Art
Photography
Creative Writing
HOSA
SKILLS
FCCLA
MeltingPot
The
Where Creativity Comes Together
Volume 1- Issue 1 Spring 2014
Contents Volume 01, Issue 1 Spring 2014
Art Work
1-2
Photography
3-4
Creative Writing
5-20
SKILLS
20-28
Art
Art by: David Hulse Program: ELI 1
1
BATMAN
This was created because, at first, I didn’t know how to use one of the programs in my lab. I was messing around in the program and, eventually, the symbol just became what it is. It’s probably my favorite creation in my class this year. Art by: Jake Hawker Program: DDIM 1
2
Photography
Photo by: Shannon Barth Taken at Marietta Ohio, fall of 2012 Program: DDIM 1
Photo by: Madison Bauserman Program: DDIM 1
3
Photo by: Victoria Killebrew Taken at Teton National Park Wyoming, summer of 2013
Photo by: VIctoria Killebrew Taken winter of 2013 Program: DDIM 1
4
Creative Writing
Love and Politics An excerpt from “Love and Politics: A Zine” There was never an election held for who would be the keeper of your heart I was not a candidate and I never thought of myself as a politician. Political figures lie, but sometimes so do I when I tell you a song you like is good. Sometimes those songs sound like atomic bombs being dropped, I’m sorry to burst your bubble. When you met me it was still cold and the government was falling apart and you told me “Democracy is always subject to corruption”, and I want you to know, We are not
By: Hailey Martin Program: DDIM 1
5
I Hear Them Talking I saw pain in the mirror They saw it in my eyes Hatred, for the feeling Of never being good enough Oblivious of the signs Clueless of all the lies I hear them talking Talking how he did with me More lies being told, I see it now Said he couldn’t live Without me, he is breathing Good with his words Just to get what he wants Rumor has it, Didn’t take long to forget me
By: Tory Conley Program: DA 2
I hear them talking I should warn her Tell her about his magic show I’ll make him famous Reveal his tricks Save her from the pain I see in the mirror The pain they see in my eyes I hear them talking 6
Creative Writing
My Friend May My favorite visitor’s name is May. She’s always right on time before the hot summer days. I hope she arrives to make her warm spirit stay. I want the cold to go away soon. I believe that she will soon go with me and ask if she may pick the flowers that stay and bloom in such a short time. I know she will make them in a bouquet since they remind her of summer days. I however know the summer days fade and will be soon gone so I have to make sure to enjoy the newly bloomed blue ones after May. The more I see the beauty of time the more I want it to stay. Now it cannot stay. Spring and summer days will come to an end quicker this time. Then it will return but not too soon with the warmth and my friend May. Next time I’ll give her a bouquet I make. 7
Until then I’ll be thinking of the memories we make. I just want her to stay with me after the month of May. I’ll never forget the days we had and soon hope for more than enough time. There is always time and more adventures to make. After these we will soon have other memories that will stay. The best thing about new days is that they make us enjoy it as we may. Our time will stay. I make thoughts on all the days we will soon have before the month of May.
By: Dayla Crabtree Program: ECT 2
From October I could write The ham cut through the slicer In wisps of ribbon, Translucent. You could take a piece and gently halve it Giving me the other. Your eyes glowed. I could write The cheese was deep orange love Cut into thin rectangles Gently halved on a white board. You take one, I the other, And we let each piece melt on the tongue. You smile. I could write The red wine just poured, Bubbles.
By: Scott Karr
8
Creative Writing
Three Films You May Have Overlooked Whip It (2009)
Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut is a delightful film about Bliss Cavendar (Ellen Page, Juno) joining a girls roller derby league, where she meets an interesting group of girls with names such as Smashley Simpson (Barrymore), Rosa Sparks (Eve, Barbershop) and Maggie Mayhem (Kristen Wiig, Bridesmaids) who help her come out of her shell. It is one of my alltime favorite underdog movies. Also included in the all-star cast is Jimmy Fallon as ‘Hot Tub’ Johnny Rocket. Rated PG-13.
It’s Kind of a Funny Story (2010) I have yet to show a person this movie without them falling in love with the story and characters. I recommend all teenagers watch this because of how relatable it is. Craig, (Keir Gilchrist, United States of Tara) on the verge of suicide, checks himself into a psychiatric hospital where he meets Noelle (Emma Roberts, We’re The Millers) and Bobby (Zach Galifianakis, The Hangover) and unlikely friendships form. Rated PG-13.
