The Wayfarer 2000

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry-This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll-How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human soul.

- Emily Dickinson Published by the students of Edgewood High School Volume XV Spring, 2000

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Staff

Editor:

Margie Duwe

Assistant Editor:

Colleen McHenry

Technical Assistants: Eric Offerdahl

Ryan Scadlock

Editorial Board: Maureen Backman

Ali Cuddy

Amanda Otradovec

Ryan Scadlock

Thaddeus Thaler-Schultz

Sarah Turner

Heather Waldeck

Helen Wirka

Artists: Amadeus Benitez

Anna Cianciara

Gabriel Curio

Chris Holoyda

Dominic Lombardo

Angela Olson

Alex O’Neill

Laurie Pantages

Scott Peterson

Heather Waldeck

Tom Washbush

Derek Zachman

Cover Artist: Anna Cianciara

Advisor:

Ms. Diane Mertens

2 Editor:

Jennifer Schultz

Assistant Editor:

Margaret Duwe

Table of Contents Backstage: Chris Holoyda ........................................................................................................................ 5 Release: Drew Coursin.............................................................................................................................. 6 My Star: Jaime Rehmann........................................................................................................................... 8 I Am the Rose: Colleen Curtin................................................................................................................. 10 Mother’s Love: Sara Hilgendorf.............................................................................................................. 12 Johnny Frost: Chris Hanson..................................................................................................................... 13 Erased: Renee Frontiera........................................................................................................................... 19 Perspectives: Colleen McHenry............................................................................................................... 20 Surprise: Ali MacDonald......................................................................................................................... 22 Maestoso con brio: Margie Duwe............................................................................................................ 24 Nature in Misery: Renee Stroncek........................................................................................................... 26 Living in the Shadow: Margie Duwe....................................................................................................... 29 Passed By: Meghan Miller....................................................................................................................... 31 Rivers of Dust: Liam Reilly..................................................................................................................... 32 Unstrung: Lindsay Williamson................................................................................................................ 34 Platz: Ben Davenport .............................................................................................................36 Searching: Carrie Grossenbach................................................................................................................ 37 Stepping Up to the Challenge: Scott Peterson......................................................................................... 38 Nimbostratus: Ben Braus......................................................................................................................... 41 A Gift: Maureen Backman....................................................................................................................... 42 Heaven on Ice: Mark Jones ................................................................................................... 43 Sail: Amy Porter....................................................................................................................................... 44 Trip for Two: Jaime Rehmann................................................................................................................. 45 Assignment: Write a Poem: Ellie Boucher ............................................................................ 46

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Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winne

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Backstage A few chattering voices I sit still in the dim light, like a cocoon A steady gust of conversation I shiver, yet a spark within lights a growing fire A rising crescendo of intertwined words Something kicks inside of me, discordant A crashing wave of muffled discourse, channeled into one urgent voice I drown in it, die, my skin sloughing off The crowd is silent I am reborn, an emerging butterfly, testing its wings, shimmering with brilliance The curtains open Chris Holoyda (12)

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Release Sitting, statuesque, at the center of my universe, Wrapping shadows ’round my shoulders, Hoping to be relieved of this monotony.

Dear Zephyr, please tousle my hair, And let your warm tendrils play across my face.

Lord Poseidon, drench me with your watery essence, Dissolve these stagnant bonds.

Or perhaps you, Inferno, could yield a mischievous spark To set alight the dry leaves of my mind.

Mother Terra, shrug your earthen shoulders And topple this granite wall of Nothing.

Fates! I beseech you!

Rive melancholy Silence That devours the blissful bustle of my mind.

Coax passion from my apathy; Find harmony within these haphazard notes; Enliven the marionettes of my mundane self; Urge them to cavort without care!

Call to arms my legions of creativity To do battle with the foul beast Ennui, The scourge of my poet’s heart. ...Telephone my Muse, Tell her to find me on the corner Of 51st and Sublime...

I’ll be the grimy street vendor Plying my trade, Selling the wares of my soul, Offering poetry for the sake of a smile.

Oh, how I am overcome by this monotony.

Must I stifle another yawn?

It would be a shame to let such a precious commodity As air slip from my lips in such a voluminous manner.

Drew Coursin (12) 6

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My Star The warm breeze gently caressed her cheek as it blew through the fluttering leaves. The thin, barely visible crescent moon shone down brightly upon her. She swung to and fro slowly in the creaky old swing that her father had made, inhaling deeply the smells of the warm evening. Freshly cut grass. Roses. Dew. The song of the crickets hummed in her ears. Fireflies flashed all around her, making her feel like a plastic figurine in a snow globe that had just been shaken vigorously by an overly anxious child. As she gazed at the twinkling stars in the clear evening sky, she saw a small cluster of bright stars all by itself. Against her will, a memory pushed and shoved its way to the front of her mind.

“See that little group of stars, honey? It’s called Pleades or the Seven Sisters.

They stay close together for comfort and support, just like you and your sisters.

And that one,” the father pointed out, “is Orion. He uses his sword to watch out for the little Seven Sisters.”

She closed her eyes tightly to fight back the tears as she drew in a shaky breath. No. Not now. She couldn’t cope with this now. The song of the crickets continued to drone on.

Abruptly, a new sound joined in. Flashes, images of the past, flew before her.

“What’s that sound, Daddy?” the frightened little girl whispered as she wildly flashed the beam of her flashlight around the tent.

“It’s only a cicada, dear. That’s just a noisy bug. It can’t hurt you. Besides,” he added with one of his trademark grins, “I’m here to protect you. Remember?”

She shook her head as if that would clear her mind of the painful memories that had haunted her for the past year. Her breaths came in short spurts now, and tears welled up in her eyes so that everything was blurry and almost unreal. She glanced back at the old farmhouse and remembered the night that... that...a lump of pain sprouted in her stomach and grew and crept up into her throat. She had forbidden herself to think of it, as it was so painful. The last time she had seen him was a night just like this night.

