Intro: “Twelve Minutes to Midnight”

The phrase “Twelve Minutes to Midnight” will call different images to mind for different people. Twelve minutes until a birthday? Twelve minutes until a brand new day? Twelve minutes until the bombs drop and nuclear fallout consumes our entire world, leaving us in an eternal nuclear winter with no hope of continuing the human species?

The phrase “Twelve Minutes to Midnight” is inspired by the Doomsday Clock from the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, a program that intends to spread awareness of how close we are to destroying our world with man-made technology. It’s a grim reminder of the metaphorical black hole that threatens to swallow us whole if we continue on the path humanity lies on right now. But the concept isn’t necessarily all doom and gloom. Those twelve minutes could be spent in anticipation, or excitement, or any other myriad emotions that come before an especially notable day. This theme aims to explore the catastrophe that we may feel lies in wait, but also the quiet moments that we have beforehand. Whether that’s spent on a rooftop moongazing thoughtfully or fending off killer robots for the fate of earth, is up to the artist.

-Carson Mayeske and Jaxon Hewitt-Zmich, Co-Editors-in-Chief

1.

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12 Minutes till Midnight

Twelve minutes till midnight,

the world holds its breath

a hush between heartbeats,

a pause before death.

Streetlights stand trembling,

the moon leans in close,

as though time has loosened

its hand from the rope.

Shadows grow softer,

stars sharpen their sight,

and even the restless

feel gentle tonight.

Twelve minutes till midnight,

a promise, a thread

that moments near ending

still shimmers ahead.

For in those last instants

before a day dies,

we learn that beginnings

can wear the same guise.

So linger a moment,

let silence ignite

the magic that lives

Twelve minutes till midnight.

-Anneke Howard-Smith

12 Minutes till Midnight – North Springs Media Blog

2.

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Days Unending

He feels something shift in the past few weeks. Not really any one thing in particular, but some culmination of things that all fell away at the gentle nudge of an autumn breeze through hus window.

And as it always does, the dawn sunrise eases his eyes ajar to a calm, quiet morning. The smell of clean linens fades to an earthen smell that floats in as he opens his bedroom window, soaking in the brisk breeze to further coax his mind awake. The weight of warm dreams draining from his mind weighs at him and draws a heavy sigh, but this does not keep him from going about his morning. It’s best to keep positive.

As he shuffles about his room getting dressed, no cheerful birdsong fanfare awakes to meet him. The morning is quiet, naught but lonely breezes wandering his unending neighborhood, stirring goosebumps on his skin as they blow into his room. The floor creaks as he meanders about, churning facile reminders of the years it’s spent beneath another’s feet. Matter of fact, the whole house speaks to him. He patiently listens to the quiet creaks and groans, many whispering in tongues too garbled to parse. They’ve been the only company he’s had for quite a while now.

He strolls downstairs into the darkened kitchen and finds an odd air about the room. He flicks on the lights, but the shade lingers, a mist of darkened particles soaking up the dregs of his dim kitchen light. A grim sigh escapes him at the notion of another darkness-soaked morning.

Opening the cabinet, he finds a particularly stubborn clump within, leaving the contents of the cabinet shrouded in darkness. He reaches into the mass with an unnerved grimace, hoping to find bread, but is disappointed to be met with yet more coffee.

Begrudgingly shaking the spongy film of darkness off the coffee maker, he pours a hearty amount of hot water in with the grains and turns on the radio for a bit of morning entertainment while the coffee brews.

Rather than any chatty morning talk show, though, the radio attunes to an odd sequence of static and indiscernible screams. He pours himself a cup of the bleak, bitter coffee, and checks his watch. Seems it’s about time.

Then the sound hit him. An earsplitting toll, a great wall of voices like a chorus singing the end of days. The next thing to hit him is a shiver on the Earth’s back, a violent churning of the earth ripping through his house with force befit for a skyscraper. The walls cry tears of dust as they crack, the floor wails crumbles, but the house remains feebly intact.

One of the Great Bells of the unending neighborhood was ringing. The floating shade of coffee gets knocked from the air onto the floor, quickly coalescing into a mass puddle that zips away through a crack in his front door.

He sighs miserably, a long, drawn-out sigh as he wearily eyes the door.

He gazes at the door.

He approaches the door.

He stops at the door.

He steps away from the door.

He finds his heart racing. He finds that this routine never seems to get any easier.

He sighs again.

He sways, and sighs one more final time, stepping toward the door.

He wraps his hand around the doorknob with discontent.

The door eases open ploddingly, groaning with anger, opening to darkness that coalesces.

Behind it is the universe baring its nasty, vicious teeth.

Folds of black bare teeth spinning eternal, gnashing, ripping, closing.

Holes turn into to caverns, turn to canyons, turn to pinholes, all letting in no light and letting out no knowledge. He stands, teeters, inches closer to the maw of the hurling void, and finds no further insight into the terrible fate before him. No matter how he turns, how he stares, he finds naught but the writhing mouth of the sprawling abyss.

He closes the door.

He turns, morose at the disrepair of his home.

He puts one foot after another.

And, as it always does, the evening sunset shuts its sleepy eyelids on his little, lonely house, still busy quietly knitting itself back together.

He slowly eases toward the window and shuts it, letting slip one last breeze to dance about his room as he readies himself for bed. He throws his dust-covered, darkness-ridden clothes into the laundry basket and groggily slips into soft pajamas.

He breathes one last sigh of relief as he drifts back off to sleep.

-Carson Mayeske

Days Unending – North Springs Media Blog

3.

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Time is Ticking

Time is ticking, steady and slow

A silent river with endless flow

Moments vanish, like grains of sand, slipping gently from your hand.

The clock ticks night and day,

It’s hands march, never a delay

Yesterday’s whispers, tomorrow’s unknown

Seconds with a fleeting beat, Echoing softly beneath our feet.

Each tick is a story, a choice, or a way

A fleeting chance that won’t repay

The sun will rise, and the stars will fall,

Time waits for none, yet governs all.

-Dominic Thomas

4.

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Watching The Moon

There was a reason she was so romantic about the moon.

The moon never let her down, or asked anything of her.

It was just there shining bright

every night.

No matter how dark it got.

She always aspired to be the moon.

How it always went through phases before it could be full.

Inspiring people even when it was far from full.

She could always talk to the moon because it wouldn’t judge her.

When she wanted to disappear, it would tell her it’s ok to disappear,

but it’s important to come back and spread your light.

-Lauren Smith

5.

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Moon Watching

“I can’t even look the moon in the eyes anymore.”

His words, barely a whisper, slowly linger in the swirling frost conjured by the warmth of his breath. A lone winter wind howls in the distance.

Awkwardly I stand, peering at him in an observatory sort of fashion. Not a clue what he’s talking about.

Shooting a glance towards me, he murmurs again, “Not that you’d know anything about that.” He stands, scuffs his shoe into the icy dirt, pacing for but a moment.

“Truly, look,” he says, turning his gaze right back to the moon, transfixed. “She’s screaming again. That horrible, terrible scream. What’d we do?”

I stare him down, unable to process his words, the cogs in my mind turning as if they were filled with gum and rubber and other things of the sort.

“It’s miraculous, the way the human mind works. I look back to just a few months ago, and I look back on a miserable man. Despite that, I find I cannot keep the smile from my face just thinking about it. Do you ever get that?”

I just can’t understand it. No matter how I bash my head against his statements, I just don’t get it. What sort of fool does he think he is?

“I think back to two years ago, and I remember smiling at the moon as it smiled on me. Now all I can see is the horror in its face. Is that my mistake? One would think the moon Surely the moon wasn’t the one that changed. I guess that’s just the give and take of it all.”

I give him a confounded look, hand on my chin, pondering his words.

“Yes, it’s quite the oddity. So, in my heart of hearts, I hope that I can look back on these days fondly.”

-Carson Mayeske

6.

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The Girl Who Carried the Moonlight

n the kingdom of Volta, every child was born with visible marks of their magic. Glowing vines along the skin, shimmering wings, sparks that danced at their fingertips. These marks were called Gifts, and they were the pride of the realm. Everyone had one except for one girl.

Talia had no glow. No wings. No sparks. Nothing. While others learned fire-casting or air-weaving, she swept the library floors and carried books twice her size. People didn’t mock her, they pitied her, which stung even worse.

“She was born without magic,” they whispered. “She’ll never contribute to the kingdom.” “She’s not enough.” Talia pretended not to hear. But the words followed her like shadows.

One night, a pale silver mist rolled across the land. It seeped through windows, drifted through halls, and wrapped itself around Talia as she slept. She woke to the sound of a voice, not speaking aloud, but ringing inside her chest–

Come to the Silent Forest.

She should have been afraid. Instead, she felt…drawn. Guided by moonlight, she ventured into the forest at the edge of Volta, an ancient place whispered to hold forgotten magic. Trees twisted toward the sky like frozen lighting, and glowing moths floated around her like tine lanterns.

When she reached the heart of the forest, a massive mirror stood between two ancient stones. But the mirror didn’t reflect her. It showed a version of her with constellations braided into her hair and silver light swirling beneath her skin. Talia stepped closer.

“Who…who are you?” she whispered.

“I am who you could become,” the reflection answered. “If you believed you were enough.”

Her breath hitched. “But I don’t have magic.”

The reflection smiled sadly. “Magic is not something you are given. It is something you awaken.”

Suddenly, the ground trembled. A roar split the air. From the shadows emerged the Hollow King, an ancient creature made of cracked stone and broken runes. It fed on fear, doubt, and unspoken insecurities.

