Note: Due to a number of factors, the physical 2023 Literary Magazine was not published on time as planned. We apologize for this, and wish to present to you material from the book, as well as some bonus material here in digital form. Information about receiving a physical book can be found at the bottom of this page.
Echo 2023 “Pride and Pain” by Jacob Martin
Editors’ Introduction
Pride and pain are intricately woven threads in the tapestry of human experience, each possessing a distinct hue that colors the canvas of our emotions.
Pride, a radiant beacon emanating from achievements and self-worth, stands as a testament to our accomplishments and the fulfillment of aspirations. It is the elixir that fuels confidence and resilience, breathing life into our pursuits.
Conversely, pain lurks in the shadows, an inevitable companion on life’s journey. It is the bitter reminder of our vulnerabilities, etching deep grooves in our souls through heartbreaks, setbacks, and pitiful moments.
Yet, within the inconsistent dance of pride and pain, there exists a profound mutualism—an acknowledgment that one often accompanies the other. In the interchange of these contrasting forces, we find the mosaic of the human condition, where triumph and tribulation merge to shape the intricate tapestry of our existence.
-Ed Gorgoll & Trinity Davis, Co-Editors-in-Chief
Art and Photos
Poetry
Pride
by Jordan Bartlett
Our pride
The blindness in our eye
The doubt of our wrongs
The crown on our heads
No ear to other things said
We don’t see our faults
We don’t understand our sin
We don’t believe in the imperfections
deep down and within
This is our pride
This is our delight
This is our cause from when
we unknowingly dim our own light
We should turn away from our pride,
Humble our minds,
Accept that we still have many flaws to unbind
Our pride is our loss
Our pride is our defeat
Our pride is a trait
we must strive
completely to beat
*****
The Feeling
by Tala Hadid
The feeling of your mind just ceasing to respond.
Waking up to a solitude.
Don’t fear it.
Broken things give stories to tell.
The feeling teaches you how to live.
The damaged parts of your soul.
Make it into gold.
Told to give up from the inside.
Let it aside.
Search for what’s desired.
Don’t find the words.
Find the feeling.
*****
O King!
by River Gage
O King
Donned from your own admiration
Forever damned with blindness
O Explorer
Seeking only what is forward
Leaving behind all who followed
O General
A conqueror of foreign lands
Forever chasing fame
O Father
Looking away from blinding pride
Face those you abandoned
*****
The Eyes, The Hands
by Cray Brown
Know you, eater, of hands that do?
Who strangled scary monsters, stole fire for you?
Who built up your world, broke bones, cracked skulls for your cheer?
Who, on icy cold nights, kept you cozy and near?
Who staved off foul rats, which tried to bite at your toes
Who bandaged the poor finger you pricked on a rose
Your eyes now dangle from chains, your body, your tomb
Your soul to the screen; All of it, for some of you.
Go on fretting, weeping, screaming at the TV
Buying snake oil off those who made the disease
Overwhelmed, you’ll toss those old hands for silicone
Flee from life’s darkness, better the devil you know
You can see without eyes. You can hear without ears
You can hide from the light, taking safety in fear
But know this, empty eater, you’ll throw up your noose.
And before you jump, think about who tied the loop.
For it sure wasn’t nothing, the nothing that’s you.
It was the hands, the hands that do
*****
“Finding”
by Tala Hadid
The feeling of your mind
just ceasing to respond.
Waking up to solitude.
Don’t fear it.
Broken things give stories to tell
The feeling teaches you how to live.
The damaged parts of your soul.
Make it into gold.
Told to give up from the inside.
Let it aside.
Search for what’s desired.
Don’t find the words.
Find the feeling.
*****
Fun Girl
by Zamiyah Phillips
I’m never the one they truly want
I’m always the girl they use to make someone else jealous
Always the girl that gets ridiculed for going back to him
The girl everyone makes false assumptions about
The girl that hides through a smile
The girl that’s slowly fading away
Fun Girl
*****
Braided for 80 Dollars
by Harmony Crossland
The price of hair keeps getting higher and higher
And having the talent of doing hair takes longer and longer
Longer than patience
I have neither the talent, patience, nor the money
So, I had to get someone to braid my hair for 80 dollars
Front porch
Kitchen
Living room
Moving my chair in different areas
My butt glued sore on the chair
My tongue gritted at the grip held tightly
As she breathed
Her smoked-out breath
Reached my nostrils
Smoke break after smoke break
Weed? Cigars, cigarettes
Don’t matter what it is
She’s smoking
It was 10 a.m. now turning 1:00 a.m.
Smoke break after smoke break
My lungs secondhandedly wept
Braider got the drama
Braider got the jokes
Braider got to arguing
When her friends were trying to be foes
Braider got the drama
Yet I’m here silently hearing the noise
Of the bacon burning in the oven
My view here sitting in the porch
Of kids who lived in broken apartments
Chasing cars
As if they are chasing dreams
*****
Danger is an Afterthought
by Trinity Davis
Inquisitiveness
A word describing deep thirst for knowledge
I craved for such thing.
Now nothing but peril lies in my future
Taking precaution in seeking understanding
For that same comprehension holds a fate you’d obtain.
Don’t trample over too many limits
It could grip your sanity and replace it with lunacy
Stray from the depths of curiosity.
The unknown could trap the mind in infinite loops
Beautiful creations are birthed from uncharted ideas
It’s when those thoughts become compulsive,
That the creation becomes vile.
*****
Fifteen Dollars
by Carson Mayeske
$15 oh $15
I screamed, laughed, cried, and hollered
But nothing I do will make the pain smaller
I ripped, tore, shattered in gore
My $15 does not exist anymore.
It was a beautiful piece of everlasting worth
Lost, burned, and tossed in the dirt
There is nothing else that could’ve left my heart hurt
But it had to be the $15 that I got from work
I’m sorry to selflessness I’m sorry to helplessness I’m sorry to self-worth and money with Presidents
*****
Cats
by Ashley Williams
How angelic can they be?
Soft, soundless steps made from little white feet.
So pretty, so cute, so lovely.
Every time I look- my heart throbs,
Each time her tail bobs.
The clean, pristine, white tail
That sways, slicing the air.
Although pretty and the object of my affection,
She’s dangerous if caught off guard.
Sharp claws with no flaw.
*****
Three Poems
by Geneva Oviatt
The Thoughts that Creep
I tip toe along the shore
free of all my thoughts that bore,
moving west and walking east
to scare away those nasty beasts.
