Headrush 2016

headrush clockwork

Volume XXll

BVHS Cover frt/bk spread 4.2.16 .indd 3

2015-2016

4/2/16 3:31 PM

headrush clockwork

Volume XXll

BVHS Cover frt/bk spread 4.2.16 .indd 3

2015-2016

4/2/16 3:31 PM

Clockwork

Headrush Literary & Art Magazine Blue Valley High School 1 2015-16 Volume XXII

Concept We travel through our days like clockwork.

Every movement is like the swift motion of a hand on a clock. Steady, constant, safe. We wake up everyday following an accustomed schedule. With the steady rhythm that comes from the tick of a timepiece, we repeat the cycle day after day, month after month, year after year.

Each turn of a page is like the turn of a gear, bringing us to indescribable places, but in the end, returning us to the niche in which we first began this journey.

Staff Reshma Rajasingh, Editor Alex Roberts Hanna Bradford, Ivy Daugherty Maggy Crawford Emily Ho Sponsor: Maureen Davis

Cover Design: Alex Roberts Design/Graphics: Hanna Bradford & Maggy Crawford Title Page Art: Unrequited by Emily Ho

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short stories 8-21

play 24-26 poetry 30-45 essays 46-57 children’s story 62 3

Table of Contents Literature

Short Stories 8-10 12-15 16-17 18-21

Shoes by Maddie Davis Smile Pretty by Stephanie Meyers Ceramics by Lorna Hurt Simply a Question: Unanswered by Lizzie Skidmore

24-26

Ward by Megan O’Connor

30 30 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 40 42 43 45

Gamer by Anakin Miller Big Boy by Lorna Hurt Skeleton by Makayla Nicholis Wanderlust by Stephanie Meyers Starting Line by Lauren Heusers Horizontal Conversations by Maddie Davis Ya Nerd by Andrew Feehan My Body by Rachel Law Christmas Morning by Layren Heusers It’s Kinda Funny by Anakin Miller Your Room by Makayla Nicholis Side by Side by Maddie Davis Break by Andrew Feehan

49-50 50 53 54-56

Aesthetic Criticism by Lizzie Skidmore Hello-Goodbye by Mandy Novicoff Obsession by Lorna Hurt Borderland by Stephanie Meyers

Play

Poetry

Essay

Children’s Story

62

Taking Flight by Anakin Miller

6 7 8 10

Line Camouflage by Audriana Pena Metropolitan by Meghan Hollingsworth Bare Country by Sophia Ragomo Bunker by Alex Roberts

Art

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Art

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24 27 28 29 31 32 33 34-35 36 37 38 39 41 41 42 43 44 46 47 48 51 53 54 55 57 58-59 60 61 63 64

Withered Touch by Kate Rider Un Pensee Floue by Sofia Acosta Perfectionist by Juliona L’Heureux Darkness by Riley Fisher Silhouette by Lydia Vespestad Hand and Heart by William Penn Self Portrait by Kelly Wood Lonely by Mansi Malkan Expiration by Mady Fast Untitled by Kate Rider Puzzled by Kassidy Wagner Hot Air Balloon by Jessi Kirwin Fragile by Joann Dugan The Photographer by Maddie Davis Intersecting Patterns by Colton LoRoche Painting with Light by Cassidy Berg Decades by Elizabeth Toles Hands by Taylor Hartman The Flame That We Follow by Haley Jones The Perfect Ending by Catherine A. Farrell Color and Shape by Maddie Davis Wonderlost by Juliona L’Heureux Posterity by Dalton DeWeese Silhouette by Owen Olson Evolution by Juliona L’Heureux Whirls of Wonder by Shivani Patel Until It Becomes a Memory by Sophia Ragomo The Bridge by Cameron Malm Simplicity by Alex Graves Dense Shades of Black by Tori Donnici Back in My Day by Maddie Davis Edward’s Upgraded Hands by Ally Berkowitz Dwindling by Mandy Novicoff Urban Greens by Jennifer Ackland Baby by Kelly Wood Mortencage by Andrea Mindakkal We Hold Our Stories by Sofia Acosta Yellow Sky by Maddie Davis Exploration of Design by Kaysha Foil Whimsical Drawers by Madeline Mullinnix Shaken Awaken by Brooke Metz Untitled by Mady Fast

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6

Metropolitan

Meghan Hollingsworth Colored Pencils Collage

Line Camouflage Audriana Pena

Stories

Ink and Graphite

7

Shoes

Maddie Davis

On a busy street in a busy town, there is a building that sits at the bottom of a hill. It is a hotel that has been open for as long as anyone can remember. Guests are attracted to it because of its rich red velvet chairs, carved golden headboards, and history as a very trendy, upscale establishment.

However, what many of them don’t know is that there is a man who lives in the basement of this hotel. Behind a closed mahogany door locked and labeled “PRIVATE,” down a dingy flight of concrete stairs, and facing a thin, streetlevel window, you can find this man. He is silhouetted by the stark contrast of the filtered light coming in through the window and the complete darkness of the remaining part of the basement. He sits in one of the red velvet chairs that is turned toward the window, but it is frayed, faded, and almost completely unrecognizable.

The man who sits in the chair is

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in just about the same condition as it. His skin is wrinkled and creased like a piece of paper that has been crumpled up one too many times. He is almost bald -- he has small patches of salt-and-pepper hair left, but it’s obvious that most of it left a long time ago. His back is warped and weathered like a piece of driftwood left out too long in the sun. He wears just a grimy white t-shirt and pair of blue jeans.

But his most interesting feature is his eyes.

Peering through his wide-rimmed glasses, his owl-like golden eyes filter through the people walking past his window. All day, and at night for as long as he can see with the aid of the streetlights, he watches.

He sees pumps aggressively attacking the concrete as they rush to get to work on time. He watches tiny little baby feet in brand-new shoes learning to walk for the first time. He sees the running shoes speed past his window, apparently chasing after something he can’t see. He sees pink sandals and black converse

Bare Country Sophia Ragomo Photography

playing hopscotch together, and warm, fuzzy boots trekking through the snow in the winters. He has seen breakups -like a pair of cork wedges leaving a pair of vintage oxfords for a pair of brown leather boot -- love at first sight, and understanding. He has seen kindness, sadness, like when a pair of beaten-up sneakers stayed by itself in the cold for a whole night, and sheer joy. He has seen togetherness, loneliness -- like a single pink rainboot left during a storm -- and new friendships being made.

He often wonders what would happen if he was to leave his post. He is afraid of feeling emotions himself. The emotions of the pairs of shoes that walk by his window every day make sense and are easy to process, but he wasn’t sure what he would do if he had to feel such things. How did they do it? How did they continue walking on, pushing on, every day through an emotional obstacle course that everyone else is watching you struggle to complete? To him, it seemed tedious. Unnecessary. Completely and utterly terrifying. Yet, the thought of leaving still did cross his mind. Usually, though, he was able to shake it off.

He concluded that it was a Tuesday because of the newspaper someone dropped by his window. For a bit of time, it blocked his view, but it was finally blown away by a large gust of wind and he could see out again. Venturing out there himself had begun to entice him more and more. It was true that whenever he thought about leaving he became anxious, but he was beginning to wonder if he did leave, if that would fade with time. If he could be accepted. If he could see things other than people’s feet, like their faces and the things everyone else paid attention to and judged the worth of a person on.

Suddenly, he was seized with a physical need to go beyond his four walls. To know what was out there. He felt he had been watching for so long, but there was still more to be learned.

But in order to do that, he would have to leave his small asylum. He began to stand up from his chair, slowly but surely and bones creaking. He put one hand on the arm of the chair to steady himself and took one last look out his window.

From the outside, today looked just like any other day with the constant stream of pairs of shoes passing by his window, but he knew the feeling of it was different.

