ~ pg. 23- “Charlotte” by Abigail Lawrence ~ pg. 25- “The Flying Dutchman” by Lewis Moser ~ pg. 26- "Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 27- “I am not an artist.” by Mia Jolly ~ pg. 27- “The Guardian” by Eli Bassett ~ pg. 28- “Perceive Her” by virginia ~ pg. 29- “Celia” by Abigail Lawrence ~ pg. 30- “Lost” by Will Troutman ~ pg. 31- “what have i done” by McRae Sprinkle ~ pg. 34- "Untitled” by Lily ~ pg. 34- “Captured” by Abigail Lawrence ~ pg. 35- "Headlight” by Michelle Underwood ~ pg. 37- “Dessert Storms” by Anonymous ~ pg. 36- “Stuck in a Hole of Dead Ends” by Cmack ~ pg. 372

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Untitledby LilyJet Lagby Mia JollyI am infatuated with jet lag and addicted to pretzel M&Ms. As I haul my luggage back into the roomI’m staying in, exhaustion and euphoria charge my body. Jet lag carries me through the next fewdays—weeks—if I’m lucky. People tell me how horrible jet lag feels and how they hope my body adjusts tothe time, but I secretly wish this feeling could last longer than it ever does. Regardless of where I am, myheavy eyelids and dry skin always contribute to the excitement of either the start or end of a new journey. Theimmersion of unfamiliar cultures and indelible memories afford me long-lasting effects of jet lag. It’s a feelingI am greatly fortunate to experience.As a traveler, I try anguilas (baby eels), stay in backpacking hostels, and make lasting relationships withthose living where I’ve explored. Spanish banter between my parents and my Spanish host family echoes inmy mind as a memory of pulling my American and Spanish lives together. Long car rides with my Spanishhost family, whilst at times challenging, are now small moments that I hold onto closely; I carefully unpackthem from my suitcase as I return to North Carolina. As time passes, my senses will digest the jet lag andreflect my changing self. I hope this feeling will last forever.3

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The Boy Who F lewby Jackson BuchananBoys do not fly. No matter what. You can try to fight it all you want. You can fasten wings and reachtall peaks and leap and soar with the birds. But you will fail and you will fall and you will break your fastenedwings and your flight machines, because you cannot fly. Despite all of this and how impossible it may seem,there are a select few who have tried.His name was William Brady, he was a second grader. William Brady was determined to fly. All lawsof physics might as well have damned, for he, William Brady, was going to fly. He was going to reach theheavens and soar amongst the clouds. He was going to be the plane leaving dashes of white clouds in hiswake; the bird who scouts, carefully, his prey from above.But he would not do any of these things without any innovative assistance. He crafted a pair of wingsout of the strongest leaves the New Garden Friends School playground had to offer, giant verdant feathers.After a long few breaks worth of laboring and careful aerodynamic planning, he had a creation that evenDaedalus envied.The play structure was elevated by three old wooden steps, it measured to about 3 feet, a fierce dropfor any, but near deadly for a four foot second grader. He looked down the chasm and readied himself forflight; he tucked the leafy apparatuses in his shirt sleeves. He stepped back, skidding his feat. And with arunning start he jumped off the play structure. He soared above dry barren wastes of deserts and over lushgreen forests as time slowed with each careful flap of his wings. He saw over everything. He sawmountaineers striving for the highest peaks of the highest mountains, businessmen working from the tops ofthe tops of the highest buildings. He saw the small things too down to the scales on the smallest fish in thelargest oceans. For those few moments, in mid leap, crowing back and forth like an angry chicken, and in thatmoment he thought he flew. The ground creeped closer and closer; he flapped and flapped. Alas, as Newtonsaid, “all things that go up must come down,” and not even William Brady could dispute this. He landed witha slight tremble in his legs. He had in fact, much to his dismay, not flown. This was only a temporary setback;annoying, yes, but ultimately a small bump on a journey. A journey to flight.After a few more attempts of the crowing chicken maneuver, he went back to the drawing board anddevised a new plan. He decided to become more scientific with his approach; instead of following in DaVinci's footsteps with a flight machine, he pivoted into the world of astrophysics.Planets create a gravitational field by spinning, he thought. If I am able to spin enough, maybe I can create my ownweightless gravitational field! So he went spinning, keeping his arms straight out, in order to create gusts of wind.He would keep spinning for dizzying lengths. The playground spun by in splashes of color. Greens, blues andbrowns all bled together like the colors of many masterpieces caked onto a palette. He kept spinning, hopingthat by some miracle he would fly. As much as you may wish his plan of anti-gravity could succeed, it onceagain didn't. His only accomplishment: vertigo and a few weird looks from the passersby. William Bradytottered, disappointed once more, back to the classroom, the world around him wobbling back into focus.Now, this isn't much of an ending, and it may seem that way to you, reader, but years later this storydoes in fact have an ending. He was 14 when he first flew. His obsession with flight materialized into aviationlessons, and William Brady, in the cramped cockpit of a Cessna, flew.5