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“Oh, Daddy, I’m so frightened!” she had confessed to him as they sat on the swing together.

“Who hasn’t been frightened the night before her wedding?” he asked her rhetorically in his perpetually soothing voice.

“But this is my last night,” she paused, thinking. “My last night to be a little girl! Tomorrow I will have to grow up. And that’s so scary, Daddy!” said the little girl as she edged closer to her father on the swing seat.

“You will always be my little girl, and I will always be your Daddy.” He gave her a hug, enveloping her in warmth and security, and they both raised their eyes to gaze at the stars on that clear night.

The tears rolled down her face now for she had ceased to resist them. The breeze blew, cooling her cheeks. Her shoulders shook in silent sorrow.

“See that constellation? Do you know what that one is?” he asked her.

“Of course I do, Daddy! You taught me the names of all the constellations.

That’s Orion,” she replied.

“Well, if you are ever afraid, sad, or alone, I will be there to protect you, just like Orion protects the Seven Sisters. Whenever you need me, just look to the sky and whisper my name. Know that I am listening to you and thinking of you and loving you. Forever.”

She glanced up, only to see that clouds had blanketed the sky and smothered the stars. Buring her head in her arms, she began to sob. She couldn’t move past the sorrow and the loneliness that she had felt since...since...since IT happened. “Daddy, Daddy, where are you now when I need you the most?” she asked through her stinging tears. After wiping her face with the back of her hand, she sighed shakily and looked up again. Part of the sky had cleared, and Orion shown brightly down. A peace came over her, a peace that she hadn’t felt in over a year. It settled deep in her soul and calmed her to the core. She saw the Seven Sisters and felt safe and calm again. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The warm breeze gently caressed her cheek as it blew through the fluttering leaves. The thin, barely visible moon shone brightly, and Orion smiled down upon her.

Jaime Rehmann (12)

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I Am the Rose I am the rose That remains In a ceramic vase On the sill.

Looking out into the distance, I see other roses Of many colors On the pillowy earth Outside my enchanting prison.

The effulgent sun dips below The perpetual horizon, Blushing with every Angelic shade known to the NaĂŻve inhabitants of this Relentless environment.

The illuminated moon Casts its cape of shadows Across the sky, Descending upon the earth, Reminding each individual Of her old disquieting fears.

The prison guard, The one who picked me, Nears his nose And reminds himself That weak innocence Is declining And that the crimson Blood stains his hands And no one else’s.

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One by one my petals drop to the fraudulent earth As easily as tears fall from one’s eyes.

My breath is becoming shorter now, And I am gasping for life.

I am nothing now.

He has taken Everything From me.

Colleen Curtin (10)

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Mother’s Love

Inspired by George Inness’ painting, “The Lackawanna Valley” The blending of the sky and earth, marked with a purple hue, Reveals the long lost dignity of these once virgin lands.

What wild beasts once roamed these barren forests?

What mysterious stories could the dead trees have told if only given the chance?

The remaining whispers are muted by the vibrations of human enterprise.

Yet I love the barbarous destruction amidst which I lay.

My bed is made with braids of matted grass, My chair, coarse remnants left by lumberjacks.

The shield of sparse branches keeps me warm, The unchecked wind keeps me cool.

Now everything lies calm except my heart.

I long to roll amongst the emerald blades, Climb between meager boughs, Dance with the billowing clouds.

There is nothing to hold me back, only the vastness of luscious green.

The perfume of free air runs with my blood, And every decision is a long fought battle.

Never before have things seemed so clear amidst great confusion.

Filled with apprehension, my heart prances eagerly in my expectations.

Nature dominates this industrious little town.

She watches over it with a maternal air.

Within my solitude I am not alone for she is there.

So under the wing of thee unto whom I have caused great pain, I may lie securely and watch the trains pass by indifferently.

Why do you smile so kindly, dear Mother?

How do you afford to give so much to those who plot against you?

Why does not God reward your ceaseless generosity?

Who comforts you in your trials?

Dear Mother, how do you still survive?

Sara Hilgendorf (11) 12

Johnny Frost Author’s Note: The following is the first in a string of interconnected short stories called “Super Thief.” Not much unfolds here, but all you need to know is provided.

Somewhere in a fancy Italian restaurant in the lobby of a hotel, a man in a black suit complimented a girl on her prom dress.

Up in room 921, Steven McCoy was oblivious to the sirens outside his window, the running water in his bathroom, the voices of children running in the hall, and the moans coming from the porn station on the hotel access television. Up in room 921, Steven McCoy was oblivious to the heavy breathing coming from his own chest and the way his shirt was moving with his now intense heartbeat. Up in room 921, Steven McCoy was oblivious to the smell of vomit on his breath and the voice in his head telling him to make quick use of the fire escape.

Somewhere in an elevator that had just lifted off the lobby level of a hotel, a man in a black suit engaged in small talk with a fourteen-year-old blonde girl coming back from the pool.

Up in room 921, Steven McCoy took an ice-cold shower, hoping to shake himself out of his fear. Up in room 921, Steven McCoy threw up, partly from intoxication and partly from his weak nerves. Up in room 921, Steven McCoy started to cry.

Somewhere in an elevator that had just

stopped on floor nine, a man in a black suit stood. Pinstripes of light from the old-fashioned gate ran down the length of his suit.

He smiled at it, and the light bent around his body, sealing itself to him. Somewhere in an elevator that had just stopped on floor nine, a man who was once in a black suit was now in a black suit with white pinstripes.

To say that he’s not a man isn’t entirely accurate, in the sense that a man can be, technically, any member of the male sex of a highly advanced carbon-based primate life form. To say that he’s not human is a bit more realistic. In any case, he had come to take what was his.