It was a day for discovering something new and ground-breaking, for creating something that would change the world or for a life-changing event. And in my case, he thought. Maybe all three.

Now that he was on his feet, there was no going back. He stepped painstakingly carefully to the door and wrapped his fingers around the tarnished brass knob. Turning the knob slowly, the door’s hinges whined as it was thrust open. He paused, looking up at the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he started up them. It was slow progress, but he was determined. Panting, he stopped when he reached the top of the stairs. His shortage of breath wasn’t the only reason he stopped -- he also realized he was the closest to going outside that he had been in a very long time. Heart pounding, he turned the knob on the second door.

Light poured into the dark foyer as soon as the door was cracked open.

Blinking, he stepped onto the polished white lacquer floor of the hotel. Somehow he had picked exactly the right time to come out, because there was no one in the hallway. After looking both ways, he moved toward a door that led outside.

After going through this last

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Bunker

Alex Roberts Photography

door, he found himself on the street.

There was so much going on at once that he could barely process it all. Cars honked and revved their engines, people walked every which way, some talking on their phones, some obviously in a hurry, and others as looking around as if they were in awe. However, amidst all this chaos, he once again focused on the shoes. That was what he knew. That was something that he could cling to. He saw the boots and the sneakers and the flats and pumps and dress shoes and flip flops and sandals and loafers but was overwhelmed. Even that was too much to process right now.

Slowly, he looked down at his own feet. His pale, dirt-dusted and bareskinned feet were completely unprotected

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and vulnerable. He looked back up in horror.

And that’s when he noticed everyone looking at him. Looking at his clothes, his hair, but most of all his feet.

It was like they could see into him. Every part of him was exposed and there was nothing he could do about it. His heart lurched into his throat. With the feeling of a thousand eyes on him and feeling like he was moving in slow motion, he ran back inside. Down the hallway, through the door marked “PRIVATE,” down the stairs, through the last door, and back onto his chair. He curled up with his head on the armrest, sobbing.

And that’s where he stayed.

Withered Touch Kate Rider

Scan and Paint

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Smile Pretty Stephanie Meyers

The air backstage was always filled with a specific smell. It was a combination of hairspray, eyelash glue, and anxiety. The smell of a beauty pageant.

Blair sat at her mirror, expertly applying a second coat of lipstick. Her bleach blonde hair was poufed up around her head, and her heavy layers of makeup combined with a spray tan made her look twenty-five rather than seventeen. She glanced around the room. Many of the other girls had their mothers with them, most of whom wore the same kind of clothes and makeup as their teen daughters. Blair had always thought pageant moms to be way too fussy and overbearing. However, a part of her wished for overbearing parents. Better to have parents too involved than ones not involved at all.

“Five minutes till the curtain opens, ladies!” the pageant director, Andre shouted. The girls hurried into their places while their moms quizzed them

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Un Pensee Floue Sofia Acosta Photography

on potential questions for the interview portion, which would come right after the introduction. Blair didn’t need to be prepped. She knew pageant interview questions by heart, and knew exactly what kinds of answers would please the judges.

No answer should be too specific, have too much substance, or include anything that could be viewed as even slightly controversial. All that mattered, really, was that the answer sounded vaguely good.

Before going to line up with the other girls, Blair covertly took a round blue pill out of her Altoids tin, and swallowed it. It had become routine for her to pop a Percocet right before going onstage. It energized her, and kept a smile on her face even when she felt like falling apart. She took one last look in the mirror, and flashed a pink-lipsticked grin that showed off her perfect teeth. Perfect, pretty, doll-like, she thought in her head as she lined up. She had made it a habit to remind herself mentally of what she

was supposed to be. Pretty, not crazy.

Happy, not depressed. She found that it was a good tool for keeping herself in line.

She tuned out the host’s statements as he began introducing the other girls one by one. If she paid too much attention to it, she could become intimidated and lose focus. She only listened when she heard her own name.

“Blair Harmon is seventeen years old,” the host boomed as she strutted with false confidence onstage. “She enjoys volunteering at a hospital in her spare time, and when she grows up, she wants to become a teacher.” That wasn’t true at all, but she had submitted that statement because it sounded good. Teaching was an admirable position, but not too powerful. She noticed that three of the four judges were men, as per usual.

Truly, these pageants were about the

Perfectionist Juliona L’Heureux

men’s opinions, but the directors always had to throw in one female judge so they could claim they weren’t sexist.

Once she had made her exit, her grin faltered and she went to the dressing rooms to change into her outfit for the interview portion of the competition.

Blair piled on another layer of makeup, spread vaseline on her teeth to reduce the friction in her smile, and taped the bright blue dress to her skin to prevent wardrobe malfunctions. She felt so fake she wanted to cry. Young, fresh, and glowing, she told herself.

You’re not fake, not worn out, not losing your mind. She popped another Percocet and bounced out onto the stage with all the pep she could muster.

“Ms. Harmon,” the host began, “what would you say is your biggest flaw?” This was an easy question.

“I push myself too hard,” she told him in a rehearsed, high-pitched lilt.

“I’m a perfectionist, and I just want to get the best

Photography

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performance out of myself whether it’s my grades, my pageants, or my personal life. But sometimes, that leaves me with very little time for myself. That is why my perfectionism is my greatest flaw.” She flashed one more bright white smile as the audience politely applauded.

As the Percocet began to take its effect, Blair’s head swam. She didn’t snap back to attention until the host announced her name as one of the ten girls to make it to the talent portion. She strode to the dressing rooms past death glares from teary-eyed contestants and their mothers to change into her third dress for the evening. This one was red, and a little skimpier than the last two. She’d be singing the national anthem for her talent.

Patriotism was a real crowd-pleaser.

While singing, she took note of the impressed smiles on the judges’ faces, telling her she would make it to the final round. Normally, that gave her a rush of excitement. But, tonight, as she stood on the stage, she wondered what she was doing this for. Why was she bending until she broke for the approval of strangers?

This wasn’t even her real self she was

Darkness Riley Fisher Photography

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presenting. She was giving them what they wanted, which was a pretty, artificial package that molded into a mannequin shell that held another person’s idea of a perfect woman. But what else was she going to do with herself? Pretty was all she could be. No one ever said, “Blair, you’re so smart,” or “Blair, you’re so interesting.”

All she ever heard was “what a pretty girl you are.”

She finished off her song and went backstage. Since she was the first to present her talent to the judges, she had some free time before they announced which two girls made it to the final round, the swimsuit competition. While waiting by her makeup mirror, her phone rang. It was her grandmother.

“Hey, Emily, what do you need?”

Her grandmother insisted on being called by her first name. She said it made her feel too old to be called “grandma.”

“Well, I have some news about your mother…”

“Do I get to visit her for Easter this year?” she asked excitedly, the possibility perking her up a little.

“Blair, I’m sorry. The doctors denied the visitor request again.” Blair responded with disappointed silence. “Are you still there?”

“It’s not fair!” she exploded finally.

“Psychotic depression is a difficult disease, you know. She can’t just be cured instantly.”

“Yeah, well I deserve a mother who doesn’t spend my whole life in a mental hospital. Why aren’t those doctors helping her?”

“They’re trying, but it’s starting to look like maybe she just can’t function in a normal society.”

“Well tell them they need to try harder!

This isn’t fair!” she shouted, attracting a few stares from other girls who had finished the talent competition.

“Blair, pull yourself together,” Emily snapped.

“Outbursts like that are what

landed your mother in that hospital.”

Blair paused for a moment, then hung up. She stared at her reflection. Was she really like her mother? They certainly looked alike. Her mother used to do beauty pageants too, until she lost her mind. Blair was beginning to see what drove her mother off the deep end. Would she end up just like her mom?

A burnt-out beauty queen with no concept of reality? Her eyes teared up and makeup ran down her face. She was tired of pulling herself together all the time, of covering up everything with a smile. That’s when she heard the host begin to speak.