The Little One
The little one that grew in the dark
now as bright as a spark,
hidden between forests and parks
the little one that grew in the dark.
The Straightforward Lizard
Slither Slither, I say
Why do you seem so afraid?
I may be quite unique,
but that’s no need to stare you freak!
*****
Mr. Mafia Man
by Aurora Seesink
Mister mafia man, he’s on the run
He has your head by a gun
No need to be scared
He’s quite fun
He leaves his enemies impaired
One can compare
Hit man extraordinaire
He lives by the beach
He kills on the streets
Every enemy he’ll beat
Children he hates
So squeaky children here’s your fate
Upset the mafia’s number one
And your life will be done
*****
Limericks?
by Carson Mayeske
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who had a shovel and bucket
So in his right hand he scooped up some sand
Then found somebody and chucked it
The person was mad,
They took their revenge,
Their patience been had,
His bucket unhinged.
The man was without his bucket.
So he went to his home in Nantucket.
He spent days upon days,
Perfecting his ways,
To get ready to take the plummet.
He skipped his way into town
His face was without a frown
When he found the cause of his plight,
Nighttime. Rain whipped around him. Sirens blared in the distance, lights flashed around every corner. He had to get out of there. He had to get rid of the evidence. He wiped the bucket down as best as he could, and tossed it into the dumpster. But what could he do with the body? Nobody could know. People already called the police because of the screams, and the sound of metal on flesh. He stared into the distance, wondering how he had even gotten here. All this over a stupid bucket? But there was no time for regret. He put the body into the bag, and brought the bag back to his house. He grabbed a pair of pliers and painstakingly removed the fingernails. His mind was so cloudy. His… He shook his head, and got back to work. As he removed other identifying features, trying his best to keep all the viscera on the tarp he had laid out. How much longer could he possibly keep it up? He wrapped the body up and walked outside. It’s suspicious, but he didn’t really have another option. He opened up the bag slightly and filled it up with gasoline. He lit the bag on fire, and left it to burn. He took all the identifying features that he removed and put them in a bag, and tossed them into the river nearby. Hopefully nobody would ever find it after that. He slowly wandered home, thinking about what he’s done. There really was no coming back from this.
There once was a man from Nantucket.
He had a good life and he mucked it.
His mistake had been made, the worries, they weighed
So now his head’s in a bucket.
*****
Holmgang
by Cray Brown
An eye for an eye, so often we’re told
That cursed expression, layman’s law, most old
It seduces our fury, it strangles the mind
Invites us to trade sorrow for hardship in kind
The plight of the killer’s the voice of the slain
A bondage much tighter than any earthly chain
A cord ’round the widow initially winds
But not one unbroken, if forgiveness she finds
Two guns make a war, just one makes a martyr
A head full of wrath only makes the road harder
Be cautious handling vengeance, that it doesn’t swallow you
Remember, the blood of a murderer only makes two
*****
Sweet Strawberry Fields
by Harmony Crossland
Sweet strawberry fields
I could roam in them for hours
The soft touch of red
My Girlie and I
Spent hours wandering daily
Just smiling on end
But as times have changed
The less we visit the field
“I miss you,” She said
But She left the field
And left me for someone else
She likes him instead
She’s gone, sweetness lost
Strawberry fields left as just
Pictures in my head
*****
Mangos
by Destiny Hernandez
Yellow, green, red, orange
The color of the fruit determines the taste
As the wonders on your tongue try to embrace
The flavors can be savory, sweet, or tart
A mango is a fruit that’s shaped like a heart
They grow for a while on long big trees
Ready to be picked during the summertime breeze
The fruit melts in your mouth with a texture like heaven
Mangos are fruits everyone should try
I hope at least one, before you die.
*****
Unimportant in Time and Space
by Trinity Davis
Unimportant in vast space and time
Our lives temporary, governed by the clock
Ripples of our actions, whether great or unforgivable
they only last until our line runs flat
The trees and mountains of the earth
still observing our every move
For they’ve been here to witness our irrelevance
and the ever-fading print we leave in the sand.
*****
The Heartache is Making Me Dry Out
by Tala Hadid
I am lonely.
I am solitude filled with creatures.
The silent caves beneath me.
I have awful spirits living in me.
I feel no company and comfort living around them.
I am forever a vast and unknown being’s lurking in its depths—danger and never-ending magic
beneath my surface.
It stings hearing the words thalassophobia.
I am lonely.
Strangely, I am not explored enough.
I am always described simple with desired words.
I’m wide open, but rarely does anyone see what holds beneath me.
The infinite shells run away to the surface.
I think they are sick or bored of me.
As my wave crashes onto the shore and rocks. People say, “I want to do the same just unleash my anger.”
The anger will never be the same.
I am lonely.
I act without a thought; I bear no guilt.
I feel unread sometimes.
Items hurled at me—I’m not a throwaway.
It makes me smell horrid.
I am far too large for you to wrap your head around.
There are miles and miles upon me unbroken by a single rock or island.
The body’s that swim in me. My waves dictate movements. Occasionally, I see them come up to
take gulps of air.
Them smelling distantly salty with the feeling of insignificance.
I am lonely.
My soul aches being misunderstood.
*****
Glance
by Isaac Linnen
Nothing but time is lost,
Fractions on the second,
But the gain is immense.
A platitude so simple,
A moment so fleeting,
Has stained my mind.
In that moment so short,
That simple hazel glance,
Swallowed me whole
.I float on its surface,
Captivated by its mystery,
Wondering if I’ll ever get more than a glance.
*****
Identity
by Gianni Cooper
Who are you?
Who are you when you’re alone?
Who are you when you’re in your zone.
Do you ever watch your tone?
What do you want to be when you’re all grown?
Do you know your favorite band?
Or what shoes you prefer to wear in the sand?
So silly indeed, I like how it looks when you’re tan.
“Do you try new things?’
I say what does that even mean
I try to stay clean with all my new things.
Did you understand that?
I probably wouldn’t
I was so wrapped up in all the things that I “couldn’t”
“Why ask these questions? Why babble and brag?”
Well quite frankly I’m happy to inform you, that you know all about that
Just sit and listen to the words I say
“You are who you are”
At least that’s what I got anyways.
Speaking of me, I want you to know
Looking within will surely help you grow
*****
Does my Uncertainty
by Evelyn Brown
Does my own uncertainty bind me to myself?
Am I the blame that I so choose to shift?
If I fall
Into the pool beneath me
Would I be the drop to make a noise?