No one was there to see his light-bending trick, which, though it would not affect the outcome of his affairs in the Minister Hotel, was a pity to him. No one in the hotel knew him, nor would they, if lucky, ever see him again or do business with him. That aside, however, he greatly enjoyed exercising his powers with an audience of those who could not comprehend it.

He took out a knife, a small black-handled switchblade, and stuck it in the wall. He proceeded to walk, letting the knife cut a trench in the wall. He called out the numbers of the rooms as he passed them, loudly, so that the people inside could hear him. Who was he to care if they were sleeping?

“Nine twenty…nine twenty-one. Open up, Mr. McCoy. I have business with you.”

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There was no “please,” no screaming, no signs of resistance. The door opened on command.

Steven McCoy was sitting naked, curled up on the toilet in his bathroom. He was red-faced, reduced to what is, in our human culture, no longer a “man.”

“I’m going to give you another chance, Mr. McCoy, to get out of debt,” the man began as he pulled a deck of playing cards out of his pocket. He began shuffling. “We are going to play a game,” he said, taking one of the jokers and slicing a long, shallow paper cut into the left arm of Steven McCoy, “of poker. A simple gentleman’s game that has been played to settle arguments for a long time.” He made another slash with the other joker.

Steven McCoy whimpered and shook his head. He’d had enough of these games and

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wished he had never even made the deal with the man in the first place.

“You won’t play with me?” Steven shook his head. “Fine then,” the man in the black suit said, turning on the faucet. “I wash my hands of you.” He began to wash his hands.

He cupped them around the water, catching some. Turning to Steven, he threw the water in the air.

The blob of water froze in the air, and the man blew a sharp breath at it, sending an icicle through Steven’s throat.

Straightening his hat, he was out the door and walking back to the elevator, calling out the names of rooms as he passed them. He wanted those inside to hear his voice. Any one of them could be the next person to deal with Johnny Frost.

He laughed at the people of earth, as human history begins with a crime, a thievery

to be exact. God told Adam and Eve not to eat from the tree of knowledge. With a little convincing, they realized they wanted knowledge. They ate the fruit and got the knowledge. They stole it.

What Johnny Frost stole was something completely different. Some could say he was a thief of life, but he did not care much for a title that clichéd. Also, he did not think of himself as a killer but rather as a liberator. He took from his victims—partners in business—a little piece of them that would remain forever. Most of them he did not need to kill.

He did not take anything from Steven McCoy; the only thing Steven offered was cowardice, and Johnny Frost would not be needing that any time soon.

He was upset and walked angrily through the lobby of the hotel. He had so wanted to take another trinket from someone.

Steve is not the name to give to a pandimensional super-intelligent humanoid who rules peacefully over an unknown fourth dimension (despite the theories of infinite dimensions in space and time, there are only four) that would serve as a thief utopia. Usually they get names like Uvus Primus Multurus. But no, for this being, it’s just Steve.

Steve sat in his really comfortable chair in his innermost private chambers in the unknown fourth dimension that would serve as a thief utopia. He was holding a picture of a brunette girl that was almost too young. The spirits around him spoke to him.

Oh, she’s a pretty one.

“Yes, she is,” Steve replied.

A love? A past love? A love yet to be sought?

“No, her picture came with the frame.”

Steve switched positions in his really comfortable chair. He sat sideways with his feet over one of the armrests. He looked at the picture and sighed. It wasn’t the girl herself he was sighing about; he knew he never had and never would meet her. It was more the thought of beauty. It surrounded him. He didn’t feel that he himself was not beautiful. He didn’t see his surroundings as ugly.

The problem he had with beauty was that he did not know how to react to it. He was a pan-dimensional super-intelligent being who did not know if beauty should arouse him, scare him, or intoxicate him with emotion.

He could not figure out the simplest thing in all four dimensions. Of course, in order to conquer Fountain, the center of universal beauty, he would need to know how to react to beauty.

He needed to conquer Fountain because it was between Earth and Irse, anchoring the two together. Thus, it was the most powerful dimension. There was just one problem that stood in his way—Johnny Frost.

He did not see Johnny as a threat, unless he was Damon (the secret name for the thief messiah). If the thief guilds united, then they could take the unknown fourth dimension and use it as their utopia, rendering Steve’s power useless.

“Spirits!” Steve said. “Summon my as15

sassins.”

Steve could hear their whispering voices move throughout his halls. The men, rather beings, he had asked them to fetch for him were ex-vampire hunters, the finest in the business. When people stopped believing in vampires, vampires left Earth and Irse and went to Fountain. The business of vampire hunting was lost.

“Spirits!

Summon myas assasSilver Barrels (Chaz, he liked to be

called) and Silver Blades (whose real name was unknown but preferred to be called Money) entered. Silver Barrels was tall and lean; his coat flowed behind him. Silver Blades was more like the henchman, standing with his head down and his coat draped over himself, concealing his body. Moreover, it was concealing the belts upon belts of sevenhundred paper-thin throwing knives that had seen their fair share of blood from many interdimensional species.

“Why am I here?” Silver Barrels did the talking.

“I need you to kill someone for me.”

“Vampires only exist in Fountain.”

“Not a vampire. A real job. One that could get you recognition beyond my court.”

“And who are you asking me to kill that I could gain so much from one life?”

“Johnny Frost.”

“The snake?”

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“What snake?”

“In Irse the thieves say he is the serpent from the earth book that uses fantasy to explain why things are the way they are.”

“Do you believe he is?”

“Of course not. He is a native of Fountain. That alone proves he could not be the snake.”

“Are you in?”

The white light that made the eyes sunken in the black face of Chaz curved, showing he was thinking.

“Yes.” “Good. You and Money over there can start in Irse. I want you to have a little chat with Idle.”