Its voice rumbled like thunder. “Child of nothing,” it growled. “You do not belong here.” Talia backed away, heart pounding. The Hollow King raised its claws. “You have no magic. You are empty.”

Something in her snapped. “No,” she whispered. “I’m tired of believing that.”

The mirror behind her glowed, the reflection raising its hand. Talia mirrored the movement. A warmth bloomed in her chest, not fire, not lighting, but something gentler…like moonlight. When the Hollow King lunged, Talia instinctively threw out her hand. A burst of silver light exploded from her palm, striking the creature and sending it crashing backward.

She stared at her glowing hand, trembling. “I…I did that.”

The Hollow King shrieked and shattered into dust. The forest fell silent.

Her reflection spoke softly, “You were always enough. You simply needed to see it.”

The mirror cracked and its shards floated toward her, dissolving into light that sank into her skin. Warmth washed over her, and when she looked at her reflection in the river nearby, her eyes shimmered like starlight. She finally understood that her magic had never been missing, it had been waiting for her belief.

When Talia returned to Volta, the people gasped. She no longer glowed like others. She glowed like herself. Her magic wasn’t fire or wind or water. It was light born from self-worth that was calm, bright, unbreakable. With it, she healed the land’s fears, protected those who felt small, and taught others the most powerful truth she had learned: “Magic grows whenever you believe you are enough.”

In time, Volta changed. Children stopped measuring themselves by their marks. People stopped comparing Gifts. Because Talia proved the greatest magic of all was one everyone carried, once they believed they deserved to shine.

-Alicia Nava

The Girl Who Carried the Moonlight – North Springs Media Blog

7.

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Black Friday

It was 11:48, and Jamie really wished he’d asked for the day off.

It was 12 minutes away from Black Friday, and he could already see the masses of people clamoring at the door for 70% discounts. He felt tens of eyes staring in his direction, not at him, but at the huge “ALL PRODUCTS 60% OFF OR MORE” sign standing behind him. He’d compare it to hungry piranhas seeing a juicy piece of steak. He shuddered, freaking himself out with the analogy. He looked at the watch on his wrist, with the glass slightly cracked, and read the time.

It was 11:49. He’d forgotten Black Friday had existed in the first place, honestly, despite his coworkers speaking about it like an urban legend the entire week before. Maybe he should have listened to them, he thought.

At that thought, his coworker, Rina, walked up next to him. She eyed the door worryingly, fidgeting with her hands. Rina was around the same age as him, the both of them in their early 20s. Her bright red hair contrasted greatly with her timid attitude, but Jamie couldn’t blame her with the people they had to deal with on a daily basis.

“I’ve never worked a Black Friday shift.” She stammered.

“Me neither.” Jamie replied, tapping his foot to a song he only half-remembered. “We’ll get through it though, can’t be that bad,” he said, trying to cheer her up. It hadn’t worked, considering Rina was still shaking like a leaf.

The situation quickly became awkward, with his coworker being too scared to add anything to the conversation. Just then, another worker walked over, significantly less timid.

Cooper stood behind them, taller, older, and wiser. Jamie had always thought he was a bit egotistical for a guy working a register. He had a funny demeanor and a can-do attitude, so their manager loved the blonde.

“Last time I worked during black Friday, someone died,” Cooper said, grinning. Jamie looked unimpressed while Rina gasped, falling for what was in Jamies opinion, an obviously fake story. How long would he have to put up with this?

He checked his watch once more. It was 11:52, eight minutes until ravaging consumers would burst in through the doors.

“Is that true? Did someone really die?” Rina asked.

“Don’t entertain him,” Jamie scoffed, arms crossed. “He’s just trying to scare you.”

“Nah dude,” Cooper said. “It’s totally true. It didn’t happen here, though. Happened at my old job at Target. Some guy was fighting someone for a flatscreen TV, 80% off. He got knocked down, twisted his ankle and got trampled!”

Cooper peppered his story with exaggerated hand movements and a tone like he was telling a scary story at a campfire. Rina looked terrified, as if one more detail could make her burst into tears.

“Even if that was true, and it’s not, it’s not like that’s gonna happen here,” Jamie said, trying to cool Rina’s nerves.

“I dunno man; they’re literally clawing at the windows out there.” Cooper challenged him, surprisingly deadpan compared to his usual natural smugness.

Jamie opened his mouth to say Cooper had a real problem with hyperbolic metaphors, but before he looked behind him, he saw that the soon-to-be customers were, in fact, literally clawing at the windows to get in.

“Does everyone just lose any semblance of tact on Black Friday?’ He wondered incredulously. Then again, retail customers barely ever had any as is.

The clock struck 11:55, only five minutes until they’d be forced to open the doors to the mob outside. Jamie thought of an old zombie shooter game he used to play when he was 13, and he almost chuckled at how similar everyone outside was to the horde of fictional undead.

“We’d better start heading to our registers,” Cooper grinned. “Getting ambushed by these guys isn’t really a part of my schedule.”

Even though Jamie wasn’t fond of the guy, he was right. It was a part of every zombie-survival guide to be prepared, and even though it was a little exaggerative to call these people straight-up zombies, the resemblance was a bit uncanny.

Cooper walked off, that usual put-together look on his face fading a bit when he headed to his register. Now that Jamie thought about it, it would make sense he’d be apprehensive about all this, too. It didn’t really make him less of a jerk, but it did explain why he was especially being one tonight.

Rina, on the other hand, was openly scared, waddling back to her register like a timid penguin. Jamie sighed, trailing after her and putting his hand on her shoulder. Rina flinched, turning back to look at him.

“You really shouldn’t worry, Rina. It’ll only be one night,” he assured her. “We’ll be okay.” 

“Are you sure? I really don’t want to see anyone die.” Rina warbled.

“Only thing that’s gonna die is your sanity if you keep listening to Cooper of all people.” Jamie joked, offering a comforting smile.

Rina laughed at that, looking like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “Thanks, Jamie.”

With that, she left for her register, and Jamie did the same, feeling like a bit of a good Samaritan. A warm feeling spread in his chest, and he felt maybe, he did a good thing tonight.

11:59. Only one minute away from the moment of truth. Each employee held their breath, the air thick with tension. Cooper tapped his foot impatiently. Rina shook her hands in the air, trying to get rid of any jitters, while Jamie stood still as a statue, nerves alight with trepidation. The seconds counted down to the climax, and determination took over his mind.

The floodgates to hell opened, and Black Friday began.

-Nicky Newsome

Black Friday – North Springs Media Blog

8.

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Apocalypse Somehow

The siren wails in the distance, a hollow echo that barely pierces the dreamlike haze, the sound thick and muffled. Outside, the world burns in a painter’s smear of unreal red and orange, beautiful in its terrible stillness, like a memory half-forgotten. The TV that once showed gameshows, now replaced with an eerie broadcast.  You watch as furniture shifts, and chairs get knocked down by scrambling bodies. You are suspended in chaos as your mother drifts through cabinets searching for a mug you made her in kindergarten. There is no urgency in the air, only a heavy, sinking feeling. You’re swept off your feet by your father, his grip, pulling you along a current you cannot fight, everything moving in slow motion. You feel yourself getting pushed into the back of your parent’s car, buckled in hastily.

                       **                                                                     

Marrow woke with a gasp, the dream still clawing at his throat. He sat up in the dilapidated tent, sweat plastering his thin shirt to his back despite the pre-dawn chill. Decades after the collapse, humanity was a flicker, and the past was a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

Outside the tent, Morgan and Scott were already packing their meager gear at their makeshift camp. “You okay, Mar?” Morgan’s voice was soft, her eyes reflecting wisdom far beyond her years in this dying world.

“Yeah,” Marrow rasped, rubbing his face. “Same old.”

“Today’s the day,” Scott interjected, his focus already on the task ahead. “We spotted that grocery store yesterday. Might have something left.”

They set out, moving with the practiced quiet of survivors. The world around them was a testament to environmental reclamation—vines choked skeletal buildings, and wild grasses burst through cracked asphalt. The air still had the same stench of acid and rot. The silence of the end of an era was heavy.

The grocery store loomed, a concrete carcass overgrown with green. The automated doors were long dead, but a gaping hole in the wall served as an entrance. Inside, the air was stale, the silence broken only by the crunch of broken glass and the distant call of a scavenger bird.

They split up. Morgan headed for the pharmacy section, Scott to the back storage, and Marrow to the canned goods aisle. The shelves were mostly bare, a testament to the initial panic, but here and there, a forgotten tin sat like a treasure. Marrow’s eyes landed on a dented can of peaches.

“Found something!” he whispered into his comlink, the static echoing like a companion.

Suddenly, a guttural sound echoed from the back of the store—a language Marrow had never heard, a series of clicks and harsh syllables. They weren’t alone. This wasn’t an abandoned store; it was a camp for others.

Heavy breathing flooded his ears, Marrow stilled, glancing to his left. He caught a glimpse of a burly figure, wrapped in scraps of fabric. Its face was covered, but he could see a sliver of mangled skin and bulging eyes, free of eyelids. When they stepped closer, Marrow immediately snapped out of it and bolted out of the aisle.

“Abort mission!!” He yelled, making way for the door.

Morgan and Scott look over from where they are scavenging. Confused at first, they barely pay Marrow any mind. But when they see that…thing chasing after him, they rush to leave.

They fled, grabbing what little food they had found, their hearts hammering a frantic beat. The “people”—if they were even people—were fast and relentless. Their burned, unrecognizable faces bore twisted scars in ways that didn’t seem human. Marrow glanced back over his shoulder, almost tripping on cracked asphalt as he does. They were the Scorched, and their foreign language was a terrifying cacophony.