For when I am alone
Forced to swab my brain of its collected dust
I wonder if I am among my ambivalent sanity
Or if I’m even human at all.
Am I forward enough?
I’d kiss you for just one song
Just once, and let it all trickle beneath me
These things never last long with me, like ashes scattered from the edge of a mountain
I always want to feel that communal spark of joy.
Though I sit and ponder
Aching, ticking, screaming to be of normalcy
An unbearable silence occurs to me with these nights in my head
For our own spark, we must conjure.
*****
*****
Broken
by Tala Hadid
Wrecked and demolished me.
I stare at you one last time.
You look at the stars trying to fix my scars
looking wary and flushed,
while i dust the last bit of trust you left in me.
But, you have me stuck on lust, clutched in mistrust.
Shattered and denatured little old me…
Feeling vanquished, defeated, and lost but at what cost?
Will i defrost and become something more, or
keep feeling at fault for things I did not cause?
Will i be able to see you in tears
hearing your cries fill my ears?
When I’m gone will I be wronged
even if I didn’t belong?
Being overpowered and feeling like a coward
when I do something flawed.
May I ask..
How long will this go on?
*****
Child of Malebris
by River Gage
A city buried in insanity
A city bathed in sorrow
A city doused in avarice
A city consumed in obscurity
A city bordered by only oblivion
A city of darkness
Every denizen, a victim of the sickness
The ailment of fear
The only cure, addicting embers
Wash away the fear, burn away the shadows
But always craving more, enslavement to addiction
Or she will take you into her dark embrace
All must find their ember or be lost to her, this lifeless city
Forsaken to creeping shadows, deprived of waning embers
Welcome deaths timeless slumber
Or embrace her, the grim mother
And please her with smothered cinders
Such is the Child of Malebris
Orphaned by darkness, No ember to call your own
Seek precious flames, and wrench them from their host
Expired hope only resides, the mask finally unveiled
Man’s true face, bare witness to all
All the follows, is gifted slumber
Wretched and bloody, a butchered corpse remains
*****
Sophia
by Cray Brown
Titanic waves beat the sand beneath a sun-kissed sky.
The horizon lit aflame, wrapped by soft purple clouds.
The world beautiful, in life and death simultaneously.
And we would not see it.
And while Pistis pours Herself onto the Earth, we look away.
Caught in a net of fear, sewn by yesterday’s pain.
Nooses pulled ’round our necks by the turning wheel.
False hope is the chains in which they envelop you.
Flaunting that you might overcome it, you could beat the house.
Blinded by “maybe”, you’ll never think not to play.
Just over our shoulders, She moves in fluid pirouette.
She skips effortlessly through opposites, night and day, life and death.
She offers her hand from above, singing of salvation in purpose.
And we do not listen.
Her light is blinding, her thorns sharp, the world cruel and unjust.
Like rats, we scurry back to the safety of ignorant darkness.
Content to be fed by concrete mothers, made, not grown.
Is a life without hardship, sorrow unknown, not a life well-lived?
We live blinded by decadence, so we won’t have to face Her.
So, we won’t have to look inwards, see who we fear most.
Her, us.
For while we convince ourselves that man is just his flesh.
She remains, the fleeting feelings of existentialism, insanity, wisdom.
Whispering to us; we have no idea just how deep the rabbit hole goes
*****
Money Walks
by Carson Mayekse
What would you do with the golden touch?
You’d probably touch a few things, though, not too much.
Give a little to your family, a little to your friends
You could have your fun, then let the fun end
Well what if I told you that a few have this curse
And sadly, with this power, they do much worse
Silver spoon in their mouth, gold in their hands
They tear up the valleys, and ruin the lands
“You’ve got to stop this!,” we cry, unto deaf ears
They won’t listen, they’ll ignore all our fears
They smile, they laugh, they clearly don’t see us
“Us, causing harm? Ha! What an idea!”
So now you may ask me, “What’s the point of all this?”
“We get it, they’re bad, that point’s hard to miss”
“With the way you put it, is there really any hope?”
“Is winning this battle really in our scope?”
It’s hard to say, with how little we can to do
With us on our own, they’ll just ignore us few
Our resistance is futile, their will won’t bend
But with numbers comes power, and with power comes an end
*****
Connected
by Nia Bennett
I like to imagine myself walking the footsteps of a stranger
It makes me a little bit kinder
Allows me to love just a bit stronger
Watching their life, feeling their pain
It allows me to fall in love with someone just a little bit everyday
Because I cannot believe that all this world is filled with strangers who wish to perpetuate misery
And I cannot believe that there is nothing connecting me, tethering me to you
To the stranger whose smile is so pretty
And the mother who protected someone else’s daughter
And the shop owner who leaves milk for stray cats
And the student who sings when they get papercuts
To all the beautiful people just outside my door
I refuse
And I wonder about the bad, maybe we’re connected too, even though I desperately don’t want it to be true
And I wonder about the people who still love you even though it breaks their heart
And I wonder about the whys and the Butterfly wings that pushed you to do it
or maybe there was no true reason at all
And I know that your ugly is connected to me but is drowned by every person that lives, breathes, and tries and tries to do their best
Sonder
It feels endless and hopeless and infinity feels a little bit closer
And it expands the tiny pieces of the universe left inside of me
*****
Perfect Imperfections
by Mya Demps
Get skinnier, you’re stupid
Words often told by my worst critic
They hold me back
And don’t allow me to make mistakes
To be me is a sin
In their eyes
They want me to follow the crowd
To never thinking for myself
This critic follows me everywhere
Never gives me a break
Never shares anything positive
Only what they perceive as wrong
Wrong can be anything
From the clothes I wear
To the way I smile
They nitpick details most trivial
I know only hatred from them
Because they want me to be perfect
A standard of which is unachievable
Because everyone else has an opinion
Maybe If I could love myself
And all the things I can’t change
Would my critics finally be proud
Of my perfect imperfections?
*****
Sometimes I Wonder
by Carson Mayekse
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
To live in a world without turmoil or strife
To be stuck in the bounds of your own mind
To be clueless to people, mean or kind
Sometimes I wonder what would be left if
The mind got up and lost all perspective
To be stuck in one world, one place, one time
With nothing to lose, to hope, to find
I’ve never wondered what it would be like
To live in a world where people can die
To be forced to worry for a wandering mind
To be live with people, mean or kind
Sometimes I wonder what other people are like.
