Wednesday, June 8, 2022


 For some of us, it's an ending. As the school year comes to a close we say goodbye to our friends. We clean out our lockers and wish our teachers farewell. We shed a tear as we leave the building, realizing that all of our memories are in the past. What we've known for so long is now gone. For some of us, its an ending.

For some of us, it’s a beginning. We seek the newly freed time to relax and clear our minds. We spend time with our family, and relatives we haven't seen in months. We explore new hobbies and passions and take the time to learn more about the things we love. For some of us it’s a beginning.


Whether it’s a beginning or end, we will still cherish all of the memories we've made here. We edited papers and gave good feed back, but we also laughed. We had an amazing time together and also had an amazing time sharing our best pieces with you!


This month's post includes little snippets, fragments of writing, from most of our authors here at Sevenatenine Literary Magazine to conclude this years magazine. We hope you’ve enjoyed the pieces from this year and we hope you enjoy these!


Come visit us next year to see some more amazing work from your favorite writers and artists, and to hopefully see pieces from our new students next year!


From everyone here at Sevenatenine Literary Magazine, we wish you an amazing summer!

by Julia N., Grade 8

Artwork by Dylan H., Grade 9

For I thought myself a hero,

And so it seems did he

But fairytales are pretty lies

And so it seems are we


by Mackenzie J., Grade 7


A fish in the sky,

Swimming in the expansive black,

It likes to relish the view of distant planets

And rest in a bed of stars.


by Richard W., Grade 7



She takes a step back

Then two

Then she walks away, like I should have done

I shouldn’t have said that.


by Sophia L., Grade 7


Supine and stare at the open sky.

Wonder over the field in which It all began.

When the cicada grasshoppers jigged out their countryside rigadoon.

The fruit fly squirmed,

As if it was laughing too.


When you marry the daisies,

You marry for raw tenderness.

And always smile when you can.


by Jaime P., Grade 8


So long

The city awakens

To sow and reap



by Jack D., grade 8


I’d laugh with them, cry with them, go through it all with them, fight for them, fight with them. If those people ever needed me, I will be there less then a mile away, by their side.


by Beck M., Grade 9.


Tuesday, May 31, 2022

The Penultimate Post

 Well, the year is not quite over yet.  Look out, world: two posts are coming your way from Sevenatenine in rapid succession.  Here is the first, and our second-to-last (or penultimate) of the year.  We hope you find it wonderful.


I retrace my steps, I try to explain

why the ground feels so hollow, why my head drips with pain


hope in my eyes, I stare to the sun

drifting away, in delirium


vertigo, oblivion

I'm spinning away


rows of houses, endless people;

they rob me of meaning

i can feel their hands

suffocating me

such a random, useless destiny


I'm trying to learn to let go

but your words burn like scars

your sympathy lost in undertow

I swallow my heart


the world is still on the outside

your words are soft

the wind is soothing

but my mind is screaming

and while the surface shines, the inside rots


stuck somewhere between hope and apathy

stuck somewhere between my mind and reality


vertigo, oblivion

I'm drifting away


chaos surrounds me, whirling

next time, I won't throw it all away

by Liam R., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

My Best Friend

The poison in my veins

The sunshine in my day

The right amount of fun

To melt the cold away

The one that somehow plagues me

But heals my wounded soul

My bestest friend ever

That opens my heart of coal

by Ava C., Grade 7

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Six Cents

The troubadour watches from afar

Define my abyss:


A walking duplex stutters

Beautiful dreams 

With a limp in his head

Looped and bound

By a stagnant complex

You got six cents where all cars go?



Nothing’s ever really wrong

When a song ends in a minor key


And so I come to isolation

by Jack D., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Regretful Fire

She shouts,

I shout back. 

We're dancing with burning coals. 

My mouth spins

and twists my emotions:

shock lines her face. 

I respond with flames. 

I don't realize it now, 

but I am filled with regret. 

We go our separate ways, quietly. 

No words traverse our burning bridge. 

She returns with hot anger. 

It burns, it stings, and she doesn't relent. 

It hurts me as much as it frustrates me. 

Because deep down, I know she's right. 

by Richard W., Grade 7

Wednesday, April 27, 2022

The Cruelest (and Kindest) Month

 T. S. Elliot once wrote, "April is the cruelest month," and this April, with it's wild dips back into winter, may seem like one of those months.  Then again, it has been a time for writers -- like the daffodils and crabapple trees -- to blossom.  National Poetry Month draws students around the country to more poetry, and we have an ample supply from our own Holicong writers here for you today.  So to poets, the month is also a kind one.  We hope it has been kind to you. 