Hugo (2011) Martin Scorsese proves that he can make a magical film without it being rated R. Hugo is the story of an orphan living in the walls of a Paris train station in the 1930’s. Hugo (Asa Butterfield, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas) is on a mission to find the key to the mechanical man his late father left behind. Along the way he encounters Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz, Carrie) and together they try to solve the mission. Rated PG. By: Hannah Roberts Program: DDIM 1 9
Alone On Your Train Of Thought
Another day gone, passing through my mind to be stored until the horrid memories of my average day decides that I need a reminder of the events of torture. The memories almost appeared alive at times as they came out of nowhere and forced me to relive the past just for their own sick humor. Why does a mind torture its host?
People pushed and shoved, crowding the door of the school transportation, trying to get to the front of what some called a line, but I called a mass of disarray. Some were chatting with others as they climbed onto the bus. No one spoke a word to me. I remained silent, staring ahead patiently until I was able to descend on the vehicle. People shoved me from behind and tugged at my bag, giggling to themselves in cruel glee as if they had done something dastardly. I just kept moving. It was almost fascinating how easy it was to categorize those seated on the bus. The front seats were for those who pretended to be good little children, yet held no qualms about encouraging hazing groups, while the back seats were filled with the bullies who started such groups, seated as far from the bus driver as possible so they would not be seen doing various things. Not like it mattered much anyway.
She, the bus driver, never did anything to aid those in turmoil. People like me would get a glance before their existence would be completely ignored, as if she believes it’s our fault we’re targeted. I don’t care for her thoughts much anyway. I sat in my routine seat near the middle. There were few there, so it was perfect for those who either wanted to get away from the other occupants or to sleep until the ride was over. I lived a good distance from the school, so it would take about an hour and a half to drop off everyone else before me. It wasn’t so bad. At least on the bus I could be blissfully ignored instead of constantly tormented. Unlike at school, where the teachers just watched as people abused and used me, or at home, where I had to deal with a family who refused to admit I was their problem. At last on the bus, I was free to think when being ignored. ting bag side me, cide
I waited a few minutes after sitdown in my seat before shifting my off my shoulder and resting it beme. I knew no one would sit with for that would be like social suiunless you sat there to torment me.
10
Creative Writing
If my bullies did not show up in the first few minutes of the bus ride, then that means that they were too distracted with the adult content on their phones in the back to even give me the time of day or try to steal my stuff. The bus was a roar of chatter the moment the doors shut with a gasp of rushing air. It jolted forward uneasily as it left my junior high. The bus rocked and bounced with every turn of its wheels, somehow falling into a soothing pattern that I welcomed gladly. Any other day, I would take out my old iPod and read for the duration of the ride, ignoring the cracked glass or vulgar sharpie on the back, but I didn’t feel like that at the moment. I instead glanced out the window, resting the top of my scalp on its metal border as the passing scenes came by too quickly for me to even take in what they were, not that I was really paying any mind to that. I never just look out the window. Whenever I take in the passing shapes like this, it means that I am either thinking or dreaming of something that is not and cannot be. I could feel my eyes glaze over as the sounds of the background dissolved into a slight murmur. Colors of the outside world shifted, forming a scene that could not be forgotten. “Kevin?” my own voice said, sounding much younger than it did now. “Kevin? Are you still here?”
11
“TV,” came his reply from the other room. I followed the sound to our living room, a small portion of the trailer the four of us lived in. Kevin slouched lazily on the couch, flipping through the cable channels with glazed over eyes, not actually taking in what he was currently viewing. His dark hair was unkempt and shined with a thick layer of grease, obviously being away from the shower for too long. It seemed that we shared no physical descriptions at all. “What do you want?” It was more of a demand for me to speak than a question of my desires. “You said that you would teach me how to ride my two wheel bike,” I muttered timidly. “You promised.” The man sighed, running a tanned hand through his black locks. He rose to his feet, chucking the remote at the spot he once occupied. I watched it bounce on the cushions before turning my eyes to him. “Fine. Let’s make this quick.” He shoved past me, heading for the front door. “Your brother never causes me so many problems.” I hated his words. I hated his attitude towards me. He often told me how he preferred my year-older brother. It seemed that never a day would pass when I wouldn’t be told how my presence was an annoyance. I wasn’t even allowed to call this man by the correct title, for it reminded him of the burden he must bare. I hated it. I hated him. I followed Kevin out to the sidewalk, where my light purple, hand-me-down bike rested. I climbed on, getting comfortable on the hard seat before looking back at him.