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At Least There Weren’ t Any Bugsby Jackson TaylorThe engines coughed, as if to start. I got up and sprinted to the bathrooms, the most impact-safe areaon the plane. The engines didn’t start. The pilot came on over the intercom as the engine powered generatorspowered down. All I heard was static. I felt the floor heave beneath my feet as the pilots tried to prolong ourglide. I kicked the door and cowered in tornado position as the plane gave an almighty jolt and hit the groundhard. Despite my lowered center of gravity, I was slammed into the toilet by the impact and knockedunconscious._-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_“All boarding flight 2113452 to Casper Natrona County Airport, Wyoming, USA, boarding ends infive minutes, five minutes,” I translated mentally from the staticky Portuguese coming from the speakerspositioned in the airport. I, being a little bit antisocial (I don't like getting teased about my height), had notjumped to the front of the line when boarding began. Instead, I was the last person on the plane. Thisstrategy often made people suspicious of me, so they made no attempt to talk to me when I settled in as theplane began taxiing. My odd name, Grear Bills, always attracts attention anyways.I’d been visiting friends from my travels in Africa, and I love connecting through Rio, although thefood is terrible (to my tastes—the Brazilians love it.).I, unluckily, sat near a chatterbox before boarding. I told him to let me read in peace. He replied witha brazen, “NO!!” and talked my ears off until boarding.So, now I walked down the aisle, trying to find an unoccupied seat, preferably towards the rear of theplane when the floor jolted beneath my feet and I fell, sprawling out and bashing my nose on the ground,bruising it. I will tell you right now, 777 floors aren’t soft. I found an empty seat at the end of the economysection, plugged in my headphones, and promptly began watching Spiderman, stretching in my seat to avoidglare from the windows. Twelve hours later, we should have landed in Wyoming.Except, some person oblivious to the effect it would have on the environment started anuncontrolled burn pile that spread through the Amazon, that no one noticed (strange enough, that nobodynoticed). I don’t blame the pilots for the week-long ordeal that followed (for me. I think most everybody elsedied in the jungle or was killed by the impact). In fact, they couldn’t have banked away, because twelve hoursis at the edge of 777 range, and banking takes time, and if they’d seen the smoke in the sky, which was reallyhard to see, that would come back to the banking issue. They could have landed more nicely, though._-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_I awoke.“Who am I? What am I doing? Why do I have ‘Fluffhead’ stuck in my head?” I asked myself as Igroggily opened my eyes.So, I’m in an aircraft bathroom. I also smell lots of carbon. Add two things to my “things I know”list. So, my head hurts, and the plane I’m in is huge. “What am I supposed to do, die?” I chided myself. “Get amove on. Find some stuff to help you survive. Insert name here (you know, I’ll call myself Ted), youlazybones!”9

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Yeah. I succumbed to the desire to gorge myself on aircraft dinners. I chose the penne option. I’mobsessed with pasta. Next, I grabbed as many aircraft dinners and apple juice jugs that would fit on an aircraftsnack cart, and went outside.Wait. I should tell you about the satellite phone I found on a guy sitting in Business Class. He wasprobably one of the wealthier guys in Wyoming, so he had a phone like the one I found. I felt no pulse. I tookit. What else should I have done?Back outside, I’m learning how charcoal is made.That’s what happens when 200,000 liters of jet fuel detonates. (The fiberglass fuselage is mostlyka-blewy proof. The bathroom helped.).So, I ran around and found the survival kit for the plane, located in the tail, alongside the Black Box.Machete. Butane Lighter (unopened BIC!) generator? I want to know why a generator was in there. And, afirst aid kit. I left the generator in the tailcone.Duh.I found a compass in the handle of the machete. Good design choice, though the blade was reducedto being a titanium-aluminum composite. I headed northwest. Don’t ask me why. I like going northwest. Afteran hour of slashing at plants with my knife, I found a pond-like thing with excessive algae on the surface.Yum, yum, eat em’ up!Yeah, I feasted on penne.I left after disposing of my penne container in a hole. I started in a northerly direction, continuing fora kilometer, until I found a bamboo forest. Settling down, I rigged a bamboo shelter for the night. My roofwas not waterproof, as the torrential rains that night demonstrated.I woke up to the sound of happy caiman munching on my fried chicken dinners. I won’t complain,not being a chicken person, but caiman, no.Machete time!I hate chasing caimans away, apparently, because they’re stubborn, and I can’t climb trees. So I gave ita downward slash across the skinny part of its snout, yelling, “yahhh?” At the same time, causing it tomomentarily recoil, then forget the chicken and come after me, instead. I hurriedly ran over to a bamboo,panting and off balance, and attempted to scale it, only to be foiled by the film of water the rain had left. Thecaiman was nearly on me now, so I jumped onto its back and rode it around. Caiman surfing is hard.As the weighed-down caiman toddled past my “abode” I grabbed a vine I’d cut. I hurriedly fastenedit into a set of reins and rode my reptile back the way it had come, to the river.I severely hate riding caimans._-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_I looped a vine around a bamboo pole, tying a noose as I went. This pole was one of the dozens thatwent into a large-ish raft of three-ish meters I was constructing. Last night, I had hauled thirty or so fourteenmeter poles to the riverbank and cut them into three and a half meter poles. I don’t know where I’m from,but Metric is awesome. Base ten! Base ten!I was almost done with my raft, with only three poles left to install, three poles I didn't have. I walkedback to the forest, cursing to myself as I stumbled on a low-hanging vine. Reaching the forest, I felled afifteen-meter bamboo, and it fell into another bamboo, ricocheting off the stalk of a massive sixty meter stalk,onto my head. I was out of practice as goalie, so I wasn’t able to dodge._-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_10