*****
The Bloomed
by Cray Brown
Flowers lie scattered, all across a field
Like spots of paint cast onto a canvas
Together, dancing gently with the wind
Some grow strong and proud
Some stay low and shy
None can stop the children who see the field
And stomp through, crushing beauty under heel
They tear all the pretty ones from the field
In fear, the meek sink
Refusing to grow
They live to see themselves wilt and die
They bleed color, they shed pedals like tears
While the tall are forever in their youth
Dead, always dancing
Do you dare to join?
*****
Letter to Black Men
by Mairen Brown and Phoenix Rivera
Thank you.
For being my father, brother, uncle, cousin.
Every man in my life.
Every man that has shown me love.
Every man that has protected, provided, and paved a path for me to strive. Thank you.
For being the men in my life that have managed to step on every one of my last nerves. Testing my ability to love, while also being the men who have shown me what love is.
For being the men that have shown me what respect looks like.
What the respect I deserve looks like.
Thank you.
Thank you for being the brave and bold, just as much as the bliss in this world full of the baffling and brainless.
To all the Browns, Calhouns, and Wilsons.
Thank you for being the cousins that you did not have to be, especially at your age. I love you guys.
Thank you for being the dad you signed up to be, and every bit more exceptional than you had to be. I love you.
Thank you for being the little brother I need to be my best. To learn from you just as much as I hope you learn from me. I love you most.
Thank you for being the uncles that I have shared the most smiles with.
Thank you for being the best grandfathers. For being the blueprint of love for me, and the all the other men in my life.
Thank you for being the black men I need in my life.
I love you.
Fiction and Essays
The Witch of Roswell Road
by Cray L. Brown
I must’ve been only 13 years old the time I first heard of her. The Witch of Roswell Road, my mom called her. This had been the first time my mother had seen her. She was walking northward towards the waffle house back behind the CVS, presumably after taking a well-known shortcut from out behind the woods. This enormous black woman holding a garbage bag stuffed full of clothes and clipped chip bags. However, the woman was talking. She was far away from my mother, so my mother tried to see if she was talking into a phone.
Of course, when it comes to my little neck of the woods nothing is ever so simple. This woman was now practically screaming, shouting as she waved her finger in one particular direction, as if scolding Satan himself. If Satan was there, she couldn’t see him.
My mother, as much as she would like to uncover what this woman was saying, had just finished getting Patty Melts from Waffle House, and had to hurry home. After relaying the story to me, and in turn me relaying the story to my father, we had come a bit closer to deciphering her identity. Now, this started as just another story about schizophrenic hobo crackheads, of which we are never short on. However, this woman had proved herself to be especially dedicated and calculated for some old washed out fiend.
She had been at the MARTA bus station on Roswell Road next to the Waffle House for fifteen years! Consecutively. She had put office hours into this bus station every single day for thirty years, always scolding some unseen entity just beyond what my earthbound eyes could perceive. Come rain, shine, snow, hellfire and brimstone itself raining upon the earth, this woman would be there. My dad had never seen her absent from her post, and it explained why the station’s paint had rusted off, and why the broken roof had a sleeping back held spread out over it bound by rolls upon rolls of duct tape. This was this woman’s home… Or so I had thought.
Upon hearing of this legend, I had decided to try and find her myself. How had I not noticed her before? Maybe I did, but just didn’t recognize the consistency, or how loud she was preaching, barring this ethereal evil from breaching the veil and bringing about whatever evil deeds it was trying to. Or, at least, that’s what I, always superstitious, liked to think she was doing. No, this wasn’t her home, I soon realized. The clothes in her bag were actually from Goodwill. She had bought them with money, and the clothes she had on now, a few days after my mother’s encounter, were clean. She clearly had money. Maybe she was a beggar? No hat, or bin to hold various quarters from charitable passers-by.
Taking out a dollar I intended to use to buy a cheap can of juice with, I walked out from behind the bush I was using to stalk the bus stop, and offered it to her. She stopped scolding as soon as I walked out, looked me dead in the eyes when I was in front of her, she only shook her head and stuck her palm up at my dollar. That was strange. She was not a beggar, she had clean clothes, and yet… She was out here, sitting at this bus stop, and had been for thirty years. Who had the love and devotion to dress her, feed her, care for her? Clearly not some institution like a nursing home, they’d never let her out of the damn room in the state she was in. This was an anomaly to me, it puzzled me so thoroughly and profoundly, to use Occam’s razor would be to delve into the Occult. So I did.
Now, I am not a religious man. I don’t hear the Good Word on Sundays, or cram down communion wafers with a bottle of Barefoot from Publix. But the only logical explanation I had was that this woman was locked in an eternal dualistic self-destructive battle for the inner reaches of her mind not unlike some sort of depraved horny eagle death spiral. Whoever she was scolding, they could NOT be allowed to gain a vessel. Pretty far out, I thought, smirking at this little mythos I had made. It was just a quirky little thought then, I have several of those, everyone does. But the more and more I saw her there, every single day, at this bus stop like some sort of attentive monk, the more I became convinced that she was fighting a demon.
Now, my community is interesting in the regards that in spite of how absolutely ratchet and awful, it’s still extremely closely-knit. Some jerk was complaining on Nextdoor about how he couldn’t walk through the trash-filled, worn down streets without this woman scaring his precious little snot. The entire neighborhood took to him. “Who is she hurting?” Became the rallying cry in which we defended our witch, showing our gratitude for holding this unspeakable evil back. However, like all glimmering spots of interest, she too faded into obscurity. We hadn’t heard much more from her, until the winter of 2020, in which I had noticed she hadn’t been at the bus stop for a couple of weeks. This was unnerving. I wanted closure, but… Maybe sometimes we should be careful what we wish for.
I saw her face one last time, on a missing poster on the Waffle House bulletin board. “Dear family member” it read. It would appear I was right. She did have a home, and her home missed her… I haven’t checked recently, as I got into a fight with the Waffle House staff over whether or not they were closed at 11:14PM (they’re not closed, and I’m going to call corporate), but I suspect her poster still hangs there, reminding Sandy Springs of the bus-stop shizo shaped hole in its heart. If you know the current whereabouts or any information whatsoever on the conclusion of her story, I, would very much appreciate it if you could share.
*****
Beliefs and Bedsores
by Evelyn Brown
It all happened so suddenly. Foam dripping from my father’s mouth, his balance shifting and growing weak beneath him. I remember it all, like a crease in time I simply can’t unfold.