“And the final two contestants who will participate in the swimsuit competition are… Michelle Winters and Blair Harmon!”

Michelle began jumping up and down in excitement. Normally, Blair would have done the same. But she was growing too tired to pretend anymore.

Andre strolled backstage. “Woah,” he said in response to her tear-stained face. “You have fifteen minutes to get ready. Fix that makeup. And smile, for God’s sake! These people are here to see a pretty young girl, not a headcase.” Blair just nodded and went to reapply her makeup and put on her swimsuit.

Three minutes before curtain, Blair once again examined the mirror. All she saw was fake hair, fake nails, fake eyelashes, fake lips, and a fake nose. She was nothing but a plastic doll. Fake, plastic, dying on the inside, her head repeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking she was happy. Her attempt at a grin was pitiful at best. She threw her hairbrush at the mirror in a sudden outburst of frustration.

Her head was racing and she felt like she was going to implode. She picked up a shard of the broken glass. They want a smile, she thought. I’ll give them what they

Silhouette

Lydia Vespestad Photography

want.

Three minutes later, Michelle made her way across the stage, parading in her skimpy bikini for people to size up her flesh like a pig at the county fair. Then, Blair’s name was announced.

When Blair made her entrance, an audible gasp ran through the audience. A child began to cry, a couple of members ran out of the auditorium, looking sick, and one person fainted. Two deep cuts ran from the corners of her mouth and curled up at the sides of her face, forming a permanent smile. She was still clutching the bloody shard of glass in her hand. The audience and the judges stared in stunned horror at this young girl who had clearly split from reality.

As Blair looked out upon their expressions of absolute disgust, she thought to herself, at least they finally see who I am.

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Hand and Heart Ceramics

William Penn Sculpture

Lorna Hurt

My mother tends to drop things when she is nervous or emotionally troubled. In fact, my brother Rob and I are just about the only things she has never dropped. This proves to be a problem sometimes, especially since doing dishes is her stress reliever.

My dad went out and bought plastic plates after my grandpa died, so that Mom would be able to wash them without having to replace them all the time. After a few months, she had recovered enough for us to switch back to our old dishes, and we donated our plastic plates to the local Goodwill, hoping that we would never need them again.

A few months passed, and the feeling in the house was back to normal.

Sure, we all missed Grandpa, but he had been old, had lived a good life; we had all come to terms with the fact that he was gone, or so I thought. Rob and I went to school, Dad went to work, Mom stayed home and looked after both the house and her family. We ate Sunday dinner together, and had movie nights whenever we could. Life was good.

Looking back, I should have noticed that Rob was acting differently.

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None of his old friends came over any more. Instead, Rob was always going over to new friends’ houses, friends we had never met before. We figured it was just a natural part of high school, and that he was becoming his own person. We should have known better.

One day, after I had come home from an especially hard-fought debate tournament, I came home to police cars in the driveway, their lights bathing the garage door in blue, red, blue, red. I raced up to the front door, shoving it open with my shoulder.

“Mom?” I implored once I had caught sight of her, “What’s going on?”

“Honey!” my mom exclaimed, running over and hugging me, “why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“My phone died,” I replied absentmindedly as I looked around at the four police officers in the kitchen with us. “that’s not why they’re here, is it?”

“No, sweetheart.” she sobbed.

“They’re here for Rob.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s not hurt, but the police had a search warrant for the house, and they found drugs in his room; He’s in custody

at the police station.” Mom said, finally breaking down completely. I hugged her, and asked if that’s where Dad was. She said yes, and that she had stayed behind to watch the house while the rest of the officers collected evidence.

I led Mom into the living room and sat her down on the couch. Police officers continued to go up and down the stairs like black-clad worker ants. I asked one of them why so many officers were involved in a teenage drug case.

“You really have no idea what your brother got into, do you?” he asked me before sighing and continuing, “We’re investigating a possible link between him and a drug syndicate from downtown that has committed all kinds of crime these past few years. Murder, arson, blackmail, you name it, they’ve done it; we’ve been chasing any leads we can get.”

When she heard this, my mother was overcome by a new wave of tears. I got up and made her some tea, making sure to put it into a metal thermos. Sure enough, as soon as I handed it to her, the thermos bounced off the carpet after sliding out of her hand. I’m glad I put a lid on that, I thought as I picked it up. I sat

back down, and stayed there for the next three hours until the cops had cleared out of the house.

A few weeks later, Rob’s trial attracted all the kids from school, whether they went to the trial itself or watched it on the news. I, of course, was in the courthouse sitting next to my parents in the front row.

I sat there, numb, as the evidence was presented, witnesses were examined and cross-examined, and the jury was instructed. The jurors filed out of the room as I stared at the back of my brother’s head, trying to wrap my head around how he had ended up on the defense side of a criminal case. I didn’t have long to ponder, though; the jury was only out for twenty minutes before pronouncing my brother guilty. He would be spending the next four years behind bars.

No one spoke on the ride home from the courthouse. We got home, and Dad excused himself to go upstairs, said he needed some time to think. I made sure my mom didn’t need anything, then I also headed upstairs, definitely not to cry in the shower.

Mom broke every plate in the house that night.

Self Portrait Kelly Wood Sculpture

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Simpy a Question: Unanswered Lizzie Skidmore

I remember how hard it was, to watch her be this afraid. It scared me, I can tell you that much, that I didn’t know what thoughts w e r e dancing around in her mind, trampling on the bright side of her. It took over her, this fear. It turned her from pirouettes in the rain in her brand new white shoes to cold coffee, untouched, on her desk in the back corner of the room. It hurt to turn around and see her like this. It hurt to not understand.

Because I didn’t understand. What is fear really? I wanted to know. And when I asked my mom she turned to me and told me….

It’s a storm on a Sunday night.

When you turn off the lights to go to bed, to get some sleep and dream happy things, to take that one break we get from life. But the lightning and thunder and roaring wind are all there to bring us back to reality. To remind us that the things we want we can’t have, the things we need we’ve taken from others, the things, people, choices we avoid are still out there.

And that’s when you hide under the covers, with your blanky and stuffed toy, and drift off into your so desired sleep. But fear has taken over your dreams too. So you have to wake up. Fear is what pushes you into reality.

I figured my mom was right, not

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Lonely

Mansi Malkan Photography

having much background on it. So I didn’t ask my dad. In fact I hadn’t said anything at all, I wasn’t sure if I was going to. But somehow he knew my question.

So when he answered silent thoughts he explained….

It’s your reflection in someone’s eyes. How you can see the faint silhouette of yourself in those big golden orbs. Of course it’s scary to see your reflection in big emerald eyes, maybe even blue, perhaps grey too. But there’s just something about brown that’s different. Maybe it’s because it’s the color of old things, maybe it’s because it’s the color of death; dead leaves, grass, flowers.

I like to think it’s because if you mixed all the colors you would get brown, but we still only see a black figure of ourselves.

We can’t see ourselves in color like we’d want to. In fact, it’s scary enough that we can see ourselves in the first place through someone’s eyes. It just reminds us that they can see us too. But seeing ourselves as that black silhouette in their eyes makes us think that they can’t see us for who we are.

Fear is being seen as someone we’re not.

It intrigued me how different my parent’s responses were. It intrigued me how maybe, just maybe, there was more than one answer to my question. So on Tuesday afternoon, I asked my best friend and in between mouthfuls of his sandwich

he muttered….

It’s when you get scared at night.

You get so scared you can’t sleep alone. So you walk outside your bedroom and plan to go sleep with your mom for comfort but you don’t know where she is. You don’t know if she chose to sleep on the couch or if your dad did. You don’t know who is in the bedroom and who is downstairs. Actually, you don’t know if your mom is even asleep.