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Owwwwwwww. My head hurts. I’m probably concussed. Fifty-foot bamboos weigh a lot. Especiallywell-watered ones. At any rate, my side hurts. Something small is wedged in between the ground and me, inmy pocket. I lifted up the bamboo and found a satellite phone.I dialed a random number, to no avail. I thought up another number that I vaguely remembered hadsignificance, and this time, I got lucky. The number I dialed was the Brazilian emergency number.“Hello, how can I help you?” said the phone in Portuguese“Not too good, as a matter of fact. I’m lost in the jungle, camped on the edge of a river.”“Do you know anything else?”“I was involved in a 777 crash a couple days ago.”“Ah. That one.”“I know. Help, please?”“I’ll send down a boat patrol. Light a big fire, if you can.”“That’s better than nothing.”“Wait a second,” the phone said, “What’s your name?”“My name is Grear Bills. I’m an American.”“I’ll get that boat dispatch done now.”I’m not too big a fan of speaking, or hearing and translating Portuguese. Its speakers talk so fast!So, I walked around to camp and found a raft.Then, I remembered. I had built the raft! It was my method of escape! That is why I was cuttingdown a big bamboo!With that collection of realizations, I got back to my new (giant) stick.Less than an hour later, I decided my raft was riverworthy. I cut some bamboo rollers and rolled myway to the river.My master plan went like this: put the raft in the river, already loaded with supplies. Climb on. Use ahomemade paddle to steer. Get to a city. Oh, and, don’t die on the way.The first day went by without incident, although I only covered a few miles, because I was going atthe river’s pace. I decided to rig oars, to increase my slow speed. The oars were exhausting to use. Every pullmoved hundreds of pounds of bamboo.Towards the end of the morning, I heard the roar of falling water. A waterfall.Acting quickly, I paddled with the incredible might of an adrenaline charged body, so I reached shorequickly. Then, I lashed down my oars, rudder, and all the supplies I couldn’t carry down by myself. I tied theraft to a strong tree with three braided and water-soaked vines, lit a fire under them and began my trek.An hour later, my shaking body arrived at the bottom of the falls. I saw a bright green flash as my rafttook the plunge, none too late, and I ran out to catch a glimpse of the fall. Then, I boarded and beached it. Tomy dismay, All of the aircraft dinners I attached had fallen off or been ripped open, never to be eaten.I made the few required repairs and set off again. At the end of the day, I felt an uncomfortable coldsensation on my butt. I looked down, and found that my faithful raft was going under. I paddled to shorehurriedly for the third time that day, and examined the raft. To my dismay, I found that many of the watertightcompartments that naturally make up bamboo had ruptured, filed with water and pulled the raft down. Irealized I needed a new raft.The next morning, I set off in TDB 2, my joking name for my raft. It was a great deal smaller thanthe other, to accommodate my diminished supplies, so it was easier to control and faster.11