Where the Tulip Grows

Where the tulip grows,

The lush green ground that whispers wispy affirmations.

A tickle on the petals as they shall bend--

Shall whisper into the tiny ears of the tulip,

A mellifluous sing-song song as the hummingbird hums by.


Where the tulip lives,

Under a bosom,

A beating heart drumming on and on.

A stem being thrown about to and fro.

Roots slowly churning upwards from the ground,

Sheltered comfort slightly pried away.

Tis’ but the wind my friend.

I’m deathly, deathly sure.


Where the tulip perceives,

Eyes watching so fondly.

But, roots are still tugging,

And now the stem is being lashed around

In a tight grasp.

My friend,

'Tisn’t the wind.

I'm affrightedly sure.


Where the tulip grows,

In this bleakly battered and hellish place.

Trampled into hiraeth for the untainted meadow of moon.

Trapped in an illicit daydream.


Where the tulip dries,

Crumble to crumble.


Society kills.

by Jaime P., Grade 8

Old Sir Gone No More

And the fireworks caterwauled as airplanes flew over a sea veiled by the infinite night

Stood barefoot in the sand

Heavy heart, flamboyant dance

Father clutching shoulder in ill-fated doom; stale breath, cold stance

You are going to be so tall, in all emotional vacancy

Where did he helm when you needed it

Where was your heart, never wrote, when Eeileen found beauty in the caterpillar

If only he recognized his vulnerability


By the door he spoke to me with intoxicated jest

You are going to be so tall, atrocity exhibition

Lost without a trace of a way to get out of this misery

As long as ropes unravel, the fondest farewell will travel

But will prevail at water's edge

Milking stones

Nothing left to hold on to but his own pride

New found solace


As I run out of El Segundo, out of the Great Laugh of Mankind

Out of veneered palm trees

Wending westward wept the eye of a needle, spewing idyllic treacheries

I tried my best, I tried in vein

But lo and behold, Eeileen's in a drunken runt, that sunken shunt

Empathy departed, devoid of her ardery, our quasi-cavalry

I tried my best, I tried in vain

But my knees caved in


Atrophy gliding the sun's whisper

Beaming down rays of hope, sundry

Figure forms above the grains, tips of tool kissing the sand

Trudging a negating lullaby, where the mountains once penetrated the ground

Pondering grouse drums, edicting the flies

Asunder came flocks of edifice

Perforating the crevices of the Earth

A great laugh cradles the sky


Above the conjugated buzzing, atop the roof where the burgeoning, burdening antenna sits

Scraping sky, some steel shaft

Seven suns sonder, Sisyphus settled

The hummingbird pantomimes

And I miss the precious heart of the Wild Cosmia; oh no, now I'm grieving

Left wondering how many times will I die up here

On the mountain's coil

My boulder, all exeunt!

by Jack D., Grade 8

Artwork by Charlie W., Grade 7

Permanent No Man's Land

What is it to be the permanent no man’s land?

To stand, forever at the edge of all things, and watch?

To see the world drift by, lives lived and lives died,

And to never endure the painful wonder of existence?

To gaze at the endlessness without deadline,

To be the forever and the never,

All at once alive and dying and yet so perfectly not

What is it, even, to be called?

A geographical phenomenon, or a scientific anomaly?

Is there explanation at all, or merely something beyond mortal comprehension,

That binds the world to have an edge

Gives the sky and earth a place to meet

Allowed to end, truly, but never stop

A loop, a cycle




by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

"No Monsters/No Mercy" by Makenzie J., Grade 7


I feel as if I’m always in second, never enough, never perfect. I try my hardest to be at the top. I’m nice, but not the favorite. I’m smart, but I’m not intelligent.

I want more.


I want to be first for once, I want to be recognized. I want to be truly noticed for me.


What did you say? I can’t do that?


I’ll just try harder. I’ll try to be funny, be smart, work harder, be popular.


I’m sorry. I really tried to be better. I didn’t want to make it worse.


I’m an outcast. I was wrong. I’m now less than anything. I’m spiraling down. I can’t keep up. I shouldn’t have tried.


 I’m still not enough. I will never be enough.


Greed overtakes me. I want more. It will never be enough.


I will never be enough.

by Lily C., Grade 7

Artwork by Charlie W., Grade 7


Wednesday, March 23, 2022

A Wild Amalgam

 Sometimes we try to connect all the pieces we publish . . . and sometimes we just can't!

Enjoy a wild amalgam of writing and art this month.  We think you will find lots to admire. 

Artwork by Richard W., Grade 7

The Someone

I never liked someone.