For all you know, she could be smoking her last cigarette in the pack on the back porch right now. And for all you know your dad could still be at the bar, drinking another beer, bottoms up, till it’s all gone. But you doubt that. So you head to the bedroom, thinking your mom, vigorous and drunk, fought for the bed for the third time this week and won. You get there only to find the cat, asleep and taking up the bed by himself. Fear is seeking comfort, only to turn around and find no one there.

I understood finally, that fear isn’t just a definition you could find online. It’s an infamous energy condensed into four

letters. Four letters that can mislead or direct you to your own version. So with this in mind and a pencil in hand, I snuck into my little sister’s pink painted room after the sun had fallen out of the sky and asked her as simply as I could. She, surrounded in thin blankets and crumbs, looked up at me with her doe eyes and pouted lips, scrunched her nose up real tight and whispered….

Well brother, I just don’t know. If it’s what they say in the books, it’s just another word for what you’re scared of. But that’s not true. I’ve met fear you know? I looked him right in the eye. It was the day that Granpappy died. He sat in the back row in church watching over all of us. Fear, I suppose, is the first thing you meet when you come into this world. You meet him right before you look into your mom’s eyes for the first time, right before you fall in love for the first time. Fear is love. You love so many people through this lifetime, you just don’t notice it until they’re gone. And at one point in your life you’re going to be scared of it. You’re not going to want to admit you’re in love with this one person because you’ve seen the movies, you’ve read the books. You know what happens, how it all ends. They leave, always. And you don’t want that to happen to you, you don’t want to get hurt. So you push them away, further and further. Until they’re so close to being gone

Expiration Mady Fast Photography

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you’ve realized what you’ve done. So you reel them back in and minutes, months, years later they walk away again. Fear is loving someone, only to watch them slip through your fingertips.

I suddenly realized all these people I asked didn’t truly experience fear. Of course they have feared, of course they have conquered. But what about her?

She has danced with fear every waking day. What she thinks fear is, I don’t know the answer. So on Monday morning, I swiftly walked to the back of the class with a coffee and a cookie, set them down on her desk and asked her the question with tenderness. She lifted her head from the pillow of her arms and moved back her curtain of hair that framed her face, looked at me with a ghost of a smile and mumbled….

It’s in everything. It’s in the color blue, it’s in your shirt, it hides under your bed, and it swims in our minds. You don’t see it do you? Or maybe you do. It’s behind me, it’s surrounding me. You fear fear.

That’s ironic. I did too before I saw what it really was. I, like most others, didn’t think it was real. I thought it was something I could overcome. Someone I would never meet.

Then one day my breath hitched and I couldn’t catch it and I feared it was the end.

One day I sunk into my pillow and feared to come back up because I knew what be out there when I did. I needed to come up. To see the ones and do the things that I loved.

But fear, this imaginary thing we make up

in our minds, it kept me from that. And now here I am, in the back corner of a class I’m failing talking to this boy who doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. One day you’re going to feel like me. You’re going to look at the calendar and fear September for reasons you don’t know of. The next day you’re going to see coffee as if the devil burrows himself inside of it. And on some random Sunday, you’re going to start fearing people as if they already feared you. You don’t know why this happens and you might not know how it started or when, maybe if, it will end. But I can tell you one thing. Fear is anything you psych it out to be.

And maybe then I discovered fear is only inside of our heads. It isn’t anything I thought before. In fact I had never really thought about it before. It was just simply a word I never understood. And now I know that fear isn’t anything like bad grades or break-ups. It isn’t flying on airplanes or public speaking. Fear is a storm on a Sunday night and a sunny Tuesday. Fear is your reflection in someone’s eyes and staring at a blank, white wall. Fear is being scared at night and fear is being happy at sunrise. Fear is the first thing you meet in this world and the last thing you say goodbye to. You might not know what fear is. But I was once told that it’s whatever you make up in your head. For me, fear is the unknown and fear is the things we know too well. For her, well, fear is what conquered her. Maybe fear is what pushed

Withered Touch Kate Rider

Scan and Paint

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Hot Air Balloon Jessi Kirwin Photography

Puzzled

Playscript

Kassidy Wagner Ink and Graphite

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Fragile

Joann Dugan Photography

Ward

Megan O’Connor Characters: Thomas - An outspoken and cynical teen that has been feeling down lately.

Reggie - A young pre-teen jokester who has been in and out of hospitals his entire life.

River - An odd, yet plucky teen who struggles against depression.

Nurse Williams - A stern but kind woman who watches out for the kids in the hospital.

Joseph - A stoic 19-year-old who also struggles against depression, he keeps to himself.

Nurse Callie - A younger nurse who would much rather be somewhere else.

Caroline - A 17-year-old alcoholic in remission.

Tony Katelyn Nurse #3 Setting: Time - Varies Place - Controterra Hospital, a tidy hospital. The story mainly takes place in Unit C, a living room/waiting room-esque place. It is obvious that the characters are in a hospital. White walls with little to no natural light.w

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(Spotlight on THOMAS and NURSE CALLIE.) THOMAS: This is dumb. I want to go home. Why am I here? They weren’t that bad.

None of it was.

(Fade out spotlight.)

THOMAS: Well, not THIS bad. Jeez…

(Spotlight on RIVER and NURSE #3.)

RIVER: You’re only trying to help, right? I can go home soon?

(NURSE #3 pauses & Fade out spotlight.)

RIVER: When can I go home?

(Lights on. NURSE WILLIAMS leads an unsure and unthrilled THOMAS into the room.)

THOMAS: You’ve already taken my phone, why do some stupid drawstrings matter?

NURSE WILLIAMS: This facility isn’t just keeping you safe, it’s keeping other kids in similar situations safe as well.

THOMAS: (Bluntly) So basically you don’t want us to hang ourselves?

(NURSE WILLIAMS turns to give THOMAS a stern look before returning to her current task of retrieving scissors from the nurse’s station. She cuts the pajama drawstrings.)

NURSE WILLIAMS: There you go.

THOMAS: Wait, that’s it?

(NURSE WILLIAMS pauses, turning around once more.)

NURSE WILLIAMS: (After a moment of staring.) Yes. (She turns once more and enters the nurse’s station. THOMAS looks confused, and finally finds his way over to the living area, where he is approached by a young boy: REGGIE.) REGGIE: Hey! You’re new right? I’m Reggie, nice to meet’cha!

THOMAS: (Surprised) Hey. So… what do we do here…?

REGGIE: (Still cheerful) Mostly therapy sessions. You wanna get off Unit- that’s where the fun stuff is.

THOMAS: “Off unit”…?

REGGIE: Yeah, then you can go to school.

THOMAS: (Annoyed) How is school “fun”?

REGGIE: You’ll see. Let’s introduce you!

THOMAS: No, no, no, wait!

(He points to an older boy: JOSEPH, who waves without acknowledging either of them.)

REGGIE : That’s Joseph. He’s 19.

THOMAS: Then why is he-?

REGGIE: Checked himself in. They won’t let him leave now.

THOMAS: Oh. REGGIE: Yeah… that’s River- Hey, River!

(RIVER looks up from her workbook, and puts an oversized and dulled pencil down. It is missing an eraser.)

RIVER: Hey, Reggie- Oh, hello! Are you the new guy?

THOMAS: (Surprised) That would be me.

RIVER: Oh! Nice to see a new face!

(REGGIE and THOMAS look at each other.)

RIVER: (Realizing her mistake.) N-Not that it’s good that you’re here- I mean… It’s good, because you’ll get help, but… (To herself.) Oh… that’s not what I meant…

REGGIE: (Whispering) She’s really nice, but she’s not very good with words… She doesn’t mean it.

(CAROLINE walks past RIVER, patting her on the shoulder sympathetically, and sits on her left with her own workbook.)

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REGGIE: That’s Caroline. She’s super cool… (Whispering) Sometimes she sneaks in cigsNURSE WILLIAMS (Offstage): (Sternly) I heard that!