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I came upon a small oil slick after several hours, the first sign of civilization I’d seen since I’d seen ahighway before the crash. I got closer to it, and found dead fish in it. I paddled on. It was probably spilled offthe police boats that should have rescued me.Hours later I heard a bell sounding its deep ringing tones to mark six o’clock to the nearby city.I sped up my paddling.The water got choppier gradually as the hours went by, a sign of nearby watercraft.Then I heard the clock signal nine. I landed and hastily constructed a shelter, before full dark hit.My shelter was the raft, sloppily propped up on the oars and rudder. I ate and slept.I launched at the seven o’clock bell and paddled slowly into town. A bayliner saw me at eight andsped away to who knows where, its wake relentlessly tossing me about.Later I rowed through the industrial part of town, obviously playing host to the bustling Braziliancity. Several dock workers saw me and did double takes. I found a public wharf at the marina, and threw avine around a pole.I may have seemed calm to the eye, but I was elated at the prospect of rejoining civilization. Iattracted funny looks everywhere. My clothes, sad to say, were heartily ripped up. I stopped a passerby andinquired, “Where is the police office?” Slipping into portuguese on the second word. She looked at me funny.‘Where’ isn’t a cognate with its counterpart in Portuguese. I repeated myself, this time in Portuguese all theway. She replied, “Follow me.” I complied.At the office, I reported the details to the guy at the front desk, and he arranged for a helicopter totake me back to Rio.I landed in Rio, and I went straight to the Delta desk and gave a narrative of my ordeal. I wasassigned to a Business class seat on the next flight.I landed twelve hours later in Wyoming. I found my car where I’d parked it, and reluctantly paid thefee, about five hundred dollars. Ugh.I got in my car, and started it up on the third try (even new Toyotas don’t like sitting for a month),and happily drove home.I lost my house keys. Good thing I know a good locksmith. He came over and said, “Hullo. Haven’tseen you around, Grear.”“Good to see you too, Gregor. Can you let me in?”“Sure thing!”Man, Gregor knows his stuff. I was in my house five minutes later, albeit a good twenty-five(hundred) dollars short of what I’d thought I’d have coming home from my trip.I will never watch another show with Bear Grylls in it again. Or, for a matter of fact, anything in thatgenre.12

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The Essay That Got Me Into Princetonby Mia JollyLevel 1The click-clack of the keyboard overwhelms the makeshift junk room. I face the bulky monitor directly besidemy kitchen; the analog clock reads 6:30am. QwertyTown, a typing program, has somehow transfixed mythird-grade self; it’s pulled me into the endless bounds of expression and I’ve never been more hooked onsomething in my life. One out of six levels is complete, and I am unstoppable. The fragile f and j are thepathways to my first short sentences. I’ve typed my way into a new form of agency, and I’m beyondenthralled.Level 2Each key gives me something else to say; as a 7th-grader, I’ve expanded past the bounds of the home row andnow type comfortably. I take special enjoyment in learning the punctuation keys: semicolons, question marks,and em dashes widen my repertoire. These dots and lines affect my interest and understanding of languagemore than the 26 letters of the alphabet ever could: I’m addicted.Level 3Inquiry meets my fingertips, empowering my 10th grade mind. Search history: Shangrao Orphanage, LingGuang Quian (my birth name), and Google Translate. My fingertips can’t keep up with my head; I haveendless questions left unanswered. What was she like, my mother? Who named me, and why? What makes meAmerican? But this isn’t calculus; taking the derivative of my name won’t solve anything. Instead, I turn back tothe blinking cursor on my computer screen.The intense keyboard clatter serves as background noise for my thoughts. Write a personal narrative that tells astory about someone who has impacted your life in some way, my English prompt reads. In place of writing about aperson in my life, I write about the unknown: my biological mother.Static-like electricity transmits through my fingertips from some hidden place in my brain, shocking me as Itype abandoned for the first time. I’ve always treated this word as deadly, prohibiting myself from identifyingwith it. In reality, acknowledging it now allows me to accept my past, far more powerful than any otherjustification for my family background: Nine characters have never felt so invigorating. Eight semicolons,seven question marks, two em dashes, and 10,382 characters dance together to perfectly describe how I feel asa Chinese adoptee. I’ve suddenly fallen in love with writing, a passion that extends past academics and into allfacets of my life.Level 4 / Nivel 4Staring at the computer screen is one of my common pastimes, from impromptu QwertyTown practice to myEnglish essays to this new step: writing a seven page essay in Spanish. With the streets of Zaragoza, Spain inmy background and an amalgamation of languages humming in my periphery, Spanish characters paint thedocument with 12,826 characters. Boundless questions and curiosities coat the computer screen. I’ve gotteninto a rhythm; my consciousness flows through both English and Spanish.16

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Nivel 5A translation of my thoughts extends past the English characters on my page. I’m no longer limited to what Ilearned in my QwertyTown days; inverted punctuation marks and accents have opened me up to anotherworld of expression. The same text, translated into Spanish, leaves me awestruck; Spanish is another means ofexpression, not just one of communication. These keys represent countless languages I can write in. Similar toan invisible harmonic in my sheet music, the cadence of my dance choreography, or the magic ofQwertytown, they’re indescribably freeing. Why did I become an American? reverberates through my mind,pulling me back to my adopted roots. Mediums of translation help me grapple with my past and now propelme toward my future in immigration policy. With such a shortage of bilingual lawyers in the United States,maduraré mi voz en inglés y español.Love Note on the Blue Ridgeby Michelle Underwood17