Not before, not now.


No strong feelings,

No burning sensation.

No anything.


I never wanted to feel love,

Or longing.

I was fine with what I had.


I haven’t liked someone.


Not now, not ever.


I'm too young,

I'm not comfortable,

This topic is getting out of hand.


I don't like someone…


Not ever, not…


Can we leave it alone?

I don’t want to talk about this.

This isn't right.


But really, deep inside, I know like someone.


Before, for now, and forever.


The way that they smile,

The way that they laugh,

The way they make my spirits soar.


But it's not possible.


It shouldn't be possible.


I never liked anyone.

Not this way, before.

I don't know how to respond.


They don't even know me.


I don't even know them.


Why do I feel like this?


For someone I don't know.

For someone I haven't known

For someone that I won't know.


And for that someone, I feel like this.


Maybe that's bad,

At least for some people.

But to me?


It's the best thing that ever happened to me.


So I'll smile, and introduce myself.


To someone that I will know.

To someone that I know.

To someone that I have known.


To someone,

Who likes me.


And that I,

Like right back.


Maybe for Valentine's Day?


by Richard W., Grade 7

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Storybook Ghosts

There are ghosts in my head

I don’t understand them

But I am not afraid

Because I do know them


One quiet and gentle

A silent listener

When the days feel wrong

And I wish I wasn’t here to see it


One loud and alive

A cheering voice

When excitement awakes

And the music swells


One stiff and reassuring

A constant presence

When the world feels crushing

And I swear to god that I’m alone


One wise and caring

A feathered umbrella over my head

When the rain drips down

And I walk home slowly


One cheerful and innocent

A laughing companion

When I’m second guessing

And nothing I do feels right


One smart and eccentric

A comical tablemate

When I sit bored in the back

And do my work between drawings


 One empathetic and loyal

A careful advisor

When I have questions I can’t ask

And scars I’d rather not share


Yes, there are ghosts in my head

I’m starting to understand them

But I'll never be afraid of them

Because I know what I wrote

by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Artwork by Will S., Grade 9

They & Them

The left and the right side.

She and he.


She was the lightness in the early morning dew.

A treat to be bestowed upon a king adorned with a crown of shimmer.

However, lightness is oh so heavy a burden to carry.

So with a smile she turns to dawn and begs to god she shall not falter.

Never in front of the eyes of others. 

For they could never know, there was never lightness, and never dew.

Now glorious dawn is long, long gone.

Dusk shall stay in place.


He was the bite to a glass of ginger ale.

Heavy down the throat and a pit in the stomach.

But he was fresh on the lips and an invigorating surge to the soul.

So ginger ale he was, and ginger ale he’ll be.

A hidden captain to the start of a new adventure.

Too much a shame it’s to say, the journey would never begin.


To say they hated themselves would be a lie, but to say they loved the isolation is the truth indeed.

For she was he, and he was she.

Perhaps that made them the biggest hypocrite of all.

 by Jaime P., Grade 8

Wednesday, February 2, 2022


 There have been a lot of palindromes coming up in our calendar of late: 2/2/22 is the latest.  

While we did not write any palindrome poems to celebrate, you might find it intriguing to notice the interplay between the pieces we publish this month, the juxtaposition of art and word, and find your own inversions of ideas that might be considered palindromic.  We hope you enjoy this missive from midwinter . . . stay warm out there!

To the Stranger In Front of Me

The confusion my heart holds is overwhelming. I linger upon the question of this being loneliness, or a genuine spark. The rhythm of my beating heart though translates to lies in my mind. Something impossible. 


I could never gift my heart to a stranger. A stranger who I have known for five years. All the opportunities but none were taken. Even now, with the stranger right in front of me, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I smile, but it is only when you look away. 


I hate this. The temptation to have such a love towards someone is absurd. To find comfort in someone who may not even know my name. 


Hope is nonetheless buried deep inside my heart despite the contradicting thoughts in my mind. Possibly they feel the same? No, that is likely not the case. How could that be? After all, I, too, am a stranger in their beautiful mind. The enigma I may never get to explore, but oh how I wish I could. After all, they are only a stranger sitting in front of me. 

by Stephanie T., Grade 9


artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

The Old and the New

As the old year comes to an end,

And you think about the old and the new,

You think to yourself that there's no way you'd abandon the old things,

That were so special to you.


But as the world changes,

You do too.

Begin to reflect on things

That are old and new.


A fresh new layer of paint on a wall.

A brand new pair of shoes.

A different bird that will sing its song,

Delivering information and news.


An old, dusty piano,

With cracked and splintered wood.