“Oh, that’s not cool,” Silver Blades finally spoke. “I hate that guy.”

Idle sat alone in the room where a meeting between thieves had taken place only minutes ago. He wished so much that the others would see that Johnny Frost was not Damon. He simply couldn’t be. Could he?

Idle opened his eyes; that flash of doubt had frightened him. He was beginning to feel like an atheist on his deathbed. What if he was wrong?

“Idle! How long I have waited for this day!”

Idle jumped up; his thoughts shattered much like a mirror. He quickly tied a scarf around his nose and mouth.

“How is the last vampire to exist in the Earth-Irse plane?”

“Silver Barrels, I suppose you’ve come

to end it. Not now. Please. I have business.

Let me finish.”

“I didn’t come to kill you, and take that scarf off. Your secret will be out no matter what you do.” Idle reached his hands behind his head and undid the knot he had tied only moments ago. He pulled the black silk scarf from his nose and mouth to reveal that he had no lips or gums, only bare teeth and a serpent tongue.

“How does he talk?” Money asked in embarrassment.

“He creates sound-waves by bending space with his mind and making little explosions,” Chaz explained to his less-informed friend. He then turned to Idle. “Please, we are no longer on a hunter-hunted basis. Call me Chaz. We want to ask you a few questions about your super-thief.”

“For the record, who was hunting whom?”

Idle inquired with a less than serious tone of voice.

“I’ve heard one too many clichés today; I don’t need you adding to them.”

Idle laughed. “So what do you want to know about our so-called messiah?”

“Where can we find him?”

“Last I knew, he was on Earth. He doesn’t come to Irse much; he hates the rain and the Stair-Divers.”

“Pardon me, did you just say, ‘StairDivers?’”

“You know, the Ninth Gate movie was nothing like the book.”

Johnny Frost looked up to see the source

of a voice that was obviously directed toward him, but he wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw. The boy was probably sixteen with a scrawny frame and slightly hunched posture.

His hair was brown with streaks of red in it.

His pale skin dulled his brown eyes, which were surrounded by black, plastic-frame glasses. The boy looked up and waved, and Johnny Frost looked in the direction of the wave to see an incredibly beautiful girl dressed in black, smiling back at the boy.

“She yours?” Johnny asked the boy.

“Yeah.”

“Can I borrow her?”

“What?”

“It’s a joke. Laugh. You could use a laugh from where I’m standing.”

“That thing about The Ninth Gate, that was just to start a conversation. I really wanted to ask you, what’s with your face? Is that a mask or something? ’Cuz I do costume and make-up effects for a local theater and we don’t—” Johnny slapped down his copy of Amazing Stories when he realized he had forgotten to steal a face. He looked at the boy and disappeared into thin air.

Don’t touch her!

The boy walked over to his girlfriend.

“I’m going to step over to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

What the heck are you doing with me?

Give me back my body!

“All in good time, Skippy. We’re just going to take a friendly little walk to the bathroom.”

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How did you do this?

“It’s a long, painful story that would only glorify me more than I already am.”

He stepped into the doorway of the bathroom at the back of the bookstore. The boy keeled over and vomited up a black fluid that quickly shaped itself into Johnny Frost.

“What did you have to do that for? I just asked you—” he started.

“Yes, yes. Now to business. What will it take to shut you up? I can give you whatever you want. A career. A name. Money for your future plans with that pretty little thing at the coffee bar. Name it.”

“What is this? Money for our wedding?

Why?” “Just name it.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch?”

“The catch. A stranger with an immaterial face doesn’t offer people wedding money out of nowhere right after he possesses them.

What are you, a demon?”

“Not puppets, mup“I’m no demon. I’m a thief. First of all,

kudos for using the word “immaterial.” Secondly, sadly, there is one small catch, so small you won’t even notice. In twenty years your soul becomes my property. You don’t die, but you don’t control yourself anymore.”

“No!” “Well, in that case” Johnny Frost extended his arm, and a black thing slithered 18

down it. “Do you prefer the bar or shock serpents?”

“What?” The boy backed up to the door, but with a wink of Johnny’s white eye, it locked.

The You bar. lose I steal a piece of you.“It’s Thesimple. serpents. your memory.”

“What do you steal?”

“What have you got to offer?”

“Just my wallet and my watch.”

“Not that type of piece. I want your soul.

Your thoughts. Your love.”

“Charline.”

“Is that her name?”

“Please, I—” “—May be of service to me. How would you feel about traveling multiple dimensions and assisting the most feared man in all existence?”

“I…um...well…what are my other options?”

Johnny pulled out the snake again.

“I see. What would I be doing?”

“You and the sweet thing sipping her third mocha today will be my personal… something.”

“Something?”

“I think I’ll call you muppets.”

“Muppets. Great. Charline is going to love this. We are going to see Rent next weekend, and now we’re puppets.”

“Not puppets, muppets.”

Chris Hanson (12)

Erased Red faces shouting fists raised the light glints off bared teeth moisture breaks out on red cheeks as I retreat away from penetrating eyes Swish—it is erased, wiped clean and I am in the comparative cool of scorching sand white salt encrusts my skin the room is forgotten Discouraged glances and mournful eyes a wave of guilt chills my veins how could I have done that? disappointment flows the stifling walls crowd me with my thoughts Swish—it is erased, wiped clean the greenness of freedom surrounds me the pressure is removed from my mind and lungs my mind is unconfined the guilt is forgotten Renee Frontiera (12)

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Perspectives

Inspired by George Inness’ painting, “The Lackawanna Valley” The Tree I stand alone and gaze across the valley.

Where once other trees stood proud and tall Dressed in their glorious splendor, They fashioned royal robes of green and gold Now remains a terrifying scene.

I see a graveyard where I remember a mighty kingdom.