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Timeby Laura Mae AllenTime is both my best friend and worst enemy. There is no happy medium, I am either counting down theminutes, waiting for something to end, or I will blink, and what feels like only a breath has been hours. Timeis a constant. The clock never stops ticking, the earth keeps turning, and the world doesn’t stop for anything.The first historical records of people tracking time are from the Ancient Egyptians before 1500 BCE. Theinvention of the sundial made it easier to track hours in the day. They would divide the daylight hours intotwelve equal parts, but due to the seasons, those twelve parts were not always the same length. In thesummers, the hours were long, and in the winters, the hours were short. Time wasn’t consistent then. It ebbedand flowed with the sun and the moon. But as the sun set, no matter the time of year, they would have noway to track time. For those hours, time ceased to exist. There was no measure to the darkness.I sometimes wish I could stop time. I wish, like the Egyptians, I could hold onto the unknowingness. It hasbeen almost seven years since I lost my dad. Those seven years have felt like a millennium but have alsopassed in the blink of an eye. I have recently come to realize that my grief will never be entirely over; therewill never be a day on the calendar that I can mark as the day I stopped missing him. I have this dream that ifI could just pause time, just for a night or even just a minute, where I could have a brief relief from grieving.So that maybe I could take a breath without heaviness, or maybe I could laugh with my full soul.The Egyptians were also the first known civilization to use a 365-day calendar, starting around 4236 BCE.They tracked the stars to measure time, which ended up being close to the actual solar calendar. One solaryear is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46 seconds.This means (at the time of writing this) it has been over 2,506 days.If I tell someone about my grief, especially after seven years, they sometimes ask, “still?” without thinking.When this happens, I see the regret on their faces instantly. I don’t get mad or even sad when people saythings like this because I constantly ask myself the same question. Will I ever be able to just move on, or will Ialways hold on to the loss? Is grief a vise around my heart, stealing my joy and love? Will I ever feel normalagain? Will I be constantly reminded of my time with my dad, 19 years filled with love, pain, laughter, andsorrow? Now, I face this infinite future, a length of time unknown to me where I will never get to hear himlaugh again or watch him scowl as he glares at his ever-growing list of emails or see his smirk when he tellsthe same joke for what must have been the millionth time. Time is cruel because one day, and all too soon, Iwill be on this earth for longer without him than with him.The first pocket watch was invented in Nuremberg, Germany, in 1510 by Peter Henlein. He was a masterlocksmith, creating this small device that has changed our lives forever. Pocket watches used to be a statussymbol. They were expensive, so they served as tools to differentiate between the upper and working classes.That meant some people could know the time and track their lives in seconds, minutes, and hours. But forsome, they had the ability to still be living in the moment. They didn’t have a constant reminder of time beingwasted and passing by.21

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Now, we all carry a time teller. Whether it is a watch or a cellphone, we are constantly reminded of the timethat is now lost. Since time travel doesn’t exist (at least to my knowledge), I can never go back. I can never bean ordinary girl with a dad who is alive again. I can never get the time I wasted, the moments I should haveasked the question or said what I thought back. Time is a precious gift; its finite nature is wasted on so many.Unless you have experienced what it means to lose time, to have a deadline set for your life, or to have atimeline cut off way too soon, time feels like an infinite resource. As infinite as the air we breathe. But onceyou know of time’s restrictions, you live your life constantly running against the clock.For just a moment, I sometimes let myself sit and reflect. I allow time to stop for just a breath, but in a flash,it is over all too soon. There is no endless night for me. The days keep coming, and there is no blissfulignorance. The clock never stops ticking, the earth keeps turning, and the world doesn’t stop for anything.Time is both my best friend and worst enemy.Untitledby Lily22

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A Question of Justiceby Jim BassettI peer through the windowDeepening sense of pure dreadThe silent press of a plungerCuts a single tortured threadSorrowIs this justice in actionIs this how good prevailsWith our ire and our vengeanceAre we on grace’s trailEnigmaMy disquietude heightensA waxing sense of uneaseIs the logic of our actionsReally a collective diseaseInquiryMy heart groans in agonyMy mind utterly dazedWhy does our god of forgivenessMeet our violence with praiseDubiousOur words speak of justiceYet our actions of hatredIs infliction of tormentReally our path to the sacredPerplexityYou ask many questionsSink them deep in your soulGut reaction and animusThis is how we controlSociety23