I turned thirteen weeks before it happened. Despite my age, my free time was almost always spent with my parents. I’ve heard adolescence proves developmentally challenging for many, but I didn’t mind the isolation back then. Intellectuality wasn’t encouraged in my rural town of Fries, Virginia. My parents moved down here from Richmond because of a managerial position for my father in a neighboring town, and Fries happened to have better housing. We still visit Richmond every spring, but I do miss the memories and culture. Despite this, my parents and I went to parks, on walks, and we always philosophized everywhere we went. I was a knowledge-hungry child in a school I didn’t fit into, and my parents were more than happy to encourage my inquisitiveness.
“Don’t compromise for your peers on your intelligence,” My dad always said stuff like that. I loved to hear him talk, to learn and to listen, to feel heard. He was one of those people that really could’ve changed the world. He was quick with wit, and even as a child I wondered why he’d settled for the humble work he did. In contrast, my mother is a simple lady. She’s intelligent, though highly religious, and absolutely nothing like my father. My father always had a plan, something to fix and some injustice to reason about, while she is content and tolerant. Perhaps that’s why they worked so well together all those years, she being the voice of reason in his internal conflicts.
It was a dreary, simple Tuesday afternoon; I’d just finished walking home from school, my shoulders slouched from the stress of my bag. I opened our door, threw my things onto the couch and sighed, blowing the long brown hair from my face.
“Hey, Carter.” My mother said sweetly, not looking up from her book.
“Hey, ma. Whatcha readin’?” I replied, turning away from her to grab a drink.
“I don’t think either one of us has ever picked this up from our library. It’s called ‘Johnny Got His Gun’ ByDalton Trumbo.” She held it up for me to look at.
“I haven’t.” I sat next to her, opening my own book and glancing at the pages. It was a long day at school, and I was glad to be in the comfort of my own home. I loved school but being around peers my age always burnt me out. I was glad to sit in silence with Mom.
We sat like that for a while, my mom and I reading, in this comfortable aura of silence. It was unbroken until my dad came home, hugging me from behind and planting a kiss on my mother’s cheek.
“Dad!” I said, smiling and hugging him back. I was such a daddy’s girl, always excited to tell him about something I’d learned or listen to him do the same.
“Carter, darling.” He smiled at me and glanced at the book my mother was reading.
“This, ‘Johnny Got His Gun’. Man, I haven’t read this in years… It’s grim, Car, but I think you’d like it. You’re a fan of thinkin’.” He stood there, stuck in thought, tracing his finger over the intricate designs drawn on the cover. He glanced back at me. I’d pick it up when Mom was done, I thought. We soon settled down, and all three of us fell into that calming, all-consuming silence.
Only later was it broken by the inhuman croaks that came out of my father’s mouth. At first it didn’t seem real, like he was trying to make some sick joke. “Dad?” I even chuckled a little bit at first. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his mouth shot open, and as the reality of the situation took hold of everyone in the room, the aura took a much grimmer turn. Drool was trickling down his face now. My mother ran to his side when he collapsed to the carpet in front of our couch. “Charles?! God damn it, get up!” She screamed and clutched him in her arms. I even remember her slamming her fists down into him. But her frantic frenzy could not stop his abrupt pain.
—–
The ambulance showed up shortly after we noticed the signs of his stroke, and the men in their silly outfits were able to escort my father to the hospital. My mother held my hand but shed no tears, only gripping my side with great force. She knew the health issues that ran in her husband’s family, but I’m sure she didn’t expect it to become a reality so early in their lives. I remember it, seeing my dad get carted into that big bright vehicle. Any thoughts I had then were painted with the innocence and confusion of youth, but time has since aged my memory to a one of grief and sorrow. What happened? Why did it happen? Where is he going, mom? Normally, my father would answer my queries – with his elaborate answers, patience, and love, – but now there was only the chill brush of winter and the roaring of sirens to give me my response.
—–
A week after his incident, the neurologist told us the results of his neuro-scan. He had no function in his brain, no possible recognition of me or my mother. The man that I had known was no longer with us.
Now I am aged by four years, more mature, and still stricken with that childish grief. My mother and I have visited my father every other Sunday after church since the time of the incident. We bring flowers and shower him with love, attempting to comfort the shell that was once a man I loved. And yet, every time we leave, the memory of that day, though years ago, still follows us home.
I just recently finished my senior year of high school, with a plan to study literature at the University of Virginia. Advancing through high school was a struggle. When people would ask me about my father, I would cut my answer short. I have a dad, but it isn’t the same as having one living or dead. “He’s not around,” I’d tell them. Though he breathes and his heart pumps, has fluids constantly pumping through his fragile veins, he’s kept alive for God, my mom says.
–
I’m walking. Unlike that day years ago, I’m not directed home to see my father, but to the hospital with my mother. My brown hair bounces outside in the humid summer air.
“Do you have the flowers?” She asks sweetly to me.
“Mm, yeah. They’re in my bag.” I say back. I feel miserable today. I’m sure my mom knows it.
“Good. Make sure not to squish them, Car.” She nudges my shoulder with hers and I fake a smile.
When we arrive to the hospital, we check in and find the room that is my father’s jail-cell. I hate going to see him, but I bear it for my mom.
It’s always the same sight, when we visit him. Dad’s eyes closed, his face emotionless and stupid. His hands always lay in that same motionless position, heart monitor always clicks to the same rhythm, and his hair is always in that same messy style. I can’t bear to look at him again. I hate him. I turn away from the bed.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Mom asks me, in her still calm and collected voice.
“I don’t want to look at dad right now.” I respond sharply and hand her the flowers I brought, biting my tongue and trying not to snap at her. I felt some sick feeling creeping beneath my words.
“It’s your father, Carter, I know it’s difficult, but-“
“That’s not dad! That’s some shell of a person, and it only hurts me to see him like this! You know it hurts me!” I’m crying now. I can’t recall ever yelling at my mother before now. We seldom disagree.
My mother sat her purse on the table and stared dead at me. It was terrifying to feel her anger even through her calm composure.
“If God wanted him dead, he would be dead. Marriage is promising someone union through thick and thin; I promised that to your father.” her eyes were watering, but even now she shed no tears.
“And that is never going to change on my end. You can leave. Alone, Carter.”
I’m shocked, but I manage to grab my things. I can’t bear to be here with a mother that chooses her religious convictions over reality.