He gestured with his hand, shooing me away like he would a common housefly. I had started to waddle forward into the street when I suddenly felt a pair of hands shoving me. A sharp gasp escaped my mouth as the bike was propelled into the middle of the street. A red car appeared at my side. The startled driver and I locked eyes for an instant before I sharply turned the handlebars and fell to the ground on the opposite side of the road.
It wasn’t until later that I realized that it wasn’t that they loved him more; it was that they just didn’t love me at all. I was often told that Kevin abandoned us because of me. I ignored the words of my family and their friends for the most part, but when you hear something like that daily, you can’t hold back your sobs in the solitude of the night. Even after the whispers slowly ceased, the mental scars still remained.
The driver honked his horn at me as he drove past, yelling something inaudible out his window before driving off. A hiss of pain came from my gritted teeth as I moved, kicking the bike off of my small form. Fresh wounds littered my body, leaking blood that stained my pale flesh as it traveled down my form. The sound of the front door shutting alerted me to the fact that Kevin was returning to his more important duties at the TV. Perhaps it is a good thing that I am force to call him by his birth name, for I don’t think I could ever associate the word “father” with this man.
Smack! The scene faded away before my eyes, revealing the interior of the bus once more. The back of my head throbbed from where a hand had hit as its owner passed my seat. The bully sent a smirk over his shoulder before climbing off the bus. The bus driver hesitated for a minute before shutting the door and continuing on down the route. I rubbed the area of pain as I turned my eyes to the window once again. Bullying was nothing new to me. For years I have suffered through it. I was always targeted for one reason or another. I was smarter than other people, and therefore was something to be feared and hated. In a much earlier grade than now, while my fellow peers were still reading little picture books out loud, I was reading thick, 200-page books in my head. People didn’t like this. They said I made them look dumb. It seemed that only a certain level of intelligence was allowed or even praised. Anything above or below that level was to be despised. Such is the way of life.
It was only a few months later that he finally disappeared. One night, he was there, tucking my brother into bed and ignoring me. Then he was gone by morning light, along with most of our possessions. After that, I only saw him on my brother’s birthday, which he always showed up for with wonderful gifts until he eventually stopped showing up to those as well. Kevin never once showed up for my birthday, nor did he ever look at me again. I use to wonder why my parents loved my brother more than me.
Even those who were meant to love and cherish me turned on me, one way or another.
12
Creative Writing
My brother would get high school boys to hurt me after and before school, if he didn’t just do it himself. I didn’t even have a solitary friend to confide in. I had “friends” at times, but they were nothing but shadows. There when you are shining brightly, but gone without a trace once the darkness settles over you. They always just used and abused me while pretending like I was something precious. The human mind is rather foolish in many ways. One would think that, if you are talking about someone, you would first check to make sure that said person is not in hearing range. Words are so often just tossed out of pitiful mouths that obviously have no brains behind them. The words are nothing, just sounds that come out when will is provided, but the feelings, thoughts, and desires behind them give the words the power to break and destroy. Hearing those who I thought needed my kinship saying such things everywhere I turned hurt worse than any physical pain that my other peers had dished out. Things would go back to normal when they needed my help doing something, or if I did something that showed that I would be prosperous in the future, and they would expect me to fall for it and be none-the-wiser. I am nothing but a tool to be stored away in silence until a situation where I am needed arises. I learned soon in life that you couldn’t just point out your knowledge. If you wanted the sweet nectar of revenge, then you will have to put on a smile and work with them, while a scorching fire of pure hatred blooms inside your soul, 13
burning you to crisp on the inside until your heart is nothing more than a shriveled shell of what it once was. Sometimes, I let myself fall for their tricks. Suddenly my smiles will start to feel more real as I let myself be exposed into the world, showing off my true colors in the faces of those I think are deserving of the truth and my spirit. Reality comes crashing down on me in a harsh way, crushing such foolish dreams. I will be ignored by them. They will not smile back at me. They will choose others over me. They will lie to me. They will refuse to invite me to social events and not even bother to turn up to mine. Have I ever had a true friend before? No. I don’t believe that I have. No. I mustn’t think of this. I snapped myself out of this train of thought, shaking my head from side to side as if that would aid me in my mission to forget. To forget my thoughts. To forget the pain. To just forget and be in ignorant bliss. But I can never forget. The events leave scars on my mind that can never be erased. We pulled to a stop slowly, the blurs forming more distinct forms as we did so. I watched as a little boy, a year or two younger than I, rushed off. He dropped his bag in his driveway before running into the arms of his father, or maybe it was an older brother out of high school, while his mother watched with a smile from the open doorway. I couldn’t turn my eyes away from them. The smiles look so nice. I wish I could smile like that.