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The Flying Dutchmanby Lewis MoserDoomed to never make port as fate would have it,A ship prowls the waves,And those who've seen its ghostly glint over the tide,Are already fated to die the very next day,The Flying Dutchman the scourge of all sailors.The terror of all who sail.But how did such a legend emerge from mariner’s myths and seafarer’s tales,Well as the legend states there was once a captain…Hendrik Van Der Decken,Once in an age long passed…Van Der Decken was rounding the Cape of Good Hope,And soon a storm the likes of which sailors had never seen halted his progress,The timbers of the Dutchman shook violently,Those who crewed his ship pleaded with him to turn back,And even then he refused their cries,He swore an oath to God that he would succeed…Even if he had to sail until Judgment Day,The Devil heard his oath, and took him up on it.This is how Van Der Decken condemned himself and his crew,To roam the seas for the rest of time…Unable to return to their homes,Aboard The Flying Dutchman.26

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Untitledby LilyI am not an artist.by Mia JollyI am not an artist. Telling myself this time and time again as I’ve grown up, I avoided acrylic paints in art classbecause I feared performing to an unknown standard. In my eyes, the unknown trajectory of a paint brushwasn’t as forgiving as a pencil’s work of arithmetic and spelling. The subjectivity and seemingly arbitrarynature of art scared me, provoking me to believe I couldn't possibly be seen as an artist. This belief plaguedmy mind after annual violin recitals, poetry readings, and dance performances. If my work wasn’t showcasedin a gallery, in a journal, or on a stage, then how could I be an artist?Throughout high school, I began to step out of the box I’d drawn myself by blending my worlds of dance,music, and writing together. The catalyst was a self-choreographed piece, where I translated Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein into an artistic and visual performance. I found the power in each—unified and separate.Movement quality in dance, sforzandos in an instrument, and literary devices in writing all signify the samething: the interpretation of an initial thought. Within these three mediums, feelings and ideas function as thebasis of creation. The three work together in my life as a means of translation, both of my own dialogue butalso as a way to connect with others. No, I am not a prodigy. However, I am an artist who translates her ideasinto words, music, artistic movement, and a combination of the three.27

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Perceive Herby virginiaHow do you perceive her?Do you feel her wince when her eyes go glassy?Do you know she’s thinking of that summer,Of the words he so carelessly spoke?Do you feel the weight of the griefThat wasn’t hers smothering her,Heart buckled in anesthesia.Do you remember her after she fades from the room,The perfume she so meticulously picked out wafting towards you,PleadingBegging, on her knees, for you to think of herAs powerful.Not this,Not the vessel she will merely inhabit for a timeThe mossy bones she bound with red thread,Will it ever be hers?A curse she thinks,To be burdened with knowledge, with awareness.To be weighted down every moment of everyday knowing she is unable to be authentic,What is authenticity?Why are there not rules laid out,Teaching the ones who know too muchThe art of amnesia.Why can’t she be the her she meets at midnight in the moonlight?The one who radiates stardust and whose heart beats kerosine.Why must she become stuck just under her own skin, writhing in her own veins.Body drugged and slow,Mind tearing through the world.29

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Lostby Will TroutmanChapter 1: A Terrible Dream“Hello, is anyone there!”“Peter, stop shouting, it’s doing us nothing,” shouted his mother.“What am I supposed to do, not call for help?” mouthed Peter.“You don’t know if someone lives here.”The two strays stood there for a minute, their ship had crashed, and now these two people were stuckon an island.“This is useless,” complained Peter. Just as Peter said that they heard a rustle in the bushes.“Mom, what was that?”The two lost humans crept closer, and at the same time, they jumped at the bush. There was nothing,but that’s when they heard gowling behind them. They turned around to see a lion staring right at them.“Good lion, nice lion.” The lion got closer, and then it pounced.Chapter 2: A Close CallZane shot up from his bed, “That was either the worst dream ever, or the scariest dream ever.” Zanejust got out of bed to hear the phone ring. He picked the phone up, it was Coco.“Hi, Zane, no time, meet me at the docks, now!” Coco sounded like she was really mad so Zanehurried as fast as his little legs could carry. By the time he reached the docks he could already see Coco yelling.“Zane, hurry, the boat is about to take off,” she cried. That’s when he remembered that they weregoing on a cruise today .“Okay, I’m coming.” Zane sprinted but he could already hear the boat taking off, he quickly showedthe lady his cruise card. But it was too late, the boat was so far away, the lady said that he needed to leave.Zane got hopeless and he started walking away. I can’t believe I didn’t make it in time, thought Zane, but wait, maybeI can do it. Then in a swift move he turned around, and sprinted past the lady and jumped off the dock. Hecaught onto the railing, and pulled himself up and onto the boat.“That was a close one,” Zane huffed as Coco ran up to him.“What the heck was that?” she screamed.“Oh, you know, the usual.”Don’t do that again, boy, thought Coco.Chapter 3: “Houston We Have a Problem”After that close call, the two of them hung out and talked to each other. They went around the ship,and checked out the gift shop.“I think I am going to want this little guy,” said Coco looking at a stuffed animal dolphin. Zane waslooking at a sweater that said “I love cruisin’.”Coco looked for Zane, when all of a sudden, she heard the speakers turn on, and could hear a man’sbooming voice.“Everyone stay calm, we hit a big rock, and we are getting out the lifeboats.”“Haha, very funny,” shouted Coco. She knew there was no real emergency, they were just beingfunny.Meanwhile, Zane saw loads of people hop on lifeboats and float away. Where is Coco? he thought.When all of a sudden, the boat started to tip sideways.31