I know my fate and can almost feel the cold steel blade Stabbing my body and destroying me.

My spirit falls But I stand tall And reach tentatively toward God. The Man Ah, there it is!

I can see the train now, rumbling swiftly across the valley.

It is the first I have ever seen, And the sight and sound of it takes my breath away.

It gallops faster than a horse and thunders louder than the fiercest storm.

Crack! BOOM! A shower of golden sparks dances around me.

The train speeds toward me, and I lean forward in excitement.

Its mighty power shakes the ground under me.

Even the towering tree at my side is powerless and trembles.

I hear the whistling of the wind mix with the crescendo of the train’s roar.

The wind violently whips back my hair, And I am left with a feeling of shock and wonder.

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The Train My roar booms across the early morning, “Make WAAAY!!!”

Metal crashes and smoke explodes into the still air.

My bright scarlet blazes across the dull green expanse, And black soot erupts in a showy display of fireworks, Settling to the dewy ground and leaving my signature on the valley.

I rip through a pitiful band of trees.

I mock them with my power and flaunt my prestige carelessly For they are worthless, hopeless, dying...

I race on, undaunted!

The Meditation The rumbling dies away and slowly the amazement fades.

I look across the valley once again, but with a new perspective: My eyes are drawn to the darkly dotted valley where once a forest thrived.

I look around in confusion and see Small, quiet reminders of destruction.

Just one tall tree Stands its ground It is mighty, Beautiful.

With melancholy eyes I look to the ugly path Cut by the train through the valley.

It once again shocks me and takes my breath away Not in wonder but in rage.

Where once the valley was shaded a soft green hue, Now is bruised with a funeral blanket of dirty soot.

It fills me with great sadness as I imagine the forest that once thrived.

I gaze peacefully on the softly painted verdure And watch as the wind sweeps silently across the fringe of brushstrokes.

The wind tugs gently at the brim of my hat, Innocently, like a child, Whispering into my ears a mournful melody Of breathtaking beauty long scorned and forgotten.

Colleen McHenry (11) 21

Surprise “Surprise? You want me to bring you a surprise?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Tom and I planned to meet at a nearby park, and we were choosing what we would carry to recognize each other.

“Yes, a surprise,” Tom answered. “You always surprise me on the phone. I could talk to you for hours. I want to bring you a surprise that symbolizes our friendship.”

I interrupted him, “Oh, I have the perfect thing. The perfect symbol of our friendship. You’ll know me right away.”

Even though I felt confident with my choice, I knew this was the strangest thing to bring to someone I only knew from telephone conversations. I was nervous and excited to meet him. Actually, my choice symbolized my nervousness as well.

On the inside I saw beautiful crystals reflecting shades of purple and blue.

When I got to the park, it was full of people carrying kites, frisbees, picnic baskets, books, candy, flowers, teddy bears--lots of things that could be symbols.

My eye was drawn to the dark-haired man sitting at a picnic table. In front of him was a large round rock. When our eyes met, he smiled.

“Okay, you must be Tom. But a rock? How does a rock symbolize our friendship?” I asked.

“A plain rock would say that our friendship is solid, which it is, but this is no ordinary rock.” Then Tom lifted the rock up over his head and smashed it on the concrete sidewalk below. It broke into two pieces. On the inside I saw 22

beautiful crystals reflecting shades of purple and blue. The rock was a geode.

Tom continued, “The crystals are beautiful, like our friendship, and have many facets, like our conversations. See the depth and how the light reflects?”

“It’s beautiful,” I answered, “the most beautiful thing I’ve even seen.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “What in the world do you have in that big box?” I was carrying a large box that I had covered with an old tablecloth. Even though it was large, it was extremely lightweight. I set it carefully on the table, and Tom started to pull off the cloth.

“Not yet,” I stopped him. “I brought this box to symbolize how I feel about our friendship.”

“Hmm, looks lighter than mine.”

“Yes,” I responded, “but just as strong, maybe stronger. In this box is something that can withstand the strongest winds and travel the longest distances, yet remains beautiful even as it goes through life’s changes.”

“All that in one box?” marveled Tom. “And it’s living, like I hope our friendship is.” I pulled aside the cloth to reveal a clear box full of monarch butterflies. “I had butterflies when I met you, but now I am certain that our friendship will fly.” With that, I opened the lid and gave the butterflies their freedom. Their beautiful wings filled the air.

Ali MacDonald (9)

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Maestoso con brio

Poised, a dread anticipation, palpable and straining mightily, intensely focused on its sole restraint: a fragile sapling twig suspended high in the waiting air, quivering in expectancy and throbbing with power.

The downward stroke and the writhing emotions distill to such a concentrate as to be heard.

The slender bows sweep down, broad swathes of passion stretched rippling taut across the gathering fury of a vast pale sky.

Brass mountains rise from the ocean floor, erupting through the surface in flashing glory, while woodwinds swirl and eddy in the jagged inlets of their bases.

A tidal wave of strings crests, then curls forward in an unrelenting deluge, the billows shattering into a spray of multifaceted crystals.

Rumbling kettledrum clouds release a cataract of chimes.

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An ecstasy of joy and anguish is wrought by crimson life, coursing, pulsing, wildly cascading through fiery veins, aroused by the tempest.

The tumult swells into a crescendo, until within the stormy brazier a single teardrop of molten gold condenses.

Emotion in ripe perfection, washed with the fullness of exultation and agony, ventures to draw the heavy velvet curtain folds that drape a shared soul.

In the final note, a moment of eternity.