“He’s not happy, mom,” I say, grabbing my jacket with tears in my eyes. “Would you want this if you were in his skin? He can’t recognize us, he’s gone! How can there be union when one person can’t even breathe on his own? How can you do this to him? Or me? Or God?” I say.
I grab the door, bracing myself for my exit. She stands there silently, observing my movements.
“I’m done. You keep your husband, go ahead, keep him miserable and mindless, I’m taking no part in it. I’ve shed too many tears over his tragedy, and if neither you nor God can give me closure, I’ll give it to myself.”
“Carter, wait, I-“
“The UVA semester is starting soon, mom. I’ll go home and get my things. I’ll get a hotel.” I do feel bad about yelling at her, but I let it slip into the back of my mind. I must leave, to get out of that house filled with grief and tangled memories, filled with loss and false hope. I must break away.
In an act of a final farewell, I walk over to the bed and kiss the shell of my father on the forehead. I glance at my mother and walk out of the hospital. Mom said nothing, but she nodded and let me leave, compliant as always. As I walk back home, thoughts float in and out of my mind. Was it wrong of me to leave my mother alone to carry that grief, or is that what she wanted? Is this even going to change anything?
I let all thoughts slip away with an exhale of warm breath.
–
There’s a book that’s hidden away in my room, the one my mother never got more than a few pages into. I remember the night it all happened, and for the first time since everything was normal, I’m not afraid to pick it up. I’ve been saving it for a time like now, a time I wasn’t afraid.
“’Johnny Got His Gun’, maybe I’ll read it after all.” I cram it into my bag without a second thought.
And as I step out into the summer air, I notice that it’s started raining since I finished packing. It’s warm, lush, and feels pleasant on my pale skin. I slip an umbrella over my head and stare at the sidewalk, lost in thought. The raindrops already convening, forming rivulets and dancing between the cracks of the sidewalk.
Sometimes you do need rain to wake up the lush of the world.
*****
The Bystander
by Aurora Seesink
Words are the strongest form of security. Stronger than passcodes, keys, and face ID. The strongest and most powerful words will stay with a person much longer than any note or letter. So, when you both told me, “That’ll never happen to us.” I believed it. I held on to those words no matter what because you looked me dead in my eyes and told me that. I trusted you; I trusted him. I hadn’t a reason to doubt. Even through all the commotion, I held on to that sincere affirmation.
It was always us, you, me, him. I can’t think of a time where we were together, and we weren’t happy. With all the love, the affirmations, the happiness between you both. It made the reality even harder to accept. That bitter pill someone wouldn’t swallow until they’re on their deathbed.
Maybe if I hadn’t been so stupid, so stubborn. I would’ve been able to let go like any normal person, but you were all too convincing, you told me so. He told me. I relied on those words.
Then you picked up arms. Pointed them to each other’s heads hoping to humiliate the other person, hoping to leave irreversible damage to each other with no regard for anyone else. Including myself. You fought hard, for something so insignificant.
In the end you both lost, and I lost. However, nobody will ever acknowledge that I lost. You both will have allies and pack up and leave. Each with somebody to comfort them. A bystander is left on the ground to bleed. And nobody will care.
…
It’s sad. I’m the one who is left the ground. So, I push myself off the ground and desperately limp to you. My eyes are watery, and I tell you how I know you’re hurting and you’re a loving person, how everything is going to be okay. Then I tell you how I feel betrayed too. How hurt I feel. I hold your eye contact waiting for a reaction, I’m waiting for an embrace, I’m waiting for something. I’m waiting for you to acknowledge me.
And you open your mouth, and spit words at me. Every word worse than the one before. For a brief moment, I’m confused. You can’t possibly be saying those things about me. Why would you? You’ve told me so many things about love and friendship. However, you continue and I only realize you mean it when I see you’ve been looking me dead in the eyes. The entire time.
And that’s the end.
That’s what I’m going to remember you by.
I came to you for love, for solace. Even through all my words, all my emotion, you seemed to filter every single one of my words. You blocked them out and pretended they weren’t there.
Why?
I acknowledged that you were hurt, but I’m hurting too. I didn’t hurt you. He did. I just came to you to get some comfort. To get comfort like you did after the fight. I wanted to tell you about how I felt. I know, I understand that I wasn’t fighting alongside you. But I was trying to help.
I look at you, I think about it, maybe you’ve always been like this. Even while you were fighting, and I was hurt, you only looked at me for a second before you continued fighting your horrible, appalling, pointless war.
Why?
Yet I was merciful, I was forgiving, I just wanted some help. Yet you had to blame me. What did I even do? I’m the bystander. I didn’t have the weapon. I didn’t agree to this. Go to him.
But I don’t say anything. You don’t deserve my words. I don’t deserve your words. The “that’ll never happen to us” I relied so much on, was a mask. Or maybe it wasn’t. It doesn’t matter because I don’t care. Words are only as strong as their speaker. They can be a person’s whole world and be their lifelong support. Or they can be the most unreliable things in the world. Just like you.
*****
I Remember
by Ed Gorgoll
I Remember I was sitting at the edge of my bed, my laptop had just turned off, the sky had just gone dark, and my face was wet from tears. I looked at my clock, it was 8, I looked again, and it was 12. I forced myself to breathe, and then walk. My family had fallen asleep.
There was emptiness in the kitchen. It felt like a thousand knives were stabbing me. I looked at the clock, 2 AM. My body was aching with exhaustion, but I couldn’t sleep.
My friend called me and asked what was wrong. I regretfully didn’t tell him. I remember he wouldn’t shut up, he rambled. He rambled about WWE, NASCAR, NFL, and I felt like rambling with him, but my mind wouldn’t let me. My mind forced me to think, it wanted to think forever, but my heart didn’t want to.
I remember feeling his mind, and I remember him feeling mine. He knew this feeling, this everlasting pain that slowed time down, and stabbed you in the heart.
I looked at my clock, 6 AM, time for school. My mom’s door creaked as it opened, and she walked slowly while rubbing her eyes. She found me in the kitchen, on the floor, surrounded by fear, or so it felt I was surrounded, by sadness, by anger, by something ungodly I’m not sure what.
I remember the lights came on.
I remember, hearing static, seeing a blur. My vision was distorted, but I could see clearly. I felt the gust of air as one after another, each of my siblings walked past me with no words and no emotion.
I remember being forced to sit.
One small tear, filled with every pain I’d felt and every nightmare I’d dreamt, dripped down my cheek.
And my mom asked me, “How’s Marie?”