Yet the notes still sound crisp and sharp,

As any piano should.


A new idea enters your mind,

It's terribly shocking and extremely unrefined.

But as you fix it and tune it, making it better,

You realize you just created something you'd never be able to just find.


Hobbies are something you're passionate about,

And you really like them too.

But as you try more things, you think:

It wouldn't be terrible to discover something else to do.


You think about something else -

Your bad habits and bad decisions that you choose,

And begin to wonder:

Aren't old things something you'd rather lose?


As you see children with gifts you'd been given

Something occurs to you just as fast:

No matter how similar a new toy would be,

It never reminds you of that toy from your past.


As the old year comes to an end,

And you think about the old and the new,

You realize it wouldn't be too bad to leave behind the old things…

But then again, why not keep a few?

by Richard W., Grade 7

artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7


He cups his hands and raises them to the sky

He sits and waits for rain

She does the same

How they would love to meet, but heaven knows they’ll never try


They sit around waiting to heal: overdosed on apathy

Staring at the ground, refusing to look at the sun

Waiting for rain

Wishing they could drench themselves in these storms

And watch the trusses bend and sway

They can breathe but would love to start living


They're still holding on, still waiting

"Just keep moving"

Etcetera, etcetera

Seas of people staring at their feet, their hands cupped to the sky

Who will never know what they've been waiting for

And who have missed their life flash before their eyes

by Liam R., Grade 9

artwork by Richard. W., Grade 7

artwork by Jacob D., Grade 9

Wednesday, December 22, 2021

This Is The Way We End a Year

 As the long nights and short days persist, we know the year is almost over and soon the world will brighten again.  To hold you over, we share these snippets and poems, paintings and photography, and we hope they bring you joy. 

Artwork by Julia N., Grade 8

Let Us Raise Our Flags

How many times will we watch

as our Purple Hearts are slaughtered?

How many times will we watch

their lives thrown aside amidst the ranks of cheering crowds?

Why do we hold them in reverence?


We fold our flags as our lines draw clearer

While we watch from our safe distance in the crowd


We are intoxicated by the throne

We are consumed by our enmity

and we are the winter


Let us raise our flags on the graves of the innocent

by Liam R., Grade 9

Photograph by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Planting Ideas

I don't have the green thumb others seem to possess,

Never been able to nurture an idea

For more than a few hours.

And I'm not sure I want to try again this time.


But this is the right time - a perfect idea,

Ready to flourish under your care.


I can't seem to make this work!

I can't bare to see another idea disappear.

I only see my failures.




But you'll never know what it'll turn into,

Unless you try.


I've already tried.

I've seen my flowering, budding ideas,


Watched them wilt…

Deprived of the nutrients of my mind,

And dried up by the burning judgement of others.


How do you know this time isn't different?


Every time…

It's been the same.

What will make this any different?

How do I know?

How do I know there's a difference?

That this won't become another lifeless idea,

Another beautiful flowering story,

Morphed, altered and ultimately ruined,

By my ever-changing thoughts?


You're doing it right now!

Has it become the mess you expected it to be?


Maybe not.


This little sapling will sprout

Into the beautiful idea

I've always wanted it to be.

by Richard W., Grade 7


 Photograph by Sophia L., Grade 7

Everyone seemed to have their thing.

You had only one role in this hierarchy adults say doesn’t exist.

But it does exist- grown-ups just forget how real it truly is.

Once you had your set niche, there was no contorting it- that was you to the rest of the student body.

Unless someone bothered to get to know you, of course.

But when everyone is so wrapped up in themselves it didn’t happen often.

You were an athlete: Always leaving 7th period early to hop on a bus going who knows where.

You were that kid: The one everyone knows about, the one people point out at lunch and talk about all the time even if they’ve never laid eyes on you themselves.

You were once the mean girl of your elementary class: That one girl that sent some kids home crying, the one who talks about you behind your back. But middle school is so large that tiny grasp of power slips away. Now, what’s left of your big, bad reputation is… I’m not gonna go into it.

That one kid who towers over the teachers.

The kid that is made fun of for their height.

The one who plays Snake in class.

The one with a book under their arm.

The one that knows everything: Drama, secrets, ready to let loose like a deadly firecracker.

The loud one.

Quiet one.

Smart one--


Or, you could be neutral.

You could just drift through the drama and never let it affect you.

Watch it go down like a staged fight on a reality TV show.

You smile with the others, watch from afar, never part of it yourself.

Yet there’s a curse behind this neutral stance.

 You’ll always want to be one of them. Known.

And all of them want to be one of you. Anonymous.


by Kate M., Grade 7