The trio reached a rundown neighborhood, the uniformity of the houses a ghost of the life that once was. They needed a plan, they needed protection. They ducked into a small, overgrown backyard and found a shed. The wood was rotted, but the hinges held firm. Inside was a treasure trove of forgotten items.

“Weapons,” Scott said, his voice urgent.

They scavenged quickly. Morgan found a claw hammer, its head heavy and reassuring. Scott pulled a rusty but sturdy garden hoe from a corner. Marrow’s eyes fell on a pristine, well-oiled machete, likely a pre-midnight survivalist’s prized possession. It felt balanced in his hand, a legacy of a different, more prepared time. The tools were weathered and rusty, but it would have to make do.

They made their way back to the grocery store. This wasn’t about just survival anymore; it was about pride, about not letting these creatures hoard what little was left.

The confrontation was brutal and swift. The three of them, armed with their makeshift weapons, faced the Scorched. The foreign language of their enemies filled the air, a war cry that was chilling and alien.

Marrow swung his machete, the steel singing as it met with bones. Morgan’s hammer found its mark, and Scott’s hoe kept their adversaries at bay. They fought with desperation born of a dying world. One by one, the Scorched fell.

As the last of the enemies lay still, an eerie quiet settled over the grocery store once more. They had won, but the victory felt hollow. They had food, yes, but they had also taken a life, ensuring the memory of violence that had still lived on in the quiet aftermath of humanity’s slow extinction. They looked at each other, the weight of the end of an era settling around them, finding only a grim peace, even knowing they would see another sunrise.

-Nazara Heath

9.

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Salary Zombie

There was a pond I’d visit,

After work.

After my days end.

I would drop stones,

And sometimes coins, down from the dock.

 I liked watching them splash against the water.

And I loved watching the water ripple.

Little wavelets spreading until they hit the edges of the lake.

Change.

Change had always stumped me.

Change.

Everyday to work, I would wear the same-colored blazer and tie,

Khaki slacks, white shirt.

In my office, I am highly esteemed.

I got a 5% bonus in my last check.

Is this what appreciation, success, felt like?

Did it feel like 100 sleepless nights?

Did it feel like 1,000 hours in front of my computer?

God, it was cold.

Cold and lonely.

Cold and lonely,

And pathetic.

Numb.

Numb warmth helps.

Numb.

The view from the top of a bottle is always more enjoyable for me.

Its toasty.

And everything is still there as it was.

I can still think clearly.

But from the bottom of a bottle nothing is real,

A jumbled reality that I always confuse for a dream.

And I do sometimes wish it was,

That I could wake up from this.

Tired.

I’m so damned tired.

Tired.

I toss and mumble,

But never drop or tumble.

No sleep for two days,

My mind is in frays.

I duck my head under my pillow,

And pray to be taken,

But I can’t manage it.

I need a break

I need a raise

I need a,

Change

Change will always stump me.

Change,

Cannot be found without sacrifice.

Well, what can I sacrifice if I have nothing but this job?

Sacrifice requires giving up something,

In return for something else,

Something better.

So tell me, what is there to give up,

When I have

Nothing?

Nothing changes,

Nothing,

The pond.

The pond’s reflection does,

Since everyday,

the man I see In that reflection,

He gets weaker,

Uglier,

Older.

With that same,

Hesitant smolder.

-Jaxon Hewitt-Zmich

Salary Zombie – North Springs Media Blog

10.

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Spilled Lemonade

A wave of tiny gremlins, armed with balloon swords and sticky hands, charged towards me the moment I stepped onto the grounds of the fair. My heart was pounding, almost drowning out the music. I took a deep breath and dove headfirst into the madness, with one hand holding a clipboard and the other clutching flyers. I watched as bubbles popped in front of my face while my fists clenched, and within a blink, I was lost in a pool of screaming two-legged beasts.

“AAAH!” I screamed internally, and it hadn’t even been five minutes. I had volunteered to work at the local town’s fair to give back and partake in the community, but fate had other plans. My only goal: survive and somehow keep the sugar-crazed gremlins from stampeding me.

As I wandered past booths, I wore a mask of confidence pretending as though I knew what I was doing, but in reality, this was nothing but a facade. My clipboard transformed from a tool into a shield from eye contact. I hovered near the lemonade stand pretending to examine it for the fifth time. A flyer flew out of my hand. As I bent down to grab it, I crashed into a girl holding a pitcher. Two gallons of lemonade sloshed precariously on my arms, vest, and flyers. “Seriously?” I groaned as my eyes fixed on the disaster in front of me. This was supposed to be fun. How did it turn into total chaos?

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” the girl exclaimed. I glanced up and saw her rocking this gigantic floppy hat that swallowed half her face. She had this sheepish smile, like she’d been in the same mess, but somehow knew how to manage it.

“I’m Maya,” she said. “I swear, this hat has a mind of its own!” She started picking up my soggy papers.

“It’s okay, really!” I said. We burst out laughing, which eased the awkwardness. We introduced ourselves and cleaned up.

“I feel like I am wearing a sign that says ‘First-timer,’” I blurted out.

 “You are,” she winked. “We all are, so relax. Just keep moving forward; even if you’re stumbling all over the place.”

With Maya, I felt relaxed. I stayed near her stand for a while, handing out lemonade cups. She showed me how to spot families that needed help and how to dodge running kids. Together, we operated the lemonade stand, helped lost kids, and got ourselves swept away with smiles while helping strangers.

“You’re pretty good at this, you know?” Maya said as she stirred the lemonade.

“At what…lemonade stirring?” I replied.

“No, silly,” she smiled. “You’re not afraid to show up, even when it feels like a mess, and that’s what counts.”

I blinked, stunned. Her words hit me, and I gave up trying to fit in. I just … did.

Weeks went by and the fair became a distant memory, but the effect of it didn’t. I had spent years following a mental checklist of how to act: stay neat, stay silent, and above all, stay in control. I always held back and was careful all the time, afraid of doing something wrong or looking stupid. 

However, after the fair, something changed. I decided to sign up totally unprepared for pickleball and badminton, something I could hardly believe myself that I did. I still overthink sometimes, like when I didn’t know the rules or couldn’t serve straight. But like Maya said, I kept showing up. With each clumsy shot and awkward swing, I didn’t get mad, instead, I laughed with pure delight. And just as at the fair, I found joy not in being perfect, but in being present.

After the fair, I realized that life isn’t a spotless road: it’s full of spilled lemonade, missed serves, and way too much noise. For once, I’m not rushing to clean up spills or pick up fliers. I’m letting things be how they are.

-Jasmita Iragam

11.

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Inception

The night was a blur of shadows and silver light, the kind that twisted the edges of reality until dreams felt more alive than waking. She drifted between both worlds, half-asleep, half-awake, caught in the rhythm of something she could not name. The hum of bright lights outside her window pulsed like a heartbeat, steady, aching, familiar.

In her dreams, the walls shifted. Rooms folded into one another, endless corridors stretching toward a horizon that never came. Faces appeared-eight of them-strangers yet not. They moved like fragments of memory, silhouettes carved in smoke, reaching for her through the fog. Every motion was slow, deliberate, drenched in longing. Their eyes seemed to hold echoes of something lost, something she had once known but forgotten.

She felt the pull-gentle at first, then consuming. The air trembled with the weight of her heartbeat. Her reflection fractured in every mirror she passed, each version of herself chasing the next, searching for the place where dreams began. The room filled with light, sharp and golden, spilling over the walls like water.

A melody lingered there — soft, haunting. It grew louder as she walked, weaving through her mind like a secret only she could hear. Every note was a memory, every beat a whisper of what could have been. She reached out, fingers brushing against air that shimmered and dissolved.

The world bent. The floor became the sky, the ceiling an ocean. She fell upward, into the sound, into the rhythm of her own heartbeat echoing back to her from a thousand distant places. She saw them again-the eight shadows-standing beneath flickering lights, their movements synchronized like the ticking of a clock. They were calling her without words, reaching through the dream that separated them.

She wanted to wake up, but the dream clung tighter. It was too beautiful, too vivid, too real. Every breath she took seemed to deepen her sleep. The line between dreaming and living blurred until she no longer knew which side she stood on.

Somewhere, she remembered a promise to wake up, to let go but the music kept pulling her deeper. And in that endless fall, surrounded by fragments of light and memory, she understood this was her inception. Not the beginning of sleep, but the beginning of wanting-something unreachable, something that existed only in dreams.

When morning came, she lay still beneath the quiet glow of dawn. The song still echoed faintly in her chest, a trace of the dream she could not escape.

Her eyes opened, but part of her remained behind, lost in that place between reality and reverie where the eight shadows danced through the dark, and she was still dreaming of them.

-Alicia Nava

12.

*********************************************************************************************

More of a Human, Less of a Junkie

Shelter to shelter

Shuffling feet,

I’ve been up all day,

My body’s beat.

I sleep on the curb,

For just a couple nights.

I call my mom,

Said: “I don’t wanna fight.”

“Just maybe some help, mom, I’d be alright.”

The other end was silent,

And silent some more,

When she did answer, her voice was tight,

She said, “Son I love you, you know that,

But my home isn’t open, to human rats.”

“You ain’t my boy, you’re just my blood-

And it pains me to say this, but I hate your guts.”

I hung up the receiver, with shaky hands,

Shoulda told her: I’ve been clean, for this past week.

Shoulda told her I’m steadying up, changing my mind,

About this life.

Cus when I was a kid,

momma said I was bright.

I asked her, “Momma, Can I make it?”

She said, “You just might,

If I was in your shoes, I would be jumping.”

And jumping I am,

But not for joy.