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“Ahhh,” Coco cried as she went flying. She flew into the back of the gift shop, and hit the wall hard.A little ways away was Zane holding onto the railing for dear life. Zane knew he had to get onto a lifeboat, butthat’s when he saw Coco. He tried reaching out a hand. Coco tried reaching her hand out too when all of asudden, the boat shook again. Then the two of them went tumbling into the control room. In there they sawthe captain.“Captain Jake, what are you doing here?” Coco asked.“A captain always goes down with his ship,” replied Jake.“Are you sure, Jake?” Zane said.“I’m sure.” There was silence. Then Jake said, “Why don’t you go and help this other human wholooks like he is almost a goner.”“Okay captain, well goodbye,” cried Coco.“Oh, and another thing,” said Jake. “Have a good day.”Zane scanned the area and saw a boy, then he slowly went down to see who it was. When he gotthere, he was surprised to see the boy still holding onto the railing.“HELP!” he cried.“Don’t worry little man, I’m coming for you,” said Zane, struggling to get down.“Be careful Zane,” cried Coco. Zane got closer and reached out a hand. The boy caught it, and Zanepulled him up. But at the same time Zane’s foot slipped, and then he and the boy went tumbling into thewater.“Coco! Help us.”“I’m tryin’,” she cried. But then all of a sudden, the boat started to tip more, and then it flipped.Coco fell out, and was easily lapped up by the waves, and then thrown under the savage water.Chapter 4: The Mountain LionZane woke up to be washed up on a strange island. He saw the other two, Coco and the ten year-oldboy, at work making a teepee.“What is going on here?” Zane asked.“We’re making a fort,” said Coco.“Yeah, we have to survive somehow,” said the boy.“Hey that reminds me, what’s your name?” Zane asked.“Leo,” said the boy.“Okay,” Zane said.“Do we have any supplies?” Coco asked.“I don’t know,” said the boy, “I mean I have a tennis ball.”“Maybe fun later,” said Coco. The three of them worked together on their fort. Later, Coco foundthe idea of drinking from coconuts, and cutting down trees, by using dead bamboo sticks.“This is harder than I thought,” said Zane, sweating. Zane was in the middle of working on a bow.When he saw Leo by himself, all curled up crying, Zane walked over.“Hi Leo, what’s wrong,” asked Zane.“Oh hi, it’s just that I lost my parents, we were at a store on the cruise getting me a pretzel. When theboat turned I went sideways, but my mom and dad were saved by the lifeguards. So now I have lost myparents.”“Hey,” said Zane, “don’t talk like that, we are going to get back to civilization. You just gotta havehope.” Leo pondered this, but then all of a sudden, a big strong mountain lion jumped out of the bushes.“Ahhh,” screamed Coco.32

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“Zane, what are we going to do?” Leo cried. Zane was so confused about what was happening, andin the next second he was rammed by the mountain lion, and went flying into the water. The mountain lionthen turned towards Coco, and obliterated Coco right into the water. Then the mountain lion turned towardLeo and charged, this time Leo jumped at the right time, soaring over the lion. This time the lion was furiouswith Leo. So as you would guess it started charging again. Leo thought it was over, but then he rememberedthe tennis ball.Leo quickly took out the tennis ball, and the mountain lion stopped halfway. Then Leo played dumb.“Umm, here boy, go get it,” said Leo, struggling. Leo, who surprisingly had a strong arm, made the ball gosoaring into the woods. The mountain lion went chasing after it. At the same time Zane and Coco werecoming back onto land.“Well, how bad are your injuries?” asked Leo.“They're fine,” said Coco.“That was amazing, Leo,” cried Zane.“Sure was,” remarked Coco.“Well, let’s go get some food,” decided Zane, sarcastically.Chapter 5: Saved!Later that evening Zane, Leo, and Coco had yet to eat. Their clothes were ripped and tattered, andthey could barely walk.“I can get our bow out and try shooting with that,” rasped Zane.“Good luck,” said Coco.Zane picked himself up, and walked over to the place where he left his bow. He found one arrowthat was with the bow. Zane picked it up, and brought it back to the rest of the group.“One arrow left,” sighed Zane.“I could try shooting it,” said Coco.“You sure?” asked Leo.“I’m sure.” When Coco looked at the arrow, it was only a sharpened piece of bamboo.“What is this?” yelled Coco, in frustration.“Oh yeah, I don’t know how to make arrows so that’s what I made,” answered Zane.“This is merely a distraction!” Then all of a sudden a helicopter came by, it must have been coming tocheck for survivors from the shipwreck.“Over here,” shouted Leo, but the pilot didn’t hear him. “What are we going to do?” Leo asked. Justthen and there, Zane thought of an idea.“What if we use the bamboo to get the pilot's attention,” asked Zane.“Ok,” answered Coco. Coco got out the bow and the bamboo and pointed it at the helicopter. Sheaimed and fired the piece of bamboo.The bamboo went spinning in midair, and bonked the side of the helicopter. The three of them nowhad the pilot’s attention, who started flying down to them.“Nice shot,” exclaimed Zane.“Thanks,” said Coco. The pilot landed and asked them if they needed anything, and they all shouted“Water and food!”“How long have you guys been out here?” asked the pilot, handing them apples and water bottles.“About two weeks,” answered Zane.“Well let’s get you back,” said the pilot. So they hopped in the helicopter, and headed home.33