The bus pulled away, leaving them a distant blur just like the rest of the scenery as the bus windows cut them off until the next ride. I tried to remember any time of happiness involving my brother and I, or even with my mother, but found myself emptyhanded; or should I say empty-minded. Funny how I can never get the memories of pain and turmoil out of my head, but finding a single moment of joy is near impossible.
I refused to react to it, for I didn’t feel like caring about something as common to me as this. There’s no need to be emotionally connected to these despicable people. They are annoying, selfish, cruel creatures who can think of nothing more than their self-interests. Have they no hearts at all? Am I really too small and insignificant to be thought of as anything of importance. They are the lowest of the low, not me.
“I hate them,” I muttered under my breath as I rested my head on the window. Sometimes I find myself talking to myself, but I can never bring myself to care enough to stop. I will do what I will. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to. My friends will betray me, my brother hates me, and my parents despise my existence, if their rants to each other and all of their friends are anything to go off of. Both have fumed to me on how I wasn’t meant to be here, especially my mother when she drinks. I learned much of my vast history through her slurred words. I wasn’t meant to be; an accident. The only reason that I wasn’t aborted after my drunk conception was because they hoped that I would be another boy for my brother to play with. After I was born female, I was going to be put up for adoption, but my mother was talked out of it by friends and family. The story of my life was tragic even before I started living it. Did I really stand a chance?
Who needs friends who will only betray? Who needs family who will only hate? Who needs this horrible world?
Recognizing my surroundings, I realized that we were close to my stop. The last of the bullies stumbled off the bus, my bag somehow finding its way to the ground as they passed, spilling the contents.
I knelt down to pick up my things, shocked when another hand entered my vision. I gazed up at the owner of the limb, hiding my emotions with an expression of boredom plastered like a mask. A young blond girl smiled at me. I faintly recognized her as the girl who got off right before me. I knew not her name, for it didn’t seem important to learn when the only interaction that we ever somewhat had was the fact that seeing her leave told me to get ready to head to my “other prison”. She said nothing, but the fact that she was actually helping me instead of just ignoring my presence surprised me. She left right after handing me my things, traveling the long driveway to her house without even a second glance at me. The bus moved on, forgetting her as soon as she blended in with the horizon. I did not.
14
Creative Writing
Soon we were at my stop. As I passed the rows of seats, the few passengers left either ignored me by avoiding their eyes or sent crude gestures towards me. These people were of no importance to me. My mind was too occupied with memory of the last expression that girl gave me. It had looked like such a real smile.
By: Jordan Shaw Program: DDIM 1
15
Gravestones Everyone at school was talking about it today. They were always talking about it. The dark legend of Arville, Ohio. The tale tells of a graveyard down Mt. Eaton Road with gravestones that glow green. Supposedly, when you touch the gravestones, they turn color. If they are blue, the malevolent spirits connected to them are at your house murdering your family. If they turn pink, they are right behind you. The spirits are said to be very dangerous and there is no escaping them. If you run, they will chase after you. The other girls at my school thought the legend was true and were terrified, but I just laughed it off. Who would believe such stories? They should know better than to believe in ghost stories. I don’t even know why I bothered to let them talk me into coming here. Since I didn’t believe the legend, I easily accepted the dare to touch a gravestone. A few of my classmates were waiting at the fence to the cemetery. However, as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, I saw their faces light up in terror and they took off running. I could only assume they had noticed the green glow of the gravestones and the fog surrounding the cemetery. It came about suddenly enough that it was bound to scare anyone away.