My legs are quivering, from the cold.

And my throat is burning, from the heat.

 When I liftoff, I cant feel my feet.

Just the wind, as the space depletes.

The space between, the ground and me.

-Jaxon Hewitt-Zmich

13.

*********************************************************************************************

Inequitable Attention

There was no better mirror than your eyes,

And so I’ve not seen myself since you left.

Now I know what they mean

When they speak of tortured artists,

Because there is a beauty in the brokenness,

And comforting warmth in the fire.

It is not something you can recognize

Until you feel it in yourself.

Yes, I am drowning.

But feeling that comforting presence all around me

Is worth more than my breath.

Being held down by the water is still being held after all.

Sometimes late at night,

I wonder if you can feel that version of yourself

Living in my memories

Being shoved in a corner.

I wonder if you can smell the dust and decaying devotion.

I know if you had been inhaling that disregard as long as I have,

You would cry out and beg me to let you go.

But I’m afraid I wouldn’t understand.

You see,

The dust is my oxygen,

The rejection is my food,

And the loneliness is my blanket.

I look at you

Cramped into a small angry corner of my life,

And it does not seem cruel.

At least in my poisoned reminiscence,

You have somewhere to stay.

I have never had any lasting place in your mind.

I used to think that love was how I felt about you.

I’m learning that it was just desperation,

 Animalistic need wrapped up in the lies of a short childhood and silent houses.

When I was seven and hadn’t spoken to you in days,

How could I be a burden to you?

When I was nine and already had the eyes of a troubled teenager,

Did you not see yourself in me?

The only difference was this:

When we were awake at the same overlooked hours,

Your soul was far away looking for something more.

Mine was a few rooms away waiting for you to say you wanted me.

-Whitney Phillips

14.

*********************************************************************************************

Woven In Water

In the water’s face

Where the sky finds its own twin

A looking glass where the new world emerges

It captures the sun’s bright gold, the moon’s dull silver

Holding them captive in its waves

It ripples with emotion

Crashes with aversion

Waves with the flow of life

Reflecting moments in silence

A pond like polished glass

With a still mind, peaceful and unclouded

The ocean like a broken mirror

Scattered with cracks,

too complicated to fix.

A river always flowing with intent

Looking for somewhere to spew emotions out

So we gaze within the water’s depths

Seeking for a sliver of hope

In its shimmers, a gentle glow

At night, undisturbed, serene, and sincere

We still see reflections of a living dream

-Nazara Heath

15.

********************************************************************************************

Torrents

The torrent hammers on relentlessly, rattling the window frames and filling the darkened station with the sounds of a downpour that looms, forever overpowering. How long has it been, I wonder? It must have been quite a while, as I can’t say I much recognize some aspects of the station now that I return to it.

I step to my feet, running my hands over the rough worn brick. The walls carry a similar weariness to that which they held before, each lamenting their unfortunate place as they bear the weight of the downpour upon the ever-empty subway. New to me, though, are the odd shadows that I find on the floor. They lie dramatically, poised with their sharp edges jutting out in stark contrast to the softened walls of the unassuming old station. I try and keep my distance from them if possible.

In the haze of darkness, the deep red bricks find themselves awash in shades of blue cast from the clouds looming just outside the windows. There’s a moodiness to the place that I find ever so appealing, somewhere isolated, far away from the world. Thoughts pour from my head, trailing into ideas unimaginable, all on my lonesome.

And yet, there’s a stagnation to the place that I find frightening. The station is safe in its solitude, yes, but the shadows let slip their hunger in the way they creep over the course of a night. Though slow, I fear they might swallow me alive if I let myself go too far.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot one of the many dilapidated clocks about the station finally beginning to tick to life. It stutters and sputters as its cobweb-clogged cog work struggles to muster enough power to even count at all, let alone count any known measurement of time. No matter the rhythm the clocks choose, they’re all simply counting down to the only train that runs through this place, the humble midnight train.

The station begins to stir gently to life, a quiet chorus of ticking slowly growing into a staggered cacophony of machine song. A single jarring beam of light races down the subway tracks, cutting cleanly through the dim haze of the sleepy station. The bricks breathe a shuddering sigh, trembling ever so slightly as the train hurtles towards its final stop.

I step to the edge of the tracks, with only a few moments left to midnight.

As the clocks all finally begin to synchronize,

                                                 speaking in reverence of the train they foretell,

                                    My breath

catches in the air….

-Carson Mayekse

16.

*********************************************************************************************

Dead Silence

I was a woman,
I did live a usual life.
Though I may not look like one,
Though I might not look like I have.

I once had strength.
Now, I all but lack it.
The strength to find light in any crevice of my life.
The strength to look ahead,
The strength to walk.
The strength to move my measly legs.

I was a woman.
I did live a fulfilling life.
Though you may not believe me.
Since I can hardly believe myself.

I once had love.
But love has left me now.
I am far too ghastly,
Far too upsetting to look at.
My family has stopped visiting,
They would stare into me—through me—I would stare back.
It would only be a couple seconds until they would begin crying.
Crying, not for me, but because of me.

Because they believed me to be a shell,
A human body, lacking its human soul.
In reality, I only lacked a larynx,
And a few bricks of my brain.

I was a woman, a beautiful one.
And I lived a life, a rather short one.
I accept that.
Accept that I will never be able to live that same way,
To Walk, to speak, to think.
To Love.
And to be loved that same way.

I hold my breath,
And I gaze to the ceiling, in the darkness of my room,
Imagining the white popcorn ceiling, as the night sky
The little white flecks, as the stars.
And the beeping monitor, the chirping of crickets.
As time climbs forward,
the crickets shrink quieter.
And quieter,

Quieter.

Quiet.

-Jaxon Hewitt-Zmich

Dead Silence – North Springs Media Blog

17.

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The Truth Never Came

As a young girl, I grew up watching shows that painted the picture of a “perfect” household. The Loud House, KC Undercover, Jessie. Each one had a mother, a father, and siblings. The parents showed love for each other and their children.

On the screen, life was orderly, predictable, and warm, like the sunlight spilling through the kitchen window. But when the television clicked off, reality was different. It was just me, my mother, and my grandparents. My father was somewhere else, a shadowy figure in the background of my life. Those shows made me crave something I did not have, but they also gave me a vision of what love could look like, even if I had to find it in my own way. 

I remember the summers I spent with him, his wife, and my two older brothers. Those visits felt like stepping into someone else’s story, the one I was meant to be a part of but could never fully belong to.

I noticed how close my brothers were to my dad, how they had these little jokes and ways of talking that I did not understand. I just felt out of place, like being the new kid at school trying to fit into a group that had already been friends forever. I wished someday we could have our own jokes that I could understand, moments I could be part of.

Then without warning, the visits stopped. Three years passed before I saw him again. I was angry that he could live his life knowing he had a daughter only a few hours away but choose to do nothing until it was convenient for him. I was angry that my brothers had the family dynamic I had wanted my entire life and that they could have him as a father. To this day they will never understand what was like to be the “other child.”

That anger was there but it also made me see the truth. I could not control his choices, only my response to them. 

He never explained why he left, and the truth never came. When he returned, he tried to fill the gap with gifts and gestures, as if love could be measured in objects rather than honesty. I wanted him to care in ways that mattered, not just show up with presents. I wanted honesty, consistency, and time, not illusions. For a while, it worked — it was all sunshine and rainbows, but the illusion faded quickly. I realized I did not know the man at all.

Even in his presence, he felt like a stranger. His expectations, his rules, his conditional love made it clear that the family I had imagined on screen with the laughter, the shared traditions, the warmth, was not mine to have. I had to reconcile the childhood I wanted with the life I was living. I envied the families I saw on TV for a moment, but eventually I let that desire go. My reality was not about what I lacked; it was about what I could build for myself. 

Through it all I learned that fatherhood is more than a title, it is a choice. Being present, being consistent, showing care are the markers of a real dad. My father’s absence, both in time and in emotional presence, taught me the importance of stability and the value of self-resilience. I became my own measure of love, my own anchor, and in that space, I discovered strength I did not know I had.

Anne Geddes once said, “Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.” I understand now that fatherhood is not automatically given; it is earned through presence, consistency, and care. My father’s absence shaped me, but it does not define me. The resilience, independence, and courage I built in those empty spaces became my inheritance and learning how to stand on my own. I also learned something more important:

Family is not only what you are born into, it is what you choose to build. 

–Amirah Roberts

18.

*********************************************************************************************

The Chosen

A frantic exchange of whispers filled the air as we desperately assessed our incomplete chores. The dust seemed to multiply endlessly, the television’s glow remained constant. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes and the beds lay unmade. A glimmer of hope appeared as Father fumbled with his keys outside, his tall, thin frame hunched over in the fading light. Seizing the opportunity, my younger sister bolted up the stairs, the rest of us hot on her heels. 

The struggle for the remaining bed intensified as my elder and middle brothers jostled for position. With each disappearing child, a bed vanished, leaving an unsettling imbalance. The chilling memory of a previous night surfaced, where two children were ‘chosen’ but only one bed remained. The unanswered question lingered: where did the vanished children go? 

The clock’s relentless chime pierced through my thoughts, a stark reminder of the dwindling time. Fear gnawed at me as I tucked myself into bed, awaiting the inevitable. Father’s elongated shadow loomed ominously over the doorway, casting an eerie darkness over the room.

My middle brother, left huddled on the floor, trembled in terror. A horrifying transformation contorted his features – his skin turned slimy and pallid, his eyes replaced by hollow sockets, his skull visible beneath taut skin. 

A chilling realization dawned upon me: who was Father truly? 