Margie Duwe (12)

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Nature in Misery

A Reflection on “The Notch of White Mountain� by Thomas Cole Swirling clouds Ashes blanketing the sky Furiously frowning upon the tiny creatures lurking below Casting murky shadows of gloom Ivory trees Desperately reaching out their bare branches toward heaven Silently crying for help from their fiery-rooted neighbors Stumps Littering the rust-colored earth Like wounded soldiers bravely waiting for the end The flesh of the trees Viciously cut away by axes Victims craving peace Desperate soil No longer nurtured and protected by the trees Helplessly exposd to wind, rain, and sun Robbed of its riches Trampled and abused A pathetic tree Lying on its side in a position of defeat No longer upright No longer living Another victim Its brown, withered leaves strewn over the ground Blowing in the faint breeze Misery echoing within the silent mountains Once wild and free Now being destroyed

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The dark man Proudly galloping on his raven horse Noticing nothing except his happily awaiting family Oblivious to the pain surrounding him The man is like The lime-green fungus The crimson vines Clinging to a helpless tree Greedily eating away Slowly suffocating it Taking advantage of it A dejected cabin Built from the defenseless trees Tragically abandoned for a new house Sitting isolated in the clearing in a patch of forgotten sunlight Surrounded by dreary shadows Now will rot in agony The smug white house Proud of its charming wood walls Hiding contentedly in the hills Naively pouring out thick gray smoke Suffocating the nearby trees Contaminating the pure air A pool of slate-colored water Appeared calm from a distance Yet rippling in the weary wind Reflecting the dark shadows from above Painting the mood for all to see

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Misery Echoing within the ivory trees The rusty earth The barren land The silent mountains The dark gray water The contaminated air Yet bright clouds Peek from behind the silent mountains Bringing hope Bringing peace Restoring connection A reminder of forgotten beauty and power If only the man would notice Renee Stroncek (11)

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Living in the Shadow The chilly wind snorted at the few leafskeletons scattered about the barren town square. A small bundle of rags stirred fitfully beneath a worn statue placed in the far eastern corner of the plaza.

The rags, in reality a young boy, were not a spectacular sight. The statue, however, was. At first glance, it seemed to be just another of the myriad memorials to war heroes who were neither remembered nor heroic, a statue one would pass without a thought. Yet something always drew the eye back. The horse was no ordinary steed, but Pegasus, and the rider, of course, not a war hero, but Belleraphon. A winged horse ridden bareback by a half-naked man would be reason enough for almost anyone to take a second look, but more often than not, that second look would last several minutes. Even the townspeople who had passed it a hundred thousand times still noticed it, occasionally stopping and staring, quite transfixed for a minute or two, then abruptly turning to continue on to their destinations, after a furtive glance about to assure themselves that no one had observed their foolishness.

The boy had become a fixture of the square, much as the town drunk was of the alley behind the saloon, or the blind man panhandling on the corner of Main and First, one of the inevitable pariahs whom everyone knew and politely chose to ignore. No one knew much of anything about him. He simply appeared one morning on the pedestal of the statue, five, maybe six years ago. When que-

ried as to the child’s presence, most shrugged their shoulders and abruptly changed the subject. The barber’s wife had pronounced him to be a five- or six-year-old by-blow of this or that vagrant, long since migrated either to the next town or, more likely, to the neglected section of the cemetery on the hill.

This promptly satisfied those few who had been curious.

The townspeople had not forgotten that the boy existed; they had simply relegated him to the furthest part of their collective

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consciousness. Perhaps the only exception to his total exclusion from human interaction came from the baker. Early before dawn, in preparation for fresh bread, the baker would sweep together the previous day’s leavings and surreptitiously deposit them beside the slumbering boy, averting his eyes all the while. If he happened upon another person, a rare occurrence at that hour, each would delicately avoid acknowledging the other.

Belleraphon’s grimace of determination had transformed into a After awaking that morning in the same

manner as he had for years, slowly and deliberately, the boy sat, cross-legged, elbows on knees, and chin on wrists. He assumed this loose-jointed posture with weary ease. All day the boy sat in this manner, breaking his pose only to consume the dried bread left by the baker. He stared through the passers-by and the bustling shops at a point shimmering tantalizingly beyond the translucent membrane binding his consciousness. This gaze unsettled many a pedestrian.

Darkness slowly crept through the town, extending swarthy hands to soften the harsh edges of the plaza. The boy shivered as the dark fingers caressed his cheek. As subtly as the diaphanous wisps of mist waft up from a lake, tendrils of an idea began insinuating themselves into his mind. He gaped at the mythical characters looming above him.

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Belleraphon’s grimace of determination had transformed into a sneer. Suddenly, the boy violently heaved himself onto his knees and began to pray feverishly to a God he faintly remembered. He pleaded for freedom, not knowing why or from what. Glaring fiercely at the winged monstrosity, mindless words coursed from his mouth, matched by a torrent of tears from disillusioned eyes.

When the blackness finally claimed the statue from the boy’s tear-blurred sight, his words trickled to a halt and the tautness of his frame disintegrated into the dull ache of fatigue. He relinquished his tenuous hold on consciousness and abandoned himself to the lassitude of sleep.

As a sliver of moon loitered in the desolate sky, the statue shivered, almost imperceptibly.

The flanks twitched, as if to dislodge a pesky fly. Broad wings shuddered and massive legs shifted restlessly. Stone ground against stone, protesting the incredible strain of flexing joints not meant to move. Awakened by the feathery caresses of gray powder, the boy stared up at the fissures lacing Pegasus’ quivering abdomen. Before his sleep-fogged mind could comprehend his predicament, the tortured statue moaned one final time and crumbled into a jagged heap.

The boy’s splintered bones and crushed flesh translated into a gruesome freedom. He was finally free from the awful presence that had shadowed his life for so long.

Margie Duwe (12)

Passed By

Obsolete myths dance Across the stage of today.

Forgotten legends sing Of the glories of the age Unnoticed.

Looking back in wonder, What happened to the stage?

Looking back in sorrow, What happened to the age Of myths and legends?