I tried to swallow back my own fear and tried to reassure myself. “It was probably just a trick of the lightning and fog. Besides, cemeteries are always spooky. It’s no big deal. Come on, you can do this.” I know I still wanted to prove that their story was all one big joke, so I forced myself to continue onwards. I walk until I am in the middle of the graveyard and I notice a really old gravestone glowing extra brightly and I smile. Might as well show that I’m not afraid, in case anyone is still around. If I touch this one and nothing happens, then I’ll definitely have proved them wrong and I’ll have bragging rights. As I near the stone, I watch as the glow seems to almost pulse. I try to shrug it off, but I begin to shake as I reach my hand out. Okay, maybe I was still afraid. After all, you never know, the stories could be true. Is it really worth risking my life just to find out? I feel a sudden wind pick up around me and it’s almost as if I’m pushed forward as my hand slaps down hard on the gravestone. I watch in horror as the gravestone begins to turn color. First, it turns blue and then pink, where it stays, even after I pull my hand back away from the gravestone.
16
Creative Writing
I can feel myself shaking like a leaf as I turn around. I am met with a dark, shrouded figure that seems to float silently in midair. The cloak looks ancient and is ripped with holes strewn throughout revealing nothing but a dark void inside. Where the eyes belong, you can see two blood red spots of color, shining like rubies in the most terrifying manner. There are no other features that I can make out, but what I can see is enough to leave me breathless as I quake in fear. I turn on my heel and run out of the cemetery, leaving the sinister figure behind. I run all the way home where I burst through the door. In my panicked frenzy, I almost miss the blood stained walls. I run throughout the house, desperately searching for my family and trying to deny what I already know to be true. They’re gone and all that is left of them is the blood that bathes the white walls of my home in such a striking contrast with its crimson color. I feel my heart break in sorrow as I sink to my knees, giving up as I curl up into the fetal position. Soon, the malevolent creatures come to claim me. They all look the same with their torn, black cloaks and blood red eyes. I shake and tremble as they move closer and closer to me. In one last, feeble attempt, I try to stumble to my feet and run, but it’s too late. I feel their claws sink into my chest cavity and look down in horror as they remove my still beating heart. I sink down and close my eyes for the last time with one last thought: “They were right all along…..” 17
By: Autumn Plunkett Program: CA 2
The Lost relic of Zachary Melding A science fiction novel Prologue -Power Online[-Boot Process Alpha Program 51-] /Login [password] /Project Angel [**********] *Auto Logging Commenced* <13:00:01 am Thursday, June 17, 1843. Weather Conditions: Thunder Storms> Professor Julian Dyson was working in his lab when the tolls of the hour rang. His eyes sweep over the lab that was covered in wires, coils, and various metallic items spread over the whole room. Professor Dyson sighs as he picks up the remote and clicks it once. His life had been a poor one. He was part of the remote military for thirty years now. His job was designing machines for nothing more than combat. But it was over now. He worked alone.
On the far side of the room, the wall began to shudder as the elevator came down. It was old now as old as his house was. The building was like an abandoned fortress, with its four turrets on the towers, facing each direction. Covering the expanse so that an assault could be detected and prevented before it even happened. Of course, that was years ago, when such a thing could have happened. Years ago, when people actually sought to learn the Professor’s secrets. The camera monitor begins to shriek shrilly, indicating that intruders had breached the front gates. Professor Dyson glances up and his eyes widen. Panic flares over his body as he frantically throws covers over his project to hide it “I must not lit be found. No. I cannot let it be taken from me.” Alarms are blaring now. Julian stops staring at the hall monitors. “It can’t be.” He breathes out in short gasps. “Not them. Oh God. No. Not them.” Sitting down heavily on the chair, contemplating his final options, he begins to think heavily. 18
Creative Writing
Knowing it’s now a situation out of his control for the time being, the Professor drags himself upright. Amidst the controls, coils, and general filth that the lab picked up over the years of labor and concentration, he throws the lid off a panel that he hid. Underneath lay his final adjustment that Julian chose not to use till his project was done. Suddenly, the alarms shut down as he presses the one and only button. Then all was quiet. It was as if all the sound in the air had been sucked out into the vacuum of space. And that’s how he planned it. Right then, the room started shaking. Dust fell from the ceiling as a section of the floor shift, pushing a chair from the depths of the castle. “My secrets will die with me,” sighed Julian as he sat in the chair as electric currents flowed through his body with enough voltage to power a city. The Professor watched as the current jumped to the corner with a smile that only a madman would have. In that corner, the eyes of his project lit. The labors of his last 20 years working on it had become alive as metal gears grinded. It had groaned. It spoke two words; “I’m… alive.”