The question remained unanswered as my middle brother’s desperate pleas for mercy were silenced by Father’s sinister actions. In the blink of an eye, my brother was ‘chosen’, his life force extinguished. The horrifying reality of our existence settled upon me, a chilling testament to the terrifying truth of our lives.

It is only a matter of time before I am chosen. 

-Elizabeth Howard Jackson

19.

*********************************************************************************************

Voicemail

The voicemail was short: 

“Don’t look outside.” 

Confused, she peeked through the blinds anyways. 

Her street was empty- except for a figure standing under the streetlight, holding a phone to its ear.  

Her own phone buzzed again. 

New voicemail- 

A whisper this time- 

“I said don’t look.” 

-Kelsie Barrett

20.

*********************************************************************************************

The Inevitable

Midnight is inevitable,

Each day must come to an end.

Each day with you is hoping that you make it to the next.

The clock started counting down the moment you stopped being able to walk up the stairs.

12 minutes.

I can’t imagine life without you.

You slip on the hardwood, your dull claws grasping for something to pull yourself back up with.

11 minutes.

The inevitable grows closer.

We’ve been each other’s whole lives.

From your six-months old and my three-years old

To your 12-years old and my 15-years old.

Watching your face slowly grow tired and withered,

Watching your eyes become cloudy.

10 minutes.

Watching you lose any coordination you used to have.

Watching you start to forget things.

Watching you lose the urge to fight whatever is slowly consuming your body.

10 minutes turns into 9.

9 turns into 8.

The minutes pass inconsistently.

I’m never sure when the clock will count down another minute.

I have no concept of when the clock may hit zero,

And that’s the scariest part of it all.

-Anneke Howard-Smith

The Inevitable – North Springs Media Blog

21.

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From Novice to Legendary

I fall asleep but wake up hours later because it’s daytime. I take a shower and get dressed for
school. Then I make myself breakfast. After finishing breakfast and opening my front door, I
realize I’m on an F1 racetrack. Nah, just kidding…

Anyway, seriously, I open the door and realize I’m in a medieval fantasy world.”What the
heck…?”

I stare, amazed. What am I doing here in this world, man? Am I dreaming, or is this
real? I don’t think so. I’m dreaming… Well, there’s no school for me.

Womp! I throw down my backpack and cautiously begin to explore the new world I’ve arrived in.

I keep walking and say to myself, “If I’m in a medieval fantasy world, shouldn’t I have an
inventory of beginner weapons or just an inventory of basic resources to survive?”

My theory was correct. In my right hand, I did have an inventory, but with beginner’s resources and
weapons of the same type. Seeing these resources, I exclaim, “Well, then it would be like a
medieval magic game”

…umm, unfortunately, I’m not a fan of these games.

“Oh well, I guess my life will be short then, being here,” I say to myself.

I remind myself that I have the power and privileges of the protagonist. I know how to survive because I’ve seen people play these games, and I’ll use that knowledge to reach the end.

“I think I can reach the end. Well, a training session wouldn’t hurt, and then a princess from a distant kingdom will kiss me.”

Okay, time to start my training session about how to go from novice to legendary, like I’m a
medieval video game player. (Spoiler alert: I’m not, because I won’t survive to get there, and I don’t play
medieval fantasy games because I’m an F1 fan).

Anyway, days and nights I did my training, collecting food, resources, and high-quality materials to improve my
weapon, which is a sword. From facing level 30 beasts to level 60, I keep gaining Experience Points
to reach the highest level in this medieval fantasy world.

After weeks of recovery and leveling up, I reach rank A. Being Rank A, I can now make my journey to an unknown realm, or perhaps magical lands. I store my things in my magical inventory, which is in my right hand, and begin that journey, spending days and nights walking in unknown magical lands of this medieval world. But I also make some detours since I have to help some villagers and novice warriors a lot, but in return I
receive a reward of magical potions, upgrades, gold coins, and other small materials.

As I continue walking, I put on a balaclava to cover my face and thus be more mysterious,
creating an aura to frighten my rivals and admirers. Upon reaching a path in a dense forest,
I hear sounds of battle and tears, as if someone is calling for help in the middle of a
storm.

I start running towards the scene and see a half-burned carouse that had been
attacked, and inside, two women who are guardians of the princess. They are tied up
with the princess, as some bandits were going to do very bad things to
them. With my stealth and agility, I knock these bandits to sleep one by one and untie the
three women.

They ask, “Who are you, mysterious masked warrior?”

I, in a serious and youthful voice, reply, “Just a novice warrior who helped you with your problem.”

The two guardians introduce themselves as Julia and Alice. The princess’s name is Athena. I introduce
myself as “the warrior Xavier (Xavi) Zapata.”

Some time later, I grow accustomed to the traditions of the Kingdom of Munich. Athena’s parents give me their approval and recognition for saving their daughter. They tell me there would be a great battle the next day and they need my help.

That night, I am looking at the stars. After staring into space, Princess Athena appears and asks me,
“Are you afraid to do this?”

I replied, “There’s no fear I could have, but if I do it with fear, do it with fear.” The princess reflected on my words, but for me, it was a life-or-death decision. Besides, if I win the battle, her parents will give me her hand in marriage.

The princess leaves the balcony, but I’m still reflecting on that battle.” Shortly before midnight, I ask myself if I can save that kingdom, and more importantly, save the princess and her parents.

Hours later, it’s daytime, but the clouds cover the sun. Despite the overcast sky, I arrive at the battle site. It’s green hills, and there’s no one there but me, with my silver sword in hand, ready to attack. Suddenly, the
enemy warriors arrive, an army of about 50,000 men. I sharpen my sword, ready to defend
and attack. “If I die, you die with me, filthy humans!” As I rush to attack, reinforcements
from Munich arrive to my side, and we attack with ferocity and determination.

After hours of intense battle against 50,000 men of the enemy kingdom, we win the battle
with only 10,000 from the Kingdom of Munich, suffering about 30 dead and 1,000 wounded.
I raise my sword high, signifying that this battle has been won with blood and sweat.

Days later, Athena’s parents give me their daughter’s hand in marriage, so it
is worth it for me being just a common Class A warrior! At night there is a
banquet and a celebration for that victory.

A week later, in the church, everything was white since it was the wedding day. I stood serenely in an elegant gentleman’s suit, knowing that I was to be the future king of Munich.

Wedding music plays, resonating in the church with its guests. The door opens, and there is Athena,
the princess of Munich, in her elegant white dress, arriving alongside the king and the
bridesmaids. Minutes later, the vows are said, and I respond seriously, “I, Xavier Zapata, I
promise you that I will be by your side in sickness and in health, and if this kingdom falls
into another war, I will die knowing that I did the right thing.”

Athena says her vows, and after she finishes, the priest says, “You may kiss the bride.” And with a nervous smile, I do.

On a starry night, I’m dancing with my wife by moonlight, just twelve minutes to midnight,
when suddenly I hear Athena say, “Zapata, wake up.” Confused, I keep dancing with her,
and she continues in her soft voice, “It’s a dream, Zapata, wake up.” She kisses my lips and
says, “Just open your eyes, Zapata, and I’ll always be in your dreams, like that princess
waiting for her knight.”

Suddenly, I wake up with a start. My cat is licking my face, and everything seems normal. When I look at the clock on my shelf, I see it’s midnight. So, I only slept twelve minutes, but I know it was weeks in the dream.

-Jose Zapata

22.

*********************************************************************************************

Escape the Cabin!

I was jolted awake.

I looked around and saw nothing. It was pitch black.

I felt my surroundings, it was cold, smooth, soft, bumpy, and…leathery? I squeezed it, and it freed from my grasp.

Gasp! The lights flick on; I could finally see. I was in a wooden cabin with four other people. To my left was a blonde, white little girl in a light blue nightgown. She was hugging her legs and looking at me. I’m guessing she was the owner of the shoe I grabbed. To my right was an older man. He was black, bald, and looking like he was in his 50s. He wore a sharp, brown suit with a matching pillbox hat lying on his head. Diagonal to me was a young man, mid-20s, dressed in joggers, a t-shirt, and a beanie. Across from me was a young woman, probably mid-20s as well. She was garbed in a pink sweater and light blue jeans, ripped.

The young man started banging on the windows. The little girl covered her ears, and her face
twisted in distress.

“Hey, stop that,” I instructed him. I scooched to her, “Are you okay?”

She removed her hands and nodded.

“Maybe we can find a quieter and rational solution?” I suggested
to the young man.

“It looks like an escape room,” The young woman chimed in. “Let’s try to solve it in the room before taking drastic measures,” she suggested. “I’m Ava, by the way.”

“Arnold Buckeneer,” the older man declared.

“Max,” the young man announced.

“Jade,” I introduced myself. We all looked at the little girl waiting for her answer. “Destiny,” She whispered.

“Well, since we’re all acquainted, let’s escape this room,” Ava commanded. “Pick a side of the room to search.”

“Wait, who put you in charge?” Max argued. “I mean, if you guys don’t want to go
home, feel free to talk among yourselves about who’s in ‘charge, ’” she said, ending in air quotes.

“Thank you,” Max said, crossing his arms. “Wait.” “There’s no need to argue. Let’s just escape
the room,” Arnold continued, “Agreed?” “Agreed,” Max responded with a nod.

We start feeling the walls, checking the objects in the room, flipping over paintings until…
TICK!!

We all look at the clock. It reads 11:48. “That’s a weird time,” I thought.

There was another click, but was coming from everywhere.

“Welcome to 12 minutes to midnight!” a voice said. “You have until that clock reads 12 o’clock to escape the room. If you fail to make the time, you will be eliminated.”