*****
Black Women are Dying
by Mairen Brown
I want to be a mother. I have many reservations when it comes to having children. There are two reasons for this: fear for the lives and experiences of my future Black children, and fear for my own health while carrying and delivering a child.
Regardless of who I marry or have children with, my children will be Black. I am only fifteen, and just like other Black girls like me, I already fear for the children I do not have. I am afraid to bring a child into a world where they are often hated, unappreciated, unrecognized, and overlooked. I do not know if I can conceptualize or handle the fact that my child could be a hashtag that people use for their own performative activism.
The scariest position to be in as a Black person is that of a Black mother. I see the worry and hurt on my Black mother’s face when I am in a room with all white people, when we cannot stop in a particular area in Georgia because it could be dangerous for my Black family, or when I come home upset because of something racist a classmate said aloud. I want to be a mom. I know that already, but being a Black mother is an entirely distinct experience—an altogether different commitment.
But the most important reason is that I do not welcome death. And as a Black woman, if you want to increase your chances of dying, get pregnant. Seriously. Forty-three in 100,00 black women die during childbirth. Black women are five times more likely to die from pregnancy-related cardiomyopathy than white women. Five times. Please, allow that to sink in. The disparity in the health system makes it dangerous for Black women to have children. I mentioned earlier that I want to be a mother, and with that comes the fact that I have already had to accept all these genuine possibilities. But it should not have to be like that.
James Marion Sims. God, give me the strength to write about this “man.” Born January 25, 1813, James Marion Sims is known as the “Father of Gynecology.” He created many of the techniques and procedures performed by physicians today. This man has a past that could be dissected and debated forever. I will discuss how his work and theories contributed to the unfair medical treatment of Black women. He operated, experimented, and tested his hypotheses on Black women. But at the time, Black people were not considered people. So, let me use the correct term – chattel, human property, or enslaved people. He performed painful medical experiments on enslaved people without anesthesia or pain medication. They were awake during painful medical procedures. Meaning they experienced all the pain that comes with many of these procedures without the comfort of any kind. This experimentation contributed to the stigma that Black women can take on or handle more pain than White women, which we will address again later. The speculum, which is a tool used every day among gynecologists, was created by James Marion. But equally created by the traumatized body of a slave. Procedures used to remove vaginal fistulas were created by James Marion, and equally, by the body of Anarcha, a 17-year-old slave who had just given birth before being subject to this experimental procedure. He worked on countless slaves and would only work on a White woman after he was sure he perfected his craft. And under anesthesia, of course. He is not an animal – he did care about White woman and their pain. Black women were the animals, as James Marion Sims would have agreed.
Moving forward a few hundred years from the Sims to the present. And it is not much better. We have addressed that Black woman, just as much as Sims, founded gynecology. You would imagine that these techniques being experimented with and perfected on Black women would benefit Black women. Uh, no. This is America, remember. Black women are three times more likely to die from a pregnancy-related cause than White women. And my question is, why? The techniques were built around Black women’s bodies! The main reason is not even scientific. The AAMC says, “Half of the white medical trainees believe such myths as Black people have thicker skin or less sensitive nerve endings than white people. An expert looks at how false notions and hidden biases fuel inadequate treatment of minorities. ” During pregnancy and childbirth, an experience that is named to be in the top 15 most painful experiences a person can be put through, not to have pain taken seriously, is more than heartbreaking or aggravating. It can indeed be fatal. This lack of trust toward Black women is why many Black women seek out OB/GYNs that are Black. And only 11% of OB/GYN doctors are Black. Just incredible.
I chose to write about this topic not to educate you, as the reader, but to shed light on the need for more education—honestly, any teaching. White people will never be able to understand the advantages and privileges they have in comparison to their Black counterparts, but they should be taught about them. Acknowledge them. Acknowledge the fact that talking about future babies is more than just the fun details like baby names and nursery themes for Black young adults, but the daunting details, as well—the statistics and percentages that affect Black women daily. The odds that most Black children are aware years before even having kids. The odds that White children may never learn about. The odds Black women must be willing to break, just as much as become. Black women are dying of misinformation. Black women are dying of a lack of believability. Black women are dying. That statement alone should be enough to make a change.
*****
The Tomb
by Cray L. Brown
To much surprise, the lights still flicker, momentarily illuminating this tomb’s squalor. In the light, I could see shiny black bodies of cockroaches scurrying across the walls, feasting upon a greenish stain covering the drywall. Dark voids of black mold eat away at floral wallpaper. The whole place reeks of ammonia, since the rats do as they please wherever they please, singing to the apartment with squeaks and murmurs. This place lives, breathes. It’s its own ecosystem. The decision to move away was the best I’d ever made. The decision to move here, a world of pure light and joy, away from that tomb.
“That sounds awful!” A woman’s voice exclaims. “Glad you got out of that dump…” I look up to face my beloved, a face I could gaze into for all eternity. Her eyes, an olive-like hue, were still as wondrous and bright as the day I first saw them. A flood of pleasure, both physical and emotional, washes over me. The love of my life, Anya, is sitting there with her chin resting in her palms, a lock of curly brown hair hung before her sharp eye. I raise my thumb, brushing it behind her ear. She makes me so happy. Every time I see her is just like the first.
“I’ll never go back. No matter what I have to do, I will always be here, by your side, in our little desert oasis.”
Whenever I see her smile, a fire is lit within me, burning me up inside. I’m so happy. I couldn’t get any happier. She reaches over, picking up a bottle of lemonade and setting it down on the table for us. She quietly pours us both a glass, passing mine over before raising her own.
“Here’s to forever!”
“Forever!”
I press my glass against hers, saluting with a clink before I start to down my cup. The liquid inside is rich and sweet, little juicy bits of lemon pulp floating about, which I crush between my teeth. It’s all so nice. It all makes me so happy. But as the glass nears half-empty, it seems to lose some of its taste, almost like it was watered down near the end – almost, water still has some taste. This was just a liquid traveling down my throat, causing my expression to sour for the first time in what seems like forever. I hold the glass in front of me, swishing it about. It’s lost all its taste.
“Something wrong?”
I look over to her, my smile assuming a more awkward connotation.
“The lemonade, it uh… It doesn’t taste like anything.”
Anya stares blankly, her head cocked to the left, saying nothing as beads of cold sweat begins to form on my brow. My lip quivers, and as I look around the room, my fingers begin to slip and tense up as I strenuously grip the cup..
“A-Anya, why can’t I taste the lemonade?”