REGGIE: (Giggling) But she never gets away with it! (Louder) Not with Nurse Williams around!

NURSE WILLIAMS: (Sarcastically) Mmm-hmm.

(REGGIE looks around.)

THOMAS: Is that it?

REGGIE: (To himself.) Where’s Katie…?

(KATLYN enters, hitting him over the head with a pillow.)

KATELYN: Right here, dumbass- and don’t call me that.

NURSE #3: (Chiding) Katelyn, language!

(REGGIE rubs his head sourly.)

REGGIE: That’s Katelyn. She yells at us and then goes to sleep.

THOMAS: Oh. (KATELYN lies down on the floor beside the couches and falls asleep.)

REGGIE: There’s also Tony, but he’s with his therapist right now.

THOMAS: (About KATELYN) Does she always do that?

REGGIE: (Confused) Tony’s a boy.

THOMAS: (Annoyed) No, Katelyn.

REGGIE: Oh, yeah. It’s all she does.

THOMAS: ...and she doesn’t get in trouble?

REGGIE: Well, no. It’s up to you: how you behave, how much you work… it’s how you get out. (Whispering) She’s been here a while THOMAS: Oh… (NURSE CALLIE approaches.)

REGGIE: Uh-oh… scatter!

(REGGIE runs back to JOSEPH’s table.)

THOMAS: Wait, what?

NURSE CALLIE: (Bored.) Are you ready to start your journal?

(Spotlight on a slouching THOMAS as he thinks. ALL freeze.)

THOMAS: (Thinking/Subtly breaking the fourth wall.) You’ve got to be kidding me.

NURSE CALLIE: I’ll be your attending nurse. If you ever need anything, just let me know, alright?

(THOMAS takes the workbook that NURSE CALLIE holds.)

THOMAS: (Annoyed) Yeah, yeah.

(THOMAS saunters off after REGGIE, who is ferociously drawing with a crayon, tongue sticking out, while JOSEPH looks bored.

THOMAS plops down into a chair.)

REGGIE: (Smugly) Didja’ get in trouble?

(JOSEPH elbows him without looking up.)

REGGIE: Ow! Why does everyone pick on me?

JOSEPH: (Without missing a beat.) Because you’re annoying.

(Reggie acts likes he’s been shot with an arrow or stabbed with a knife.)

REGGIE: Gah… oh, the pain…! The pains’ unbearable!

JOSEPH: So you’re Thomas?

THOMAS: (Shrugging.) I guess.

JOSEPH: You guess?

REGGIE: Give ‘em a break, Joey!

JOSEPH: Don’t call me that.

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The Photographer Maddie Davis

NURSE CALLIE: Hey, stop chatting. Get to work.

Photography (REGGIE groans.)

THOMAS: (To REGGIE and JOSEPH.) Isn’t the point of the place to talk about your feelings?

NURSE CALLIE: No, you’re here to work.

NURSE #3: (Cheerfully.) ...On getting better!

(RIVER picks her shoe off the floor and begins to rub it over her journal. REGGIE giggles.)

THOMAS: (Accusingly) What is she doing?

JOSEPH: (Bored.) Erasi.ng.

THOMAS: What?

JOSEPH: She’s erasing her paper. Speaking of which…

(Joseph stands and grabs her other shoe from off floor, then returns.)

JOSEPH: (Dead serious) Need one?

(THOMAS looks bewildered, and REGGIE giggles louder at this.

NURSE CALLIE looks up.)

NURSE CALLIE: (Exasperated) Guys… not again with the shoes…

(THOMAS turns to see KATELYN flipping NURSE CALLIE off from her position on the floor, not even rolling over to look at them; NURSE CALLIE either doesn’t notice or ignores it.)

REGGIE: Aww, come on, Callie…!

NURSE CALLIE: Don’t call me that.

REGGIE: (Sighing)You guys are no fun…!

NURSE CALLIE: (Irritably) You are not supposed to be having fun, you are supposed to be working.

(REGGIE pouts and slouches in his chair, and NURSE CALLIE continues to indiscreetly gossip with NURSE #3) THOMAS: (Sarcastically) Well this will be fun.

JOSEPH: (Equally Sarcastic) There you go, you fit right in.

CURTAIN

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Painting With Light

Cassidy Berg Photography

Poetry

Intersecting Patterns Colton LaRoche Ink and Graphite

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Gamer

Anakin Miller I used to be a gamer Age of Empires I through III I used to be a strategist An expert war machine 4X games were my favorite Explore, expand, exploit, exterminate And creating a massive empire Was something that I did not hesitate To do at all even if I used unethical means And cheatings only cheating Well it isn’t what it seems And then real life did take a hold And I lost all my time So now I will relate this tale In this depressing rhyme

Big Boy Lorna Hurt

The boy wears a suit to look important and grown but it doesn’t fit

Decades

Elizabeth Toles Graphite and Colored Pencils

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Hands

Taylor Hartman Watercolor

Skeleton

Makayla Nicholis It isn’t something we talk about.

We leave the skeleton in the closet, we chain it up and slam the door and then we lock that too.

But there was a bruise on the neck and on the arm and on the shoulder and a ripped shirt was in there, too.

There were tissues in the bathroom to wipe a flushing face before the door closed on another forcing needed space.

There was bile in the toilet while I held back her hair.

And then the shouts conceded, so I said ’I’m sorry” to be fair.

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The Flame That We Follow Haley Jones

Wanderlust

Photography

Stephanie Meyers We snuck out on a summer night And walked because we didn’t have cars yet 16 years old, not quite women yet Bursting with anticipation Of leaving suburbia to get a taste of real life We were young, bored, and ready to take over the world Walking through the streets at 1 am Not a car in sight It seemed like the world belonged to just the two of us Cicadas screeched in the trees Cigarette smoke curled around in the air And July heat enveloped us and make us glisten We had no exact destination, just a terrible wanderlust That brought us out of our safe beds And compelled us to give in to that Reckless restless teenage desire To walk the streets with your best friend Only to talk about love, life, woes, loneliness, God, death, dreams

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Starting Line Lauren Huesers

you grew up too fast for me to keep up we crouched at the starting line together and then you ran and I walked.

I saw flashes of your tan skin and plain brown hair that you swore was red in the sunlight I saw glimpses of your brilliant mind and the hurricane of your thoughts and I was nothing. you keep getting further and further away and all I can do is watch you speed up until your whole being is a hurricane. and I am nothing. and now I cannot find you anymore I turn corners and only see nothing.

and now I have realized that this is what I feared all along that this pain in my chest was not my doing but yours you told me you’d stay and help me along through this maze but all you’ve done is expect too much and keep running and I can’t. so be your hurricane and I’ll find my own storm maybe one day we’ll collide and mesh into one but until then you keep running your race and I'll run mine.

The Perfect Ending Catherine A. Farrell

Photography

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Horizontal Conversations Maddie Davis

I’m tired of horizontal conversations, ones like “Excuse me” even though you’re the one making me move, and “I’m sorry” even though you’re not because you’ll do it again and “I’m good, how are you?”

Because you’ll say you’re good even though you’re not and most evil of all “I love you” because that’s the biggest lie ever told and we both know it’s like a knife you’re thrusting into my chest a straight, unwavering, horizontal motion.

And as the words leave your lips, traveling through the air in a never-ending path slicing between the ground and sky, I’ll wish they were vertical instead because then maybe they’d disappear into the ground and never be heard from again.

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Ya Nerd

Andrew Feehan This one game this one damn game When I talk about it I get yelled at about it Just because i play it whenever I get a chance I simple game series Fallout eats my free time but nooooo having a game you're addicted to is some sort of crime worse than manslaughter in the eyes of some of my friends Well so what?