“Eliminated?!” Ava and I shouted in unison.

The automated voice continued, “Your time starts in 3…”

I take a deep breath.

“2…”

I looked around.

“1…”

We all make eye contact and nod.

“NOW!”

We quickly start searching the room. Even Destiny was helping.

10 seconds go by.

“I FOUND SOMETHING!!” Max screamed.

“What is it?” I said as we all walk over to him.

“It’s a paper taped to a box. It looks like…a word puzzle?” Max described.

“Well, what does it say?” Ava asked.

“It says, ‘What do these have in common? Attorney, Surgeon, Inspector, Secretary, and Postmaster.’ \” Max narrated. “With ‘seven-letter word’ stamped to it. And there’s a keyboard connected to the box.”

“Attorney, Surgeon, Inspector, Secretary, and Postmaster?” I repeated.

“Yes,” Max answered. “What do those have in common?” I thought to myself.

“Well, think about this, there are all occupations that have levels to them. So maybe they all have the same ranking. Like Chief.” Arnold explained.

“But it needs to have seven letters,” Ava explained.

“Wait, how are we going to put the answer in?” Arnold asked.

“You’re right. Maybe there’s a keyboard of some sort around here. Everybody scatter,” I suggested.

We scattered around the room. I look at the clock. It shows 11:50. “10 more minutes,” I think.

“I think I found something,” Destiny whisper-shouted.

“What is it?” I said calmly. Destiny pointed to a safe she found behind the painting. It had a keypad and a white “7” painted on it.

“Great job!” I praised her. “You guys come look at this,” I said, waving them over.

“Maybe this is where we put the answer,” Ava said.

“Look,” Max pulled out a card wedged in the painting frame. He read, “‘14 digits, 3 tries,’” he continued. “What? 14 digits?”

“Isn’t that a little much?” I asked.

“Not if you’re doing it the old-fashioned way,” Arnold suggested. I made my way to the safe. “It was General, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ava answered.

“To make a word, you would have to click the corresponding number a certain amount of times to get the letter you needed.” He explained this while pressing the buttons quickly, sometimes hitting the same one four times. “It’s called a multi-tap. Or, as they said back in my day, texting.”

The safe clicked open. “And that’s how it’s done,” he said, sounding satisfied.

Inside the safe was a crowbar and a game of… Operation?

-MayLah Beacham

23.

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Another Day In The Grim Reaper’s Memoir

Have you ever wondered how the trees sway, and the tides of water move?

Have you ever wondered how the blossoms die and then get to bloom?

Have you ever wondered how snow comes and how you get Christmas gifts?

Have you ever even wondered how time works and moves?

Well, the short answer is:

It’s me.

If you haven’t figured it out who “me” is,

then to be utterly blunt.

it is I, the Grim Reaper

who controls time.

Were you expecting me to be Santa Claus or something

because I brought up Christmas and gifts?

Ha!

That would be hilariously stupid.

This isn’t some Christmas story because I brought it up one time.

That would be ludicrous if–

Wait…

You didn’t really think I was Santa Claus,

or that this was a Christmas story, did you?

Well,

I hope you didn’t

but if you did, there’s something wrong with your head…

Seriously, no one wants to listen to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” all year round.

Even I wouldn’t do that,

and I’ve actually grown fond of the song over the years.

But if you do listen to it year-round,

I’m concerned for you…

Anyway,

like I was saying,

I control time. I make sure day and night happen.

I make sure the seasons change, and I do it with the gears.

For you see, time is like a

big clockwork

and it works just like a normal clock, too.

But it doesn’t work with just some batteries or a mainspring.

I control it and make it move,

and telling time isn’t the only thing this clock can do.

You see, while I many turn the gears, I’m still

the Grim Reaper

and I handle death as well.

To put it in simple terms,

every living person has a clock.

I don’t mean it as a Metaphor either.

I literally mean

that all living things have their own small clocks

that go on

and tick forever technically.

Which is where I come in.

I decide how long a clock goes and when to stop it.

I am what keeps the world going and turning.

I am the one who knows how many ticks you have left.

So be careful what you do

because your time is ticking, and you’ll

never know

when your clock

will —

-Carolyn Turner

Another Day In The Grim Reaper’s Memoir – North Springs Media Blog

24.

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A Lack of Time

Many say they lack the time

Wishing I could turn back mine

But I refuse to let such fears

Hold back my dreams or drown my tears

Each breath I take is a brand-new start

A path for change, a work of art

With hope as my guide and strength in my soul

I face each day, ready and whole.

-Carolyn Turner

25.

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                                                these inflictions

cut yourself to shreds and

watch life’s sickly wine

ooze out from beneath you

deprive the prowling beast inside you

you what it needs—let it sit in

its own emptiness and void

engulf in lies the voice

 tells you as it lures you away

into the fleeting bliss, that boosts your

thoughts away

it is a prison with no walls, a soul-

sucking pit that is endless,

a volatile and abusive relationship

these inflictions are much

worse than your average addictions

they will chew and spit you out

like you were meant to be tossed away,

yet have you crawling back

like a toxic lover or a hopelessly loyal

dog

for these inflictions will gnaw at

your brain and destroy who you are

as a person

so let the scars soften and sigh in relief,

let the beast be comforted and hushed

with sweet nothings, and let your

aching spirit forget the craving

it once had

as these inflictions want the same as

the prediction already crafted

for you—to watch you crumble and

break from distraught and rot

into something you are not

-Anaya Overton

26.

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Broken Vinyl

I am many things.

Awkard, quiet, occasionally silly.

But they can all be combined into one thing

A vinyl.

Played one too many times,

Now scratchy and quiet.

Whether people liked the sound of me,

Talking, laughing.

Or if they liked to play with me,

Spin me back and forth,

Play me in reverse,

Just to see what odd,

Distorted sound I’d make.

For their own twisted pleasure.

And I’d let them.

And I’d do it all over again,

Just for their love,

Their adoration.

Scratchy and distorted.

And they know it.

I’ve been played to the point where I’ve almost stopped caring altogether.

So what if people like to play me in reverse?

After all,

That might be

All

I’m good for.

-Anneke Howard-Smith

27.

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Tick Tock

“This is it…” He thinks to himself, setting out his homework in front of him. He’s got an essay to write before tomorrow, and he can’t fail this assignment.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

His pencil trembles feebly against the ever blank paper, blank like a tundra, an unwelcoming landscape with horrors unseen, lying in wait beneath the snow. No! He shakes away the thought, trying to think of a good idea for his essay.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He lifts the tip of his pencil from the page, thinking. He stares at the paper, deep in thought.

That horrible, white paper. White like the milky sclera of an eyeball, waiting to turn around and stare through him in the horrible way it always does. Just waiting to pounce on him… he knows it’s going to happen… no!

He shakes the thought away yet again.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He places his pencil back down, as aimless as before. That page, stark white, fades to bleary greys and reds as the shock of the flashbang wears away.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

No! He can’t fail here. He shakes away the bleariness in his mind.

Back against a wall, ears full of a shrill ringing that drowns out the warfare around him, he pulls out a scrap of paper.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

A sharp X marks where he stands. The enemy can’t be far… He draws a long, waving line to where he’s sure the enemy must be.

Large blobs represent the fire and rubble about. A few more X’s here and there, where his allies must be, and that’s that. He grabs a piece of rebar nearby.

Tock, tock, tock, tock…

His rebar cane makes a loud noise with each step he takes. Pain rips through his body, fire singing his hair, but he knows he must finish the mission no matter what.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

The enemy stands, clapping his hands. “You’ve done well! I’m surprised you survived that blast. You won’t survive this one!”

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock!

All of a sudden, a hundred red lights fill the room, like the glare of a thousand spiders in their den.

The bite that these bombs pack is far more deadly than any poison of any spider.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…!!!

The room is filled with a sound like no other, the hundreds of bombs creating a cacophony of harrowing noise as they approach detonation.

Time seems to slow down as he rushes towards the man.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick ,tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick….

In one final rush, he uses the last of his strength to bring his rebar cane down on the man…

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick ,tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick ,tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.!

Bang!

The bombs all detonate behind him, sending him flying, but he’s finished the job.

He lies on the ground with a smile on his face. He finished the job. He closes his eyes, slowly drifting off after a job well done.

Tick, tock, tick, tick, tock, tick…                          

BRRRIIIIININNGGGG!!!!!!

The weary soldier awakens, turning off his alarm, and he stares down at the essay he wrote.

The next day, it’s hard for him to explain to his teacher why his essay about the Renaissance is actually a plan to assassinate an enemy general.

-Carson Mayeske

Tick Tock – North Springs Media Blog

28.

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You Make Me Want to Try

I can’t write,
I’m an awful poet.
I lack the motivation to learn,
To rhyme.

But you make me want to try.
I have all these feelings,
About you,
That make me want to try.

I’m way better at just writing paragraphs and letters.
But poetry…
It’s different.
I can’t find the words.

I go to write and suddenly
My mind is b l a n k

Rhymes escape me,
My tongue becomes tied.
Metaphors allude me,
My brain feels fried.

I’m an awful poet,
I really can’t write.
I can’t find the words,
But you make me want to try.

-Anneke Howard-Smith

29.

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Time Stood Still

Gene had been running. Every pounding footfall had been a desperate fight for survival, her heart thundering with the knowledge that everything depended on her speed. The cold winter air had a sharp sting at the back of her throat as she hid behind abandoned cars, still gasping for breath. She had run like her life depended on it. She didn’t stop, because it did. 