19
Then the fortress exploded. <end report> Power stable[-Boot Process Alpha Program 97-] /Login [password] /Project Angel [**********]
By Michael Wayne Oswald Program: RAM 1
20
SKILLS
AED By: Cassandra Milligan Program: AED 2
By: Taylor Hughes Program: AED 2
21
Hi. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Brain. This structure that I have designed is my 2,000 ft2 design home. It has 4 bedrooms and 3 baths. I hope to be living in here shortly. By: Brian Treiber Program: AED 1
By: Molly Mcdougal Program: AED 2
This is my client drawing I designed for the Sforzaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. They have recently come into class to check my work and make changes to the drawings. Hopefully this house will be built and used for daily living for this family. By: Ryan Nixon Program: AED 1
22
SKILLS
DDIM
Soap Project For this project we had to create our own soap company. I came up with New Feel, a sea salt scrub. I made up the name, type of soap, logo, label, and I even created the sea salt scrub. This is one of the product shots I did that would go into my advertisments. By: Victoria Killebrew Program: DDIM 1
23
Universal Project For this project, I really wanted to send a message out. Many people wear this mask that other people have created for them. When you are called a liar, worthless, or stupid, those words seem to soak into your skin and you start to believe it. You are not these things. You are what you make of yourself, and not what others make of you. By: Olivia McKee Program: DDIM 1
Time is just the essence of beauty
Hope Soars
Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let what they say become who you are
BROKEN
REJECT
STUPID WORTHLESS
LIAR Cras pretium tempor lorem, at posuere massa porttitor accumsan. Etiam in leo vitae ligula viverra cursus. Integer ut semper purus. Suspendisse vehicula porta aliquam. Vestibulum at ornare tortor. Maecenas ac pretium sem. Aenean lectus enim, tempor quis metus
Soap Project In lab we were all assigned to create our own soap company and come up with our own idea to display it. When I think about soap, I think about beauty and feeling renewed. For my own project, I painted myself from the shoulders up with white paint and put baby powder in my hair. When I think about beauty, I think about goddesses and how using this soap can make you feel like a goddess and let women feel beautiful. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Maecenas ac bibendum nisi. Curabitur id lacus fringilla, porta ipsum sit amet, elementum risus. Duis pretium mauris ut commodo interdum. Ut condimentum arcu metus. Ut in erat imperdiet, adipiscing nisi tempus, varius nibh. Aenean mi sem, congue vitae ultrices eget, condimentum aliquet est. Nullam quis dui luctus, ultricies dolor eu, aliquam massa. Vestibulum gravida risus vel faucibus varius.
24
SKILLS
ACR 1970â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Porsche This was when the ACR students first recieved the car. It had a front end collision and was in bad condition.
At this point, the car was stripped of the paint on the hood in order to begin the restoring process. 25
Next, they primed the hood with body filler to fix the front end of the car.
Here the front end of the Porsche is painted with four coats.
26
SKILLS
COS Head by: Savanah Bowers Program: COS 1 Photo by: Corinna Hodgson
The competition we did with the styrofoam heads was a lot of fun! Our objective was to give it “hair”. We were able to use anything we wanted to create the “hair” except for actual hair. We were also able to put makeup on them to go along with the theme of the hairstyle. -Josey Evans, COS 1 Head by: Haile Rordan Program: COS 1 27
Photo by: Shannon Barth
Head by: Sammie Mcoy Program: COS 1 Photo by: Shannon Barth
Head by: Katy King Program: COS 1 Photo by: Shannon Barth 28
On behalf of the staff, we would like to thank the students who submitted items to the magazine, as well as the C-tec administration for making this magazine possible. We would also like to thank everyone taking the time to view this magazine. We look forward to future submissions for the creation of new issues of The Melting Pot. Editor-In-Chief,
-Corinna Hodgson