I enjoying fighting mutants I enjoying salvaging parts I enjoy talking to an evil toaster as he talks about toasting the world. so what if I may..have two-thousand ours on New Vegas and Fallout 3 since I got both early in the 6th grade that won't stop me from playing the games I enjoy the most and keep me happy when I feel down I don't care if I’m called out “Ya damn nerd!”

Color and Shape Maddie Davis Photography

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Wonderlost

Juliona L’Heureux

Photography

My Body Rachel Law

Careful! My Body is a wrecking ball!

Loud and distracting. Removing, removing attention.

I am ashamed when I look in a mirror This isn’t beautiful.

Fat. Ugly. Fat. Stupid. Fat. Useless. Fat. Soon, there will be nothing left of me.

You’re making a mess of me.

Too fat. Too skinny. Too butch. Too girly. Clothes too short. Clothes too long.

You have me all wrong I am more than my body.

I am the thoughts in my head, the sound of my voice, the dreams that I dream, I am everything.

You pick and choose based on what you enjoy looking at.

But I am all of them together.

I am beauty and brains I am caring and loving I am my body

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Posterity

Christmas Morning Lauren Huesers

The sun’s still asleep, but I am awake.

I can smell the subtle perfume Of a large evergreen.

The cold tries to penetrate my blankets, But I was prepared.

I lift my head to the swirling white specks outside, And listen.

Can you hear it?

I pull off my covers and race to the stairs, Thundering down as fast as I dare And stop.

The room is filled with great big presents Surrounding the tree that we decorated with memories.

Can you hear it?

It’s snow and it’s hope, and it’s only for today.

So I listen and listen and savor the taste.

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Dalton DeWeese

Photography

Richard Lorna Hurt

Grandpa used to put doughnuts in the oven And leave them in until they were hard as rocks Then dip them in his coffee He said they were an imitation of some German pastry But my grandma says he just liked the crunch.

Grandpa used to collect soda cans Then use the vice on his workbench To crush them into small, flat disks And sell them to a recycling company.

When his grandkids were old enough He let us crush them, too Although only Erik was allowed to use the hammer To smash them even further.

My grandpa’s chair still sits In the corner of Grandma’s living room Green velvet cushions soft as ever Gently rocking when prompted And reminding me of sitting on his lap Drumming on his belly And listening to his stories, Feeling loved

Silhouette Owen Olson Photography

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It’s Kinda Funny Anakin Miller

It’s kinda funny you see when you start talking to people, especially those your own age, When they’re talking about the sports teams and girls they like and you’re ... honestly clueless, caught up in ignorance and left in a daze.

It’s kinda amusing the reactions you get when you are hanging with the guys and they ask you “Ain’t that girl hot?”

And you respond with “I guess” and not much else because you’re lost in your thoughts.

The boys think you’re weird because you don’t care about sports and girls and guns.

And when you don’t want to go to a party everyone asks “Don’t you ever have fun?”

Well, I do have fun, it’s just not like yours.

You like drinks and I like to move figurines around on cardboard...boards.

It’s really very strange, like an earthling seeing aliens, though I guess It’s me who's the alien because they all seem to think that I’m pretty alien.

I gave up on trying to fit in a while ago, after all, faking your way through life is really boring.

You keep on ignoring the feelings of despair and fakery until you give up and just...let... go.

I know I’m off topic but I’m trying to make a point here.

It’s not as easy as just typing up a message and reading it and shoving it down your ears, Though I wish it was Sometimes it would make life easier because People don’t listen very well at all And let me tell you that just drives me up the wall.

All that I’m trying to say is that maybe, just maybe, if you bothered to pay attention, you’d see that I. Am. Not. The. Same.

I don’t care about relationships or sports or even what’s going down on Friday night.

I’m happy drinking Mountain Dew and playing and grinding some Dungeon Siege 2.

I’d rather draw or read or write instead of getting dead drunk and staying up all night.

So, as you look at me and call me strange, I’ll say it again, It’s funny that you think I’m the same.

Evolution

Juliona L’Heureux

Photography

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Your Room

Makayla Nicholis “Your room looks like a tornado tore through it.”

But it’s discordant Because everything has a place And there’s peace inside the chaos Like the eye inside a storm Where I can curl beneath the covers, the only thing that breathes, and feel at one with such a mess.

Because everyone knows, when things are hopelessly devastated, each form of expectation flees.

Whirls or Wonder Shivani Patel Ceramics

Until It Becomes a Memory

Sophia Ragomo

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Ceramics

Side by Side

The Bridge

Cameron Malm

Maddie Davis

Photography

Instead of running between painted lines in circle after circle after circle You prefer the rocky road, like the ice cream, the place in the forest where the rocks look like creamy marshmallows -- but don’t feel like them, the roots look like pecans sticking up out of the deep, dark, decadent chocolate mud, the trail itself like a ribbon of sticky caramel that tastes so good underneath your feet.

You’re chasing after something without a tangible end, not like the finish line of a sprint, not visible from the start.

It’s not the want to finish that drives you, it’s your sweet tooth -- the constant need for more.

But I too, know that hunger.

It is for this reason I love you, despite our different taste buds, we understand each other and are content to run -although at different paces, and with different destinations -side by side.

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Break

Andrew Feehan Everything I touch No matter how big or small Seems to break somehow

Simplicity Alexa Graves Photography

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Back in My Day Maddie Davis

Photography

Essays

Dense Shades of Black Tori Donnici

Ink and Graphite

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Aesthetic Criticism

by Lizzie Skidmore

i. The matte window on the east wall always bugged me. There was just something off about it. Maybe it was because when I looked in that window, I didn’t see a window, I saw my reflection. And the reflection always smiled back, with glossy eyes and thin-lined lips until the sun greeted the world from behind puffy clouds that created lace patterns in the sky and the reflection went away. I’d press my nose up against the cold glass to watch the other kids swing as high as they could trying to defy gravity’s laws. I watched insecure leaves tumble to their death without knowing how beautiful they’d become. I tried to read lightning’s lips when it appeared without words and stay away from thunder when it coughed politely into its arm. I‘d wait and wait for my friend to come back but she never did. So I sat through all the hours, days, years, and I only saw her on the worst days. ii. I remember how much I hated wearing socks to bed. It was never comfortable. It always felt like they never fit my foot right, like they were never meant to be mine in the first place. I’d jump into bed and curl up under the floral covers, and then I’d use my left foot to slip off my right sock, and vice versa. I’d push them down into the depths of my sheets, not to be seen again. But soon enough each sock was eaten by my covers and my white tennis shoes wouldn’t feel right without the thin layer of cotton that usually separated my ruby toes. With a little motivation, I’d peel back the covers to reveal over a dozen pairs of socks at the end of my bed, just laying there, suffocating under my quilt. Pairs of white were no longer

white and pairs of striped missing. Pairs of snowmen still smiling and mismatched colors of winter now cold. I didn’t miss them, I simply needed them. If I could’ve left them there I would have. But I didn’t and instead I washed them so they could be clean the next time I wasted them away at the end of my cold feet each night. A sock was the first thing of many that I lost. iii. I could never see passed my fluffed up bangs. They were always in the way. Every time I’d look in the tall mirror next to daisies and my half painted walls, I’d see myself, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and reassure myself that today would be okay over and over trying out the way the words felt on my tongue. That way, the words couldn’t get passed my border of bangs.

Just like everything else did. ‘Cause in the morning, I couldn’t see the faded overalls I was putting on and the coral bow my mom picked out. I was too short to see over the tall vase of petunias my mom laid out on the kitchen table. I couldn’t make out constellations or the words scrambled on ivory pages. I was always oblivious to my flaws. They didn’t spend the energy traveling the jungle in front of my coffee eyes.

And most always I couldn’t see the thought bubble above my head. It was always floating somewhere and I wasn’t fast enough to catch it. I blamed my bangs for everything I couldn’t see. iv. I always wanted to block out the sound of spring. Even though it’s the season of blossoming and new beginnings, I could never find the time for that. I was always on

Edward’s Upgraded Hands Ally Berkowitz Oil Pastel

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a one-way road to an unknown destination.