It had only been three months since the lights went out across the world, and a universal hard reboot of all the household robots began. Three months since the technology that the past would’ve worshipped became the opponent –No, not opponent. That would imply humans had a chance. The robots had become predators.  

She had been moving for days, unable to catch a break from the constant game of chase with the metallic monstrosities, and at that moment, she had two of them on her trail. She knew her brief hiding spot wouldn’t do much for long, so she pushed back from the vehicle, shook off the weighted feeling of fear, and ducked in and out of dark roads, finally making it to the edge of the city. 

The people used to call it “The Abandon”, seeing as it had become a junkyard of the past, piling higher and higher over time with things from long ago, echoes of a time when everything was simpler. She admired the trashed, heaped beauty, rotting and forgotten. She longed to be living in another life, one where she could roam through the pile of curiosity that she had stumbled upon.  

Despite her poorly timed daydreaming, Gene snapped back when she saw it. Staring at her from just beyond the Abandon was the large, looming figure of a once burnished household robot, now falling apart and just…waiting. Waiting for her to do something. 

God, had they always looked so animalistic?  

As it watched her, she watched it in return. She took a steady, slow step backwards, holding her breath, never breaking eye contact with the metallic creature. The sudden snap of scrap crunching beneath her heel nearly sent her reeling, causing her to whip her head down in a panic. Her attention shot back up to the killing machine now charging toward her at a startling speed.  

Gene swiftly turned and darted further into the towering piles of junk that made up the Abandon, cursing under her breath the whole way before deciding she didn’t want profanity to be her final choice of words. 

A sharp, blood-curdling screech emitted from several feet behind. It reverberated eerily off the discarded metal surrounding her, causing her breathing to quicken as she lifted herself over a collapsed metal beam. She winced as she hit the ground face-first with a loud thud, rolling over, and scrambling to lift herself up. Half-limping forward, she spotted an open door on a rusted, boxy contraption on wheels.

Without much thought, she dove through the open door and slammed it shut behind her, hearing the awful sound closing in on her. She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes, leaning her back against the torn leather seat she appeared to be sitting on. 

“My name is Genesis Sol,” she spoke shakily to herself, or maybe she was speaking to someone else.

She had never believed in God, but better late than never, she supposed.

“I am a child of the year 2163 and on behalf of the human race…I’m sorry.” She looked out the door window and sighed, slumping in defeat as the creature came into view. “Seriously, dude. I’m so sorry.” 

She clenched her fists, bracing herself for the brutal impact of the oncoming deformed automaton.

It never came.

It simply stared at her through the window, seemingly cautious of the machine she was taking cover in. It paced back and forth in front of the window before rolling back a few feet.

Its beady black eyes flickered before glowing a dark red one illuminated brighter than the other. It projected a large red line over the rusted, decaying machine she had claimed as her hiding place, seemingly scanning it.

“What…?” she mumbled as she watched it with confusion. 

Its lights flickered back off, returning to their previous state as a distorted voice crackled through the broken speaker on its chest.

“CRRRSHT…UNIDENTIFIED O-O-BJECT…CRRRSHT.” 

Scooting back in her seat, she observed the threat as its head swayed back and forth softly, as if it were trying to process what to do next. A low, crackling hum emanated from its core like the growl of a large, threatened dog as it slowly backed away further into the Abandon, skulking back towards the city.

Gene had been holding her breath. She let a long, sharp exhale leave her lungs as she slumped further into the seat. She considered getting up and moving, to keep on running, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. She just sat there.

What would she even do when she left? Yeah, she’d made it this far, but they’d just find her again and slaughter her like they’d done to others a thousand times before.

But… it was different now, somehow. This was different. The nightmarish thing hadn’t killed her despite having a perfectly good opportunity. Nothing had ever stopped them before…what had changed?

She finally took the time focus on her surroundings, the harsh smell of rust and something sour finally sinking in, causing her to grimace.

There was another seat identical to hers beside her, a wheel-like device in front of it that was partially falling off and into the seat, hanging on by open cables and wires. As she turned her head in the vehicle, she discovered a small row of two seats behind her towards the back. Intrigued, she crawled out of her seat, trying to ignore the small insect she saw scurry out as she slipped into the back.

As she lay down, her back flat on the withering leather, Gene stared up in awe at the sky, stars shining through the broken top, the brightest she’d ever seen. Really, it was one of the only times she’d ever seen them, seeing as he city lights were always too bright to ever find much out in the sky.

But everyone was gone now; nobody to turn the lights on, nobody to keep things up and running, nobody to tell about the end of humanity. But there she was, alone, alive, and feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long while, even before this man-made world all went to hell.

Hope. An overwhelming sense of hope was swelling in her chest that she’d never truly felt before.

She smiled up at the stars, and the stars smiled back; the ruined world around her held her tight in reassurance, and for the first time in her existence, time stood still.

-Milea Hibberd

30.

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City in a Forest

City in a forest, swell beneath Appalachia.

Where Chattahoochee roars past towering skyscrapers,

And Coyotes cry to Delta overhead, blinking in the night.

City in a forest, heart of Piedmont.

Sprawling train tracks meet Kudzu-covered hills,

Hope and opportunity tucked within the valleys.

City in a forest, settled under Peachtree shade.

Trombone wails on the busy street corner,

Harmonizing with Thrasher and Chickadee.

City in a forest, pride of old Dixie, the Deep South.

Live Oaks remember the weight of Strange Fruit on their branches,

Pruned by a king who dreamt of greener pastures.

City in a forest, grounded by concrete and red clay.

Olympic torch illuminates the path towards a bright future.

-Inaya Diop

City in a Forest – North Springs Media Blog

31.

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Now is the Time

Her eyes are endless pools, which she wishes she could drown in. Before her, on a laminated school desk, lies a smatter of creased papers, each crammed with an illegible amount of numbers, symbols, and words. She has no idea of the time or how long she has remained unmoving, simply rereading the notes over and over and over. The picture of a perfect, obedient pupil—or at least that’s what she tells herself. 

She remembers enjoying this once, the way the numbers satisfyingly slid into their slots to solve the equation at hand, studying the intricate steps of mitosis and the incredible phenomena of the human body. A delicious turmoil of color, power, and impenetrable light those early years were. Everyday something new—crackling atoms, forgotten cities, ancient texts—each subject, idea, topic a glittering trove of curiosities. Those days she felt full, purposeful. 

Yet now… 

She shakes her head. Now is not the time to think about such things. Now is never the time. 

She picks up a leaflet, runs her nail under the spiraled cursive. 

The rate at which a wheel is turning is given by a differentiable function R… 

She tries to focus, but quietly, softly, within the dark clouds and tendrils of hidden despair, the words are there along with sorrow. Like little birds they flutter against the warped bars of her mind, delicate wings beating against the carefully crafted cage she trapped them in. She shakes her head a second time, trying to rid herself of their sweet luring song, trying to block out the lilting tune, trying to just focus. 

She huffs out a sigh. She starts from the top. Again. 

Somewhere a clock chimes. The sun sails another inch. A lonely oak shivers. Another hour has gone by.

She finishes the problem, moves onto another, then another. It feels good—utterly numbing—to have the numbers flow through her and be able to find the exact answer, the right and sole solution. Here, she thinks, life isn’t as complicated. Here life makes sense and is as it should be.

Sit, listen, solve. 

Her heart thrums in her chest, repeating the same steady ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump—a continuous rhythmic cycle much like life; both two things will one day be silenced and end. 

She circles her final answer, checks it with the key. 

She is wrong.

Feverishly, the lead marking is erased.

A slight ripple in her silence, like a pebble dropped into a sleeping lake. Plip. Then another and another. Plip, plip, plip. The birds start chirping again—stirred by the sleeting rain. Their shrill voices ricochet off the smooth interior of the girl’s skull and begin to slowly climb in volume. 

She pauses. 

The penciled words in front of her start deteriorating before her eyes as a cascade of sounds starts hailing down, assaulting her ears and engulfing her thoughts. The chaos builds—hundreds, thousands, millions of tiny beaks chirping and chanting together, wings flapping and straining, a waterfall of trepidation—

Her head swarms in the catastrophic, cacophonic symphony.

She can’t think—can’t breathe—

Images of her future shatter through her consciousness, each successive picture more crystalized than the last.

She sees herself a few months from now sitting across from the bolstered platform at graduation. Her name is called. She stands, gown swishing, cords bobbing, black heels clicking along the polished floor, as hundreds of students and parents murmur to themselves. She shakes a sweaty outstretched hand and takes her diploma. Her four hard-worked years reduced to a smooth, flimsy paper, printed from a copying machine. 

She looks out into the audience searching for the three familiar faces she knows are watching, but sees only shadow. She blinks rapidly at the blinding lights and for a moment forgets why she is there or who she is. How did she get here? What is her name? Why is she holding this strange paper? 

The preceding darkness seems to quiver in answer, then starts advancing towards her, ready to gobble her up—snuff out her light. She takes a hesitant step back as a cold, featherlight hand falls on her elbow and gently nudges her. 

She snaps back to reality. 

The girl’s eyes follow the other students as they successively are called to participate in the ceremony. Over and over, the ritual is performed. 

The final student sits. A booming voice starts the countdown. Three, two, one. Hundreds of hats take to the sky like newborn birds trying to take flight. The crowd’s roar is deafening. 

Several months later, a summer passed, the girl sees herself standing at the door to her first college class. She wears light makeup, low-rise jeans and a soft black tank top—a basic outfit she thought would help her blend in easily, look as if she belonged. With her new backpack strung on one shoulder and several books in hand, she strolls into the dimly lit lecture room and takes a seat in the middle row. 

She sits, listens, solves—repeats. It is all she does when she wakes and before she sleeps. 