Lost to the world of logic, Unknown to the world, Once so cherished, Now unheard of

By Humankind.

The bogeyman, the unicorn, The pirate with one eye, Who had their chance, did their dance, Now watch the world pass them by Disbelieving.

Meghan Miller (10)

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Rivers of Dust The man walked on.

The road he walked was long and dry; trails of dust floated on the still air, and there was nothing but heat-baked rock and sand in every direction. Small outcroppings of boulders sheltered a few forlorn scrub bushes from the sun, but the individual plants were beaten to the ground by the merciless and incessant heat. The road shimmered and flowed in the heat like a never-ending river. The man traveled this tortured and beaten stream, his sundazed eyes staring blindly at the road ahead.

His eyes, which were the only part of him not protected, stared out of the small slit between his red handkerchief and his big sombrero.

The handkerchief was covered with a crusty layer made from a mixture of dirt, grime, dust, and sweat. He occasionally took it off and cleaned it on his pant leg, but within a half-hour it was stiff and grimy again.

Two days before, he had been in a trance from staring at the endless dirt passing beneath him and had forgotten to repeat the cleaning routine. The result had been that the handkerchief was cemented to his face by dried spittle and sweat, and it had taken him a precious hour of frantic tearing to rip it off his face. Pieces of his flesh came with it, and he had big gashes on his cheeks and chin. He had no choice but to put it back on. The sand whipped around by the ferocious wind would eat into his skin far worse than any acid.

His sombrero had been a light gray, but was now a dark, dirty brown. It had been soiled by the perspiration that his face and 32

head had produced. His skin under the cloth was a walnut brown, partially covered with coarse black hair. What formerly had been a pair of new leather boots encased his feet.

The leather was ruined, with cracks running

The road itself seemed dead, as if it hadn’t been used in thousands of years—a dry riverbed where nothing flowed but dust.

through the top and caked mud stuck to the bottom. The condition of his feet was as bad as that of the boots. The days of walking they had endured, all the time rubbing against the insides of the boots, had caused enormous blisters to erupt and cover his feet with blood and pus. However, the man did not dare stop to repair the damage; every second ticked closer and closer to his death. The road he walked sucked his life away, leaving him as dry and wasted as the rest of the land.

The man walked this dusty trail with his head down and his feet shuffling across the dirty, sandy path. The road itself seemed dead, as if it hadn’t been used in thousands of years—a dry riverbed where nothing flowed but dust.

He had come a long way, but he still had a long way to go. For that moment, he was locked in time, floating endlessly down that infinite stream with only the dust from his footsteps hanging in the air to mark his passage. The sun hung in the sky, holding man and dust trails in a suspension that seemed to never end. Underneath his hopeful exterior

was the deadened, dark shadow of desperation.

Suddenly he stopped. He raised his head and took in the desolation surrounding him.

The silence pressed in all around him and seemed to rip through the cloth on his head, force open his mouth, and tear down his throat straight to his heart. He felt it filling up inside him to the point where he thought he would burst; it grew and grew, until the man could not stand it any longer. He opened his mouth and yelled, screaming at the top of his lungs.

It was a cry full of despair, shattering the eerie quiet. The still air consumed the sound almost instantaneously as if it was a starving

beast; suddenly, the whole landscape seemed like a giant, evil creature, hunting him, biding its time until it would pounce on him and eat him as well.

The small light of hope was gone from his eyes; they were now bloodshot and full of suspicion. He looked left and right, as if expecting an attack. Finally he heard a small sound. It was the first he had heard in weeks that wasn’t produced by his own movements.

Trying to whirl around too quickly, the exhausted and over-taxed muscles in the man’s legs finally gave way. He collapsed on the ground with a thump, raising a cloud of dust that enveloped him completely. Coughing weakly and blinking his eyes, the man saw a shadow pass near his right foot. Pulling his leg back as if afraid the shadow itself would bite him, he glanced up. Overhead, three buzzards were flying in lazy, unconcerned circles, just waiting for the man to fall again and never get up.

With a dull, defeated feeling of horror, he rose slowly. His shoulders sagged. With one more glance at the birds circling above, he forced his shredded feet to move and began again to travel the road. He slipped back into eternity; the dust river flowed, the birds circled, and the sun beat down endlessly.

The man walked on.

Liam Reilly (10)

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Unstrung Salty tears fall from the young girl’s eyes, For now she truly begins to cry.

From the moment the piercing knives cut through, The guardian angels stumbled and flew.

As the rolling thunder rages and roars, She prays for moments...just a few.

“Heil Hitler,” rings in her delicate ears, As if the devil preaching, He at his altar, she at her pew.

“Life’s a gem,” a distant voice whispers.

“It sparkles, it sparkles, and bursts anew.”

A guard says, “Come with me, little girl, With your tears running wild, and I shall show you.”

A glimmer is caught in the corner of her eye.

Is the Nazi guiding her deceiving with his smile?

She hesitates, then thinks, “I must run! I must run! For my death will surely come!”

The man’s grip remains strong; She squirms and asks, “Oh, will it be long?”

She’s placed on a golden pedestal before thousands strewn, They’re weak, they’re helpless, forced to be immune.

Expressions of bewilderment have a domino effect, The Nazis snicker assuming this girl’s death will make all correct.

She looks at the man who was, prior, a threat, His kind smile produces a wave of regret.

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She gazes into the blurring crowd, Pensively holding a trembling lip.

Could this be a man with a misleading grip?

He speaks in unison with the thoughts of all Jews, Whom his position demands that he should abuse.

Has the man lost all sense of thought?

Everything he alludes to is what he should not.

Yet omnipotent is his forthright manner, While trembling she feels so faint and so small.

The man’s tone remains gentle and calm.

He speaks while she buries her sweating palm.

Fevered is her state of mind, Caught is her breath, and to faint she feels inclined.