As tension heightens, I crush my thumb into the glass, causing the whole thing to shatter in my hands. Where one might expect shards of glass to pepper my hands, the whole thing seems to evaporate in thin air. Anya doesn’t blink, she doesn’t speak, she just watches me, as if wholly unable to form articulated thoughts.
I’m not getting through to her. She can’t help me where I’ve gone. I violently sob, feeling neither pain nor relief as dark corners creep into my vision’s periphery. I grip the underside of the table, my heart beginning to pound in my chess as I hurl the thing over as far as I can, everything on top of it falling to the ground with a violent crash and clammer. I stagger onto my feet, digging my hands into the broken glass, but it sinks through my fingers without so much as a scratch. My chest heaves violently as I scramble to my feet, staggering drunkenly to the hallway. Anya is sitting there, glass peppering her hair as she just stares at me with those cold, dead eyes. Just as emotionless and hollow as the day we met. Screaming, I run outside to be hit with warming rays of sunshine. The encroaching black fog tightens around my vision, choking me, the sun the only thing in view. My legs like Jel-o, I collapse onto my side, curling up like a fetus as I stare at that big yellow demon in the sky. It mocks me, hiding the real sun.
“Where’s the Sun?! Where’s the Sun?! Where’s the Sun?! Where’s the Sun?!”
I scream at the top of my lungs as I stare uninterrupted at the unknown yellow object. My eyes do not burn, they do not even water. I fall to my knees, digging my fingers into the dirt, ripping blades of grass from the earth. My head pounds, a low-pitched whine emanating from every surface around me. My eyes feel like they’re going to burst out of my head. I scratch and claw at them with dirt-covered nails, hoping to relieve some of the pressure, let them out! I’ve been placed under a hydraulic press, my head being smashed to bits under an inconceivable weight. I can’t tell if I’m screaming, I can’t tell if I’m crying, all I know is the pressure, and the pulsing thuds of pain that fill my entire being. I’ll be trapped like this forever. Maybe I’ve always been like this. Where’s the Sun? – Oh! – There it is!
Conscious thought slips from me like fat rendered from skin. A warmth spreads throughout my body once… Sweet, sweet release. Sweet, sweet warmth. There’s my Sun.
…
He had long since moved on, but his tomb still breathes for him. Within the apartment, a dull, wet, thumping sound can be heard from the door. Little rays of light shine through a thick layer of black sludge coating the door. The thumping gets louder as the sludge begins to tear, before entire chunks of it are ripped from the door, the stench would stop a man dead in his tracks, were anyone to try and enter. On the wall, bumps have formed beneath the mold. Roaches, dead, consumed whole by the biomass. The tomb breathes and dances with new life, its fire stoked with fresh meat. The cockroaches feast, the rats nibbling at the rotted stumps of what were once its toes, but have long since become nothing but marrow and stretched tendons. Thick plastic tubes still bloom from its arms, but many hang loose as the arms’ flesh begins to render.
And beyond it all, a faint glow emanates from where the corpse’s eyes might be, and as his skull begins to sink in on itself, a woman’s quiet calls are barely audible, as if she is calling out for someone. But only the tomb can hear – and the tomb does not listen.
*****
Epilogue
by Harmony Hines
Pride and Pain, a duet of life,
Two opposing forces in endless strife.
One is a feeling of joy and worth,
The other, a burden we bear since birth.
Pride, a sense of accomplishment and glee,
A feeling that fills us with jubilee.
A reflection of our hard work and sweat,
Our efforts paid off, we won the bet.
But with pride comes a sense of ego,
A hunger for power and control.
Blinded by our own success and fame,
We forget that pride can lead to shame.
Pain, the inevitable shadow of life,
A force that cuts us like a knife.
A reminder that we are but mere mortals,
Vulnerable to fate’s endless portals.
But pain, too, has its own lessons to teach,
A reminder that life is not a beach.
It shows us our own strength and resilience,
And teaches us to appreciate life’s brilliance.
Pride and Pain, two sides of the same coin,
A reminder that life is not a join.
It’s a journey of ups and downs,
Of smiles and tears, of cheers and frowns.
So let us embrace both pride and pain,
And learn from the lessons they bring.
For they make us who we are,
A masterpiece, unique and bizarre.
*****
Acknowledgements
The 2022-2023 Echo Literary Magazine staff would like to thank all of the contributors and supporters: Mr. Zand and the entire North Springs ELA Department, Ms. Dean and the NSHS Art Department, and Mr. Lupiani and his graphic design team. We also want to thank the staff of our sister publication, the NSHS Oracle for hosting and promoting us, and to Ms. Motahari and the NSHS Phalanx Yearbook staff for coordinating many joint efforts with us for NSHS Journalism this year.
Thank you to Mr. Hanson, the NSHS administration, and Magnet Coordinator Mr. Landreau of the NSHS Magnet. Thanks also to Ms. Smith, Ms. Yates, and the NSHS Counseling Department.
Additional thanks to Ms. Ferris, Mr. Green, Mr. King, Mr. Owens, and Mr. Sandlin for encouraging students in their departments to submit their work. Thank you also to Ms. Zachry in the North Springs Media Center for helping with our promotions, Mr. Patterson for his mentorship program support, Ms. Pekatos for her ongoing feedback and support, and Ms. Shiflett for her bookkeeping wizardry.
Shout out to our awesome parents and students for their ongoing support! Above all, thank you, fellow students, for reading and contributing to Echo!
Echo 2022-2023 Staff
| Ed Gorgoll – Editor |
| Trinity Davis – Co-Editor & Secretary |
| Christian Ralph – Assistant Editor |
| Aurora Seesink – Planning and Managing |
| Geneva Oviatt – Assistant Editor |
| Sergio Moreno – Art Director |
| Jaxon Hewitt – Online and Promo |
| Ashley Williams – Assistant Art editor |
| Phoenix Rivera – Art editor |
| Sabella Davidson – Editorial |
| Sabrina Baker -Fundraising |
About Echo
Echo is North Springs High School’s student-run literary magazine and is a member of the Georgia Scholastic Press Association and National Scholastic Press Association. Echo highlights the creative endeavors of North Springs High School students, and is comprised of only the 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.
Echo 2022-2023 Book Publication Information:
If you did not receive a physical copy of the 2023 Literary Magazine as part of our publications package, please contact ThroneA@fultonschools.org. You may request a refund for the amount of the printed copy, a copy for pick up or mailed to you at no additional charge upon publication, or receive the 2024 issue instead.