I didn’t have time for spring. I didn’t have time to be woken up at dawn when the man next door decided his grass was too tall and that the roaring of his mower was silent. Or that his car needed fixed and he needed to break out a new bottle of gasoline that’s smell stained the garage. I didn’t want the time to hear the birds that nested on my window sill communicating with their secret language or the dogs barking at dogs barking at anything they didn’t like about the world. And even the cotton pillow over my head, the volume of my music, and the quality of my headphones couldn’t deafen the sound of spring. Instead of listening to the loud noises, I needed the time to find my unknown destination. v.

I could never fathom my thoughts.

It’s almost as if they were in another language buried deep in a garden of blushed roses. But those roses have thorns and those thorns are sharp. So they sit there untouched until winter when they wither away. However winter doesn’t meet these roses and the roses don’t budge and the language stays in a chesnut box locked away near the earth’s core. My thoughts remained untold because I could never find the perfect words to describe them.

They were so bewildering. They never made sense. It’s almost like they weren’t a subconscious I had in my head, but something I could hold in my hand. My thoughts remained unheard of because the train of boxcars that held my thoughts were locked too tightly and the imaginary key

50

was thrown to the mucky bottom of a lake.

Sometimes I would never open it, I would never see them and they’d leave, deserting me to sit in a cloudy circle of wonder. For minutes that seemed like days I would sit in the circle staring blankly into space until they’d return. If they did, anyways.

vi. I simply hated my bed. It had become far too big for me. The tiffany-colored sheets, shallow pillows, and boundless mattress too wide for my little frame. It was only possible to warm one tiny corner at a time, the rest cold and untouched as it drowned me in it. I hated lying there in the musty street lights that glowed through my window and closing my eyes at night.

I hated looking away from the little light of the stars that only covered half of my ceiling to be enclosed by even more darkness.

I hated the struggle of trying to fall asleep, the tossing and turning, the staying up til one in the morning telling myself just relax, just clear your mind and you’ll fall asleep. It never worked. But when it did, I’d be faced with dreams I’d never remember. I hated dreams. Because the only one I remember is the one with pillows that speak, lights that burn grey, and Fear. ‘Cause Fear, a proper noun in my vocabulary, a living thing that breathes and thinks and holds its own shape, lurked over my bedside like a heavy Christmas ornament millimeters away from dropping on my mahogany head. It never spoke. But it had a messy, dark look in its eyes that resembled a labyrinth. One I couldn’t escape.

Dwindling

Mandy Novicoff Mixed Media

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Hello-Goodbye Mandy Novicoff

Sometimes I look into my future, and it's a rather depressing thought that in forty to fifty years, my parents may well be deceased. The idea that I might exist on this planet without either of my parents at my side is shocking. While I'm not at all a morbid person, I have developed the ability to see and understand the passage of time as it is...an appreciation for the richness of life and absoluteness of loss.

I also sometimes wonder when and where I developed such ideas...I mean, they didn't just pop into my head yesterday. They had to come from somewhere. So where did my ability to feel the world around me, to connect with the passage of time come from?

Then it hit me – the "Hello-Goodbye" tree that stood in my grandparents' front yard. That had to be the beginning.

As a young girl, my grandparents had the grandest, most majestic tree ever, towering over their neighborhood like a friendly guardian angel observing everyone's moves. The tree split in two at the base of the trunk, creating a peculiar "V" shape that was low enough that, as a preschooler, I could climb up and into it.

It was as if the tree beckoned me into its presence, and provided me with such a thoughtful, nicely framed window for me to play in.

The tree's nickname came from my incessant Peek-A-Boo sessions with my grandparents: I would peek my head through my tree's window and wave "Hello!" to my grandparents sitting and chatting in front of me. They would laugh and encourage me, and I'd just keep doing it over and over again, soaking up their applause. And when I got bored of waving hello, I would wave a quick "Goodbye!" and leap back on the grass behind the tree.

Since my family visited my rela-

tives often, I witnessed the tree's growth through the seasons. In the spring, it budded tiny violet flowers, some of which fell to the ground, and I'd decorate my hair with those violet leftovers and dance lithely in the yard like a little woodland sprite. In the summer, the tree was flush with greenery, protecting me from the sweltering Kansas sun as I'd nosh on a popsicle and try to finish it before it melted off its stick.

Of all the seasons, autumn was (and still is!) my favorite. My Hello-Goodbye's leaves would turn shades of deep burnt orange and gold-tinted rouge and fall everywhere. I helped my grandparents rake these leaves into enormous piles so I could jump right in, often with a big, fat caramel-apple lollipop in my hand. I'd take my autumn plunge and emerge triumphant with either a face covered in a sticky, leafy mustache or a foliage-infused lollipop.

When I was eight years old, a massive ice storm hit the Kansas City area, and decimated the environment. The world transformed into one massive icicle, with trees eerily snapping and crackling under the weight of so much frozen water...and then we got the phone call: Hello-Goodbye's trunks were broken apart, and the whole tree had to be removed...it was dead. Not once did it ever occur to me that a tree could die on its own; after all, didn't people chop down trees? This was a major shock to my system, and even with the kind words of my grandparents, it took a good year for me to recover from this loss.

Their yard didn't feel the same without Hello-Goodbye and its ubiquitous presence in my life.

Years later, I feel the ghost of that tree – its memories of a world with a small child gallivanting around its base with childlike wonder.

Curious, the passage of time.

Urban Green

Jennifer Ackland

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Photography - Digital with Photoshop

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Baby

Kelly Wood Ceramics

Mortencage

Andrea Mundakkal Photography

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Obsession Lorna Hurt

I have an interesting relationship with obsession. You see, I have an extraordinarily short attention span. So, where most people have very few true, long-term obsessions, mine are more like matches. They flare very brightly, and some burn more than others, but very few last for long. I will watch a movie one night, then think of little else for the next day or so. I think about what the characters did after the story was over. I ponder their motives, and wonder what they were thinking when their greatest enemy turns out to be the father they thought was dead.

I will listen to the soundtrack of a musical on repeat until I can play it in my head word for word (This comes in handy for impromptu dressing room sing-alongs). There will be no youtube video of the broadway cast that goes unwatched. My friends stop letting me pick the music in the car, because they don’t share my amazing ability to listen to the same songs over and over without getting sick of them.

I once read the whole Harry Potter series twice in less than four months. I watched two seasons of Parks and Recreation in two weeks. I read the novelization of the Star Wars movies after I saw them for the first time. Each time, I was over the obsession within a few days (or a few months, in the case of Harry Potter). I move very quickly from one thing to the next, just as I do with most other things in my life.

The thing is, though, my obsessions may easily fall dormant, but they linger just enough that they can rear their head at the slightest provocation. I can go months without really thinking about the musical that I had listened to constantly for about a week a while ago, and suddenly it takes center stage again when I hear someone humming the opening number. My friends usually groan when this kind of thing happens.

Then again, they typically groan whenever they hear me say “have you read/ seen/heard…..?” They know me well enough to know that they will hear about nothing else for a while, and that’s the way I like it.

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Borderland

Stephanie Meyers

I remember the first day I heard the word “borderline” used in a context other than a borderline on a map. It was toward the end of a therapy session.

Already having been diagnosed with depression, generalized anxiety, social anxiety, and bulimia, I had been thinking to myself, Wow, how crazy can one person be? Apparently, I was more crazy than I thought. My therapist told me, “As a personal policy, I won’t diagnose anyone under 25 with any kind of personality disorder, so I’m not going to give you a formal diagnosis, but it’s likely that you have Borderline Personality Disorder.” I just nodded along, but I didn’t know what that meant.

