Carnegiea

Literary Magazine

Category: January

A bell tower is ever apparent

By Celeste Browne

the sound of bells will reach you long after the sight of the tower fades.

Time Travel

By Grace Waldrip

Once in therapy I had a conversation with my seven year old self.

Not actually of course, but it was a close as humans can get without a technological marvel. Due to the lack of technology to make it truly real, what happened was that I picked out an object to represent young me. I chose a flower from my therapist’s vase. I put it across from me in a chair and attempted a conversation with myself.

I thought it was silly at first, just some more therapy bullshit that’s supposed to fix everything, but I was tired. Putting up a fight takes a lot of energy and I was not able to exert that much. I tried to speak to the flower a little, but it still felt off, so I closed my eyes. I waited a little while, took few breaths, then opened my eyes, and there she was. She was small (I’ve always been tiny), with tan skin from loving the outdoors (now I’m vitamin D deficient), with wild curls (mine are now red from angry, emotional dye jobs), and she was smiling freely (pre-braces) in that way that lights up an entire face and room (I can barely even give 1/6 of that smile on a good day now). She turned to me, and waited for me to speak.

When I eventually got the courage to speak to her, I spoke with so much sadness and guilt. She had so much, a loving family, a bright future, and the drive and joy to change the world. She did not spend days barely being able to get up due to the immense sadness she feels. She was not the one that wished and attempted to starve herself into oblivion. I was the one that made terrible choices, the one that ruined our mental health, our relationship with out body, and our connections with the people that love us.

The flower did not respond, and I did not really expect it to. Yet, I still felt that seven year old me was there and had her arms around me, comforting me. It may have been wishful thinking, but I felt she was absolving me of my guilt, and taking a portion of the blame as well. Her small arms surrounded me, and I felt her presence even after I left the room to go home.
I had never once cried during or after therapy, and yet, right after I got back home, I did. I cannot explain why, but maybe it was letting go of my guilt. Often, we judge ourselves too harshly. I too am guilty of that and carry my judgement with me everywhere I go. Sometimes it is suffocating, and I feel I’m drowning in myself.

I was allowed to take the flower home with me. I kept it in a jar of water in my room until its very last moment of life. It was all withered, dead, but it was still the most beautiful thing to me. Now I keep flowers in my room. I also always look out to the flowers in the garden that I try to help maintain. I’m even planning out what to plant in my family’s garden. I always try to surround myself with life now. During the day, I keep track of all the flowers I see. It may seem small and a little stupid, but it makes me feel a little bit better. And just for a moment, a weight is lifted off of me.

To me, and many others, growing up I was always called special, gifted, etc. and I always took advantage of my youth and the ignorance and inexperience that came with it. I often feel guilt about what I’ve down since I’ve grown up and feel I’ve let my ambitious younger self down. This is about letting go of that guilt and just trying to take each day as it comes.

“fireworks” and “patience”

By Lily Morales

fireworks; I took this picture when I was just starting photography 6 months ago and to this day it is one of my favorite pictures I’ve taken.
patience; something about this picture really inspires me to continue with photography. i was going through a rut where i just really didn’t like a lot of the pictures i was taking. i had to be patient and preserver and just continue to take pictures even though i didn’t like them until i took this one. this is one of my favorite pictures i’ve taken yet and it makes me excited to take more.

Tricky Thoughts

Belle Johns

Whenever I pass you in the hallways
I realize that I will never be free
I sink back into the thoughts that I may
Rediscover hopes that are not so mean
Escaping from those beautiful brown eyes
Will always be another waste of time
For precious minds are all full of sweet lies
That accounts for a disappointing crime
Now I am able to grieve on my own
Thoughts and analyzation in the dark
Supportive words with a sharp undertone
Is how you were able to make your mark
But if I think of such a lovely friend
All of the losses line up to the end

A sonnet reflecting on the ever present misinterpretations of lost friendship.

Man

By anonymous o.z.

I am not of man.

Man is to sit,
blink,
enjoy,
feel;
most important man is to live in equity.

If man were to attack man, they’d be reprimanded.
If we were to, we’d be misunderstood.
We’d be the flaw;
it wouldn’t be our fault;
after all we’re subman.

If man were to fail, it’s on man themself.
If we were to, we’d be babied.
We’d be given coddle.
After all we’re subman.

If man were to succeed, man is fulfilling their purpose.
If we were to, we’d be the exception.
We’d be the goal.
After all we’re subman.

If to be a man is to be an equal,
and to be an equal is not to live in equity.
Then how can I be a man?

If a man is subject to the harsh realities,
yet I am sheltered,
hidden,
“misunderstood,”
then how can I be a man?

I am not of man;
I am subman.

This piece is a reflection of how those with neurodevelopment disorders are treated and seen as subhuman as a result of society making a conscious attempt to see them as human.

That Little Bakery

By Katelyn Parker

The smell was her favorite part. She loved breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread and pastries. It calmed her down, made her feel relaxed, made her feel at home. It was the place she spent most of her time, the place that gave her the impression that everything was right with the world.

That little bakery down the street.

She doesn’t remember how she found it. Maybe she went walking one day and stumbled across it. Maybe she was hungry and that was the place nearest to her with food she could afford.

Maybe she just wanted to get away.

Though, it surprised her, really, when she came across that little bakery down the street. However she came across it didn’t matter more than the fact that it seemed as though it was cut off from the rest of the world. Valiant in it’s own way. Blocking out the pain and suffering and evil that the outside world emitted.

When she stepped through the threshold of that small bakery, she felt refreshed. Like all her worries were washed away and replaced with chocolate chip cookies and rye bread. It was prodigious in her eyes, never having seen something so peaceful and remarkably calming in her life.

The bakery wasn’t large in size, just a small building tucked away in a corner of the loud, bustling city. The aura was warm and homey compared to the cold, metallic place around it. Laughter resonated from the inside, the old couple and their son that ran the shop playing a game of cards while waiting for customers. They welcomed her in with smiles adorning their faces, genuinely happy. It was so foreign to her, getting treated so well by random strangers.

They asked her what they could help her with, what she would like.

“Anything,” she responded. The old woman behind the counter held up a finger, asking her to wait before disappearing into the back. When she returned, she held out a large bag of warm cookies and bread, much more than the money she was paying with was worth.

“Growing girls like you need food to keep them strong,” the woman croaked out, with an infectious smile that the girl couldn’t keep from copying. She left the quaint shop feeling content and happy, feelings she hadn’t felt in a long while.

She returned the next day, and the next, and the next, and as many days as she could. Everytime she was welcomed with warm smiles and warm people, saying warm words while feeding her warm bread. That was where she was happiest, where she felt most like herself. Each visit only augmenting her love for that place, that family.

That little bakery down the street.

I wrote this piece for a reason that really isn’t impactful at all; just a vocabulary project for my English class freshman year. But still, something about it makes me happy, and it’s a work I’m quite proud of.

vida

By Citlali Ramirez

82 years young!

By Lulu Youngerman

I love all types of photography, but I especially enjoy taking pictures of people. Although I don’t consistently practice photography, but I’m hoping to start taking pictures more.

“Waterfalls of Guilt”

By M. Bea

Laying, looking up at the stars above
You opened me like a gift
Skin, unfamiliar, against mine
As a tear formed in my eye
My mind imprisoned
I could not say no
But i never said yes

It was not long before you stopped
I was left there
On my own
As you ran off with a friend
While i stood there (shaking
Trembling, i walked home
I should not have gone out
Not knowing
Not knowing him
Not knowing his friend
Not knowing what he would take from me
What could not be returned

Carnegiea Magazine