Somehow, within the blur, she makes friends, has her first kiss, and tries a sip of alcohol. She laughs and smiles, feeling mostly content. Day, night, day she devoutly studies her books like a dedicated acolyte praising an altar. She lives and breathes calculus, eats and drinks chemistry. Her mind is a cluttered mess of due dates, grades, and half-finished thoughts. 

She rarely has time for hobbies or friends or vacation and only sees her family on occasion. She is tired…so, so, so tired… but will never admit it to herself, so she trudges on, not stopping for a second to pause or listen to the twittering birds. 

On the days her dreams swirl, she blows them away. To her, they have become pestering gnats, a constant hushed buzz in her ear. Now is not the time, she hisses at them, shooing them away with waving hands. 

Yet they return each day. They distract her during class, during lunch, during studying hours—they distract her till she is overcome with simmering anger. 

One day she decides to finally put an end to it. She snatches her dreams midflight and shoves them into tiny jars, then crafts an ebony shelf in the furthest corner of her mind to store them on. Unattainable, not possible, she seethes at the flashes of color in midnight capsules before turning around and not looking back. 

Four years later, she is again seated before a stage—though this time it is nicer; there is music and balloons. She stands, walks up on the platform, shakes a sweaty hand, takes the extended diploma, walks back down the stairs to her seat, and sits. Another four years of her life summarized with a few inked words on paper. 

After the ceremony, three familiar faces bob up and down like little buoys as they make their way through the sea of people towards her. Her dad, mom, and brother. She honestly cannot remember the last time she saw them. 

More months later, yet another summer passed, she is standing outside the first class of her graduate school program. Her life becomes a fever dream—she rarely gets a break, and is always suffocated by a never-ending spiral of papers. Drowning. She is drowning.

Her friends, family, and hobbies are again sacrificed at the cost of her endless hunger for knowledge. A thin layer of dust has settled on the tops of her bottled dreams. They rattle in their glass cages and, with shrieking voices, beseech her to free them. 

Not now, she says. Now is not the time. 

Four years more. Another stage, another walk, another scroll. She doesn’t remember her dad looking so hunched, her mom’s face so crinkled, her brother standing so tall. 

Some months later, the girl gets a decently paying job. Although it’s rather banal, she doesn’t hate it—though she doesn’t love it either. An ambivalent fog seems to cloud around her feelings these days; often she finds herself staring in a haze. 

She uses those moments of quiet reflection to carefully peek into the jars of her long-forgotten dreams. She gives several of them a shake, watching pink, gold, and cyan sparks skitter within. An old, hoarse voice begs her to forget about her job and open the small jars—but she clamps its lips shut. 

Now is not the time…now is never the time.

Today she has paperwork. She shuffles over to the large printer and places stacked paper into its drawer. Plain, standard 8 x 11-inch paper, the girl thinks, used for agendas, resumes, and diplomas. 

A shake of the head. 

She takes a seat on a stool and waits, listening to the mechanical beeps and clicks of the copier. In her mind she reels back in time, all the way to her first years of high school. Such happiness, such excitement, such hope she felt those days at the prospects of her to-be-written future. 

Then came the monotony, stagnation, the feeling of life passing by, paired with her first, second, and third graduation.

And now…now this job.

A wet splatter appears on her navy skirt, and it’s not till she raises a hand to her cheek that she realizes she is crying. 

In her mind, the ebony shelf still stands with those delicate jars—but their contents—

Where there once was glimmering color and radiant light, only small piles of grey ash and withered sticks remain.   

Her dreams—her poor, neglected dreams. 

She falls to the floor, finally breaking apart. Years’ worth of sadness and regret wash over her in a giant tidal wave as the years-too-late realization strikes her: 

Now is the time. Now was always the time.

A bell rings, screams. 

With a jump, the girl comes crashing back to the present. Her airborne pencil lands with a clack on the white-tiled classroom floor, and she realizes the startling noise is her high school’s usual bell. Time to switch classes. 

She looks up from her desk to see that the other students have already filed out the door. She is alone with the teacher, who raises questioning eyebrows, asking why she has not left yet. 

Embarrassed, the girl quickly snatches up her pencil and exits the classroom.

Something warm like hope bubbles in her chest as she walks to her next class. An epiphany has overcome her. She smiles at the endless possibilities pouring into her mind— 

Now is the time.

-Hannah Higgins

Now is the Time  – North Springs Media Blog

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Granite Angel 

The first thing the creature felt was rain, lightly drizzling on it’s face. It stayed still for a while, enjoying the feeling of the warm water covering its stoney skin. Curious as to what they were feeling, their eyes flickered open, not without considerable effort. Their surroundings were grassy, quiet, and lonely. A field of sorts, they could faintly make out a black gate far away from where they were. The only thing that stood out to them were the many lined rows of stone slabs sticking out of the ground. Some seemed new, others seeming like they’d been in the field for a lifetime and then some. Some were disheveled, eroded by time, covered in dirt and vines. Others were pristine and clean, polished to perfection, with bouquets and coins left before that, not dissimilar to tributes given to Gods and the like. Some were shaped like crosses, some resembled obelisks, and some were simple semi-oval stones. 

The creature struggled to move their head, and then their arms, and then their torso. It seemed like they’d been placed in an odd position, with their body resting against one of the slabs. Looking down at their gray, cold arms, covered in flora and lightly-washed-away grime, they understood what they were. A statue. They were stone, just like everything else here, just stone created with a visual purpose. They felt something weighing on their back, turning to look behind them, they saw rocky wings stuck to their back. An angel statue at that?  

What purpose would they have here, being in a field of stone slabs and tributes rather than a church, or in a public area? What significance did their presence here serve?  

What were these stones anyway?  

They decided to look at the stone they’d previously spent an unknown amount of time residing on. They could make out words on the surface of it, but they were covered by weeds and hedges. They clumsily ripped away the plant life covering its words, reading what was underneath. 

“Here Lies Dee Cecille, a kind soul, taken too soon. 1984-2005.” 

A blanket of realization covered them, a deep understanding of their purpose dawning on them. These were not simple stones sticking out of the ground, placed randomly in some nondescript field. These were graves, and this was a graveyard. They’d been built to honor and protect this grave in specific, to serve as a tribute to this woman’s memory. But this grave had been abandoned it seemed, left to fend on its own against invasive vines and natures erosion. The angel was the last thing this lonely grave had, forgotten by the ones who’d crafted it in the first place.  

Understanding their duty, the angel got to work. It collected rainwater in its palms, using it to gently clean the grave of its dirt. It ripped away the rest of the flora covering its surface, placing it to the side. Finally, it rested its body back against its side, reassuming their position from before. It promised to protect this lone grave, and with that, this eternally young woman’s memory.  

-Nicky Newsome

Granite Angel – North Springs Media Blog

33.

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Zen or Not

Time recedes

As it always does

But with you by my side

Virtue my guide

I know the sky may be our limit

My love

Keep commitment

In your bobble box

To find time, the version of yourself,

The parts that are still you,

You’re no bastard,

No rough rilin’ past

Sweet memories found coated

Between frame and its glass.

Yet a tumbling storm

An ode to thunder and snow

Or dirt baked in drought

The sound of silence booms so

That it seem more fitting for the mass –

That is your mind

Your very verse, limerick

That you try to find,

Like vinyl, you

Spin it.

You’ll find care in my heart

While the world falls apart

And as I slip you a grin

While time itself runs quite thin,

So my dear,

Let us cross this deep tide

With our faith as a guide

Remember the tale

That conquers the frail;

Every second has a limit

Every person a fate

A new birth or death

Forced to participate

To suffer the gift that is our own skin

But enjoy the pleasures

Found from body within

Zen or not,

You know what I forgot?

Wait for me along the path you choose.

-Anneke Howard-Smith

Zen or Not – North Springs Media Blog

34.

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Time is Ticking

The clock ticks loud, a steady beat, Each
moment passing, swift and fleet.
Seconds melt to minutes, then hours,
Fleeting as rain, fading like flowers.
Time is a thief, sly and unseen, Turning
the old from what once has been.
Dreams of tomorrow, whispers of past,
The now is fleeting—it never will last.
So grasp each moment, hold it tight, Find
joy in the day, not just the night. Time’s
wings are fragile, but they will soar, Make
today count, forevermore.

-Kennedy Young

35.

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Thank yous:

Enormous thanks to Mr. Zand and the entire NSHS English Language Arts Department, the North Springs High School Administration, everyone in the NSHS Counseling office, John Wilkerson and his A/V crew, Nicole Motahari and the Phalanx Yearbook staff, Lisa Shiflett (bookkeeper extraordinaire), the entire NSHS front office staff, Ms. Morris and Ms. Smith, Ms. Gaver and her graphic design team, Ms. Linehan, Mr. Sandlin, and Ms. Walton in our VPA department, Ms. Elliott, Ms. Fleetwood, and to Theo Slade and Finn Kowalewski for their design work.

Special thanks to Naomi Blass-Schutz, Cathy Jacobson, Noel Mayeske, and Lisa Meyers for your patronage of the arts, and to Ronette, Jonah, and Hannah Throne for your support!

36.

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About Echo

Echo Literary Magazine

Volume I, Issue 19, 2026

Echo is North Springs High School’s student-run literary magazine and is a proud member of the Georgia Scholastic Press Association and Southern Interscholastic Press Association. Echo highlights the creative endeavors of North Springs High School students, and is comprised of its best student art, writing, and photography. Submissions are read and critiqued anonymously in student staff discussions, and selected based on creativity, skill, and theme. For more information and submissions, email ThroneA@fultonschools.org.

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