A Google search of BPD was terrifying. I looked at a Wikipedia page that listed media portrayals of BPD, which included movies such as Fatal Attraction, Single White Female, Mommy Dearest, and The Cable Guy. There was an article on one of those “meninist” websites titled “Never Date a Girl With Borderline Personality Disorder,” and an entire website called “How to Train Your Borderline.”

People on social media sites referred to the disorder as “Crazy Bitch Syndrome.”

Many resources said that people with BPD are beyond help and should be treated as either dangerous animals or petulant children. Needless to say, my self-esteem took a pretty big hit. Was I really as horrible and manipulative and clingy as those websites suggested?

The facts are, BPD can trigger some clingy and manipulative actions in its sufferers. But there’s so much more to the disorder than clinginess or being a so-called “Crazy Bitch.” And, despite what some websites suggest, it is much harder to be a person with BPD than to be a friend or family member of someone with the disorder. It’s a highly complex mental illness, that is almost exclusively a result of childhood trauma, the most common

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trauma being abuse of some sort.

It is arguably one of the most stigmatized disorders. I find myself needing to refute many stereotypes about it. At the same time, I can’t blame others for not understanding it because I don’t entirely understand it or myself.

The primary characteristic of BPD is a deep-seated fear of rejection.

Borderlines may push others away in an attempt to save themselves from eventual abandonment, or they might make frantic efforts to avoid abandonment, real or imagined. And it is entirely plausible that a borderline will imagine the rejection as we are prone to over analyzing people and usually coming to the conclusion that our loved ones secretly hate us. For example, studies have shown that borderlines will imagine that they are seeing anger in an expression that is, in fact, neutral. Or, even if we don’t feel we are being rejected, we feel the need to pick fights and “test” the relationship to see if our friends and families will leave us. This is where the manipulation tactics come in. Our insecurities drive us to believe that everyone will leave us eventually because we aren’t good enough. So, we either push them away, or try to rope them into staying. We may do this by being “clingy,” forcing emotional intimacy in an effort to lock down the relationship, playing the damsel in distress and make others feel that they have to “save” us, or we may go out of our way to avoid rocking the boat by simply agreeing to everything the other person wants. This characteristic of the disorder goes hand in hand with a couple of other symptoms such as unstable sense of self and tumultuous relationships.

Another prominent symptom of BPD is called splitting or black and white thinking. This refers to the thought process of idealization versus devaluation.

Idealization is seeing someone in such high positive regard that we put them

on a pedestal and are unable to see any of their flaws. We see them as a close confidant. However, when we feel rejected, we switch to devaluation.

This means we see that person as an enemy, and are unable to see any of their good characteristics. This symptom majorly contributes to the tumultuous relationships as we can go from one extreme to the next in mere moments.

BPD symptoms also include extreme emotional reactivity. We feel rage instead of anger, crushing depression instead of sadness, overwhelming panic instead of nerves, total numbness instead of boredom, and horrible shame instead of slight embarrassment. Not only are our emotions strong, but they can also change within hours or even minutes.

In an attempt to maintain emotional homeostasis, borderlines engage in impulsive and often self-destructive coping mechanisms such as bingeing and purging, reckless driving, risky sexual behaviors, excessive spending, substance abuse, self-harm, and suicide attempts.

We Hold Our Stories Sofia Acosta Photography

It is also common for borderlines to experience dissociation in order for their minds to cope with the extreme emotions.

Now, we get into the stereotypes.

Often, borderlines are portrayed in media as dangerous sociopaths who will stalk and kill in order to avoid abandonment. This is simply not true. In fact, while borderlines are very prone to harming themselves, we are actually less likely to harm others than mentally stable people. And we are definitely not sociopaths. Sociopaths have no emotion whereas borderlines feel too much emotion. Then, there’s the stereotype that we are aggressive, screaming banshees. BPD can occur in any type of person, and its symptoms can manifest in a number of different ways. A borderline may be aggressive, they may seem very laid-back, or they may seem passive and shy.

Another misconception is that

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BPD only occurs in women. This can be traced back decades to the archetypal “hysterical woman.� BPD is overdiagnosed in women and underdiagnosed in men because of the myth that women are simply crazy and overly emotional by nature whereas the emotional pain of men is often legitimized and not seen as the man being upset over nothing. BPD spans all gender identities, races, sexual orientations, countries, religions, and social classes.

A myth about BPD that is sometimes even accepted by psychologists is that BPD is incurable. It is true that all personality disorders are very difficult to treat. This is because, unlike mood disorders, personality disorders are not a result of brain chemistry, but instead make up an integral part of someone’s personality.

Instead of just medication, personality disorders often require a combination of medication, talk therapy, trauma therapy, and intensive behavioral therapy. BPD requires a particular type called dialectical behavioral therapy.

This does not mean there is no hope for borderlines, or that we can never have a healthy relationship. All it means is that we need a little extra support.

Borderlines should not be avoided at all costs, treated like monsters, or patronized like toddlers. We are humans just like anybody else.

Yellow Sky Maddie Davis Photography

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Whimsical Drawers Madeline Mullinnix Ceramics

Children’s Story Exploration of Design Kaysha Foil

Ink and Graphite

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Taking Flight Anakin Miller

A long time ago in a world much like ours, but quite different as well, there were islands in the sky. On one of these islands lay a small town, nestled in the very center of the green hills that surrounded it.

Many people lived in this town, workers, bakers, farmers, and fisherman sailing the skies in their skyboats for the flying fish which swam through the air.

In this town full of workers and bakers, farmers and fisherman, lived a girl who was much like other girls, but quite different as well. While other girls learned sewing, she learned clockwork, while others learned cooking, she learned the secrets of science, while others dreamed of marriage, she dreamed of flying, of leaving the small island to explore the other islands that floated mysteriously just above the horizon.

But the islands were too far away for a skyboat, anyway, who’d ever heard of a girl who sailed the skies?

That meant nothing to her; she would fly no matter what others told her.

Years passed, months passed, weeks passed.

The girl grew older, but never forgot her dream. Every day she worked late into the night, winding springs, filing pipes, fitting clockwork together, and

sewing canvas. She tested her machine again and again, crashing it into hills, trees and ledges before hauling the now ruined device back to her workshop.

The townspeople laughed and called her a fool.

“That machine of yours will never fly!” they scoffed., “Go and get yourself a proper job!” But she ignored them; determined to find a way to fly she kept on working. And then, one day she did it, her machine soared perfectly around the trees and hills of the island, swift like a bird, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

At last she was ready. She spent that entire evening preparing herself, gathering supplies and testing every single joint, oiling every single gear until it moved as smoothly as moonlight on river water.

That morning, the townspeople gathered to watch as she prepared to take off.

“You’re a fool!” some cried, “Give up on that thing before you hurt yourself!”

She paid them no heed, slipping her goggles onto her eyes. She stepped back, ran forward...and flew.

The townspeople watched in amazement as she soared into the sky, graceful as a hawk as sunlight glinted off of polished metal, flying into the sun.

Shaken Awaken Brooke Metz

Photography

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Untitled

Colophon

Body Copy: Avenir Next Regular 10 pt Writing Title Font: Helvetica Neue Condensed Bold 25 pt Author/Artist Font: Helvetica Neue Italic 15 pt Medium Font: Helvetica Neue Italic 12 pt Software: Adobe InDesign CS6 Copies: 300

Mady Fast Mixed Media

Thank You

BVHS Parent Teacher Organization Principal: Scott Bacon Associate Principals: Mollie McNally, Mark Dalton, Matt Ortman District Print Shop: Billy Ning and staff Art Teachers: Michael Johnston, Kristen Pickell, Mark Mosier, Kim Francis Publications Teacher: Michelle Huss Tech Specialist: Keil Pittman

Headrush Literary and Art Magazine Blue Valley High School 6001 W. 159th Street Stilwell, KS 66085 2015-2016 Volume XXII

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