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Dessert Stormsby AnonymousThe dry, crumbly surface acts like quicksand. Layers and layers of rains and sandstorms build up, onlyfor spaceships to plow through the dunes and carve mountains from the surface. The Searchers marchthrough the Crevasse: a place where the planet has sheared itself apart, revolting against existence itself. She isthe Commander; she commands their advance. He is the Serpent; he carries no weapons but himself. Hissmile will kill any so stupid as to challenge him, and there are few who have not heard of the Searcher with adeadly bite. The gnash of his teeth is the rattle of a snake.The shadow of the Chiroptera blackens the crevasse as the Commander eyes the ship. She knows thisbat-ship. Two exit the vessel, their faces hidden in darkness. They are the Warrior and the Other, though theydo not say their names. The Warrior embraces the Serpent as a brother. The Other walks ahead of theCommander and has a magnetism so strong that her order “follow” is almost superfluous when sheverbalizes it, yet three of the Searchers refuse. They will stand forever, frozen, in their act of defiance, theOther whispers. None of the other Searchers, save the Commander and the Serpent, notice that she whispersnot into the air but their minds.The inevitable sandstorm begins with a sting, then another, then another. The Searchers, the Warrior,and the Other climb the edge of the Crevasse; though the pain of the climb should incapacitate any human,they show no emotion.The party reaches the top of the Crevasse and proceeds up a mountain, somehow more energizedthan at the beginning of the walk. Rain replaces the sandstorm; it turns the sand sticky and smoothes theirfootprints. As they approach the top, they see the object of their Search. A figure, tall and lean, cloakbillowing in the wind, stands at the apex of the mountain. The Other releases her control on the Searchersand allows them to sprint toward the figure, but the figure reaches to the sky.A flash of lightning slowly descends, striking the figure. The figure almost appears to sink into thesand, yet their head disappears before their feet. It is as though an invisible ocean descends from above toswallow the figure whole, but it moves painfully slowly. A booming chorus of dissonant thunder and the smellof burning fills the air, and every Searcher tries to run back to the Crevasse, but there is no hope. EverySearcher knows of the silver, triangular spaceship. Though it leaves no survivors, the story is never doubted.Before the spaceship can descend, a quick burst of rain and wind plows through the desert. Thefigure ceases disappearing, but it is too late. The spaceship rotates, preparing for its sharp edge to slice intothe planet. It cuts one radius of the cylindrical planet, then another radius. It slides beneath the planet andcarries off one section. There is nothing for the Searchers to do but weep. They know too well that they canonly accept their fate. They will perish soon, perhaps within a minute they will be disemboweled, perhapswithin an hour they will be suffocated by an airtight covering on the planet, but they will perish. After all, nocake is meant to survive forever, only long enough to eat.36

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Headlightby Michelle UnderwoodStuck in a Hole of Dead Endsby CmackI followed a path called The Path of Ideas. But there was something in the way. There was a gate. The gateasked me why I came to the Path of Ideas, so I explained why. The gate eventually let me in. As I walked inand looked around for a few seconds, I fell. I fell into a hole. The hole was filled with dead ends. I was stuckin a hole of dead ends. I looked up seeing my imagination jumping into the hole along with me but he had ashovel. Though because he was in the hole too, he had been short of his power. He gave me a shovel butwithout a blade. It was just a stick. So we sat there with a stick with no purpose stuck in a hole of dead ends.37

2023 Polaris: NGFS Literary Magazine

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