The man speaks in riddles, a distorted tongue.

Then why do so many remain? The bell has already rung.

“Our tactics corrupt and minds dense with ignorance— What we’ve done is wrong,” he says, An apology for their impotence.

At the sound of this the Nazis gasp and grope, As if their throats have been tied by a rope.

If only life could be so bold.

Oh, this reality remains stark and cold.

Lindsay Williamson (10)

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Platz “The final frontier,” they called it, a frontier without beginning e m

p

t

or end,

y

a few lonely stars in space.

A Vast Abyss We Scream Our Thoughts Into

e x p l o

r

Black body absorbing

our radiation of old news.

e

velvet skies.

Chaos, randomness, the stars attack.

The planets spin ’round the sun,

Ben Davenport (12) 36

Stirring, Calling us to come, taste.

Searching To love, to live, to embrace life We find our hearts searching Reaching out in the dark Hoping to find what we are looking for But the vast emptiness only Engulfs us in our loneliness and We are left in a void Amidst the depths of our inner souls We grasp the true meaning The purpose of our existence To love, to cry To feel our heart connected to another To experience another’s pain and joy To grieve and lose a part of ourselves in another soul To love, to live, to embrace life Carrie Grossenbach (12)

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Stepping Up to a Challenge Have you ever been torn between two contrary opinions or choices? Such struggles have occurred frequently in my life. For example, at the end of eighth grade year, I was faced with the decision of either registering to attend Fort Atkinson High School or following in my brothers’ footsteps and attending Edgewood. There were both positive and negative aspects of attending either school.

In Fort Atkinson, I wouldn’t have to worry about making new friends, and I could concentrate on athletics without the worry of a challenging academic life. On the other hand, my brothers had a very good experience at Edgewood. I desired a great education and therefore chose Edgewood. In Mark Twain’s book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck Finn was torn between two desires or obligations during his journey, to protect Jim and help him gain freedom or to betray Jim to the authorities as a runaway slave. This conflict is a central theme of the story and helps convey the message that what is easy is not always right.

Huck was devoted to protecting Jim throughout his journey, but there were times when he thought it would be easier to turn in the runaway slave. Huck first showed his desire to end this difficult task when he said, “I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead.” This suggested a feeling of utter hopelessness that Huck experienced because of saving Jim. This feeling showed that Huck was ready to die because of his guilt. In the same way, I agonized over 38

my choice of which school to attend. I can remember staying up long nights pondering the qualities of each school in my head. At one point I really wanted to go to Fort Atkinson, but in an instant I would change my preference to Edgewood; then I would decide within a short time that I wanted to go to Fort again.

At one point, Huck felt so horrible and angry that he yelled at his conscience, “Let up on me—it ain’t too late—I’ll paddle ashore at the first light and tell.” Huck’s conscience had affected him so strongly that he was ready to end his journey and sacrifice Jim’s freedom by turning him in. That would have been the easy way out for Huck. I also could have taken the easy way out. First of all, I could have gone to school five miles away instead of forty-five miles away. In addition, I would have had less strenuous classes if I

“All right, then, I’ll go to had gone to Fort Atkinson High School. I talked to students from Fort who did an hour of homework a week. With that load off my shoulders, I could have concentrated more on sports. Fort is a small town, so I knew almost everyone involved with athletics.

They knew me as well, so I would not have had to worry about being a complete stranger to any of the coaches. Huck thought of writing a letter to Tom Sawyer telling him that Jim was sold back into slavery. Then Huck thought, “It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I’d be ready to get down and lick his

boots for shame.” Huck felt sorry that he had ever helped Jim because his reputation at home would be ruined when people heard about him acting as Jim’s protector. Huck’s anxiety over what the townspeople thought of him parallels the peer pressure that was exerted by my classmates. They were upset and felt betrayed when they heard I might be going to Edgewood. I do not remember a day in my eighth grade year that went by without hearing a plea of why I should stay in Fort. I remember thinking how easy it would have been to stay with these friends for the next four years. There are parallels between Huck’s decision of whether or not to protect Jim and my decision of which school to attend. Huck and I could have taken the easy way out, avoiding pressure from society.

Although Huck was unsure if he should continue aiding Jim at times, he gradually became more devoted to the slave and his freedom. Huck first showed his liking to Jim when he met him on Jackson’s Island.

“I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn’t lonesome now.” Most simply stated, Huck liked Jim and was happy to see him. I also took a liking to Edgewood when I first saw it. I remember a time in seventh grade when I attended an Edgewood basketball game with my family. As we drove into the parking lot, I was amazed at how majestic the front of the school looked. Huck saved Jim by lying to the authorities, saying, “He’s sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.” Huck led the authorities to believe that his family had smallpox to keep the authorities from discovering Jim. 39

This lie proved that Huck would risk his own security and do almost anything to keep Jim as safe as possible. In the same way, I remember the day that my parents explained how much driving I would have to do if I went to Edgewood. I thought about this problem and decided I would make that sacrifice to attend Edgewood. Huck showed his devotion to Jim by saying, “All right, then, I’ll go to hell.” Huck would give more than his friendship, protection, personal security, and life for Jim. He was willing to sacrifice his eternal bliss in heaven for torture in hell just for Jim’s freedom. Now that is devotion! I also gave up much of myself to attend Edgewood. I barely see my friends in Fort anymore, and

What is easy is not always right. when I do, I cannot spend much time with them because I have my homework to complete. I had to sacrifice my friends, athletics, and much of my time to attend this great school. Throughout the book, Huck showed that he was devoted to Jim. He stepped up to the challenge of saving a runaway slave, and I stepped up to the challenge of attending Edgewood.

Huck’s inner conflict over protecting Jim or turning him in to the authorities is a central idea in the novel. Huck’s struggle represented much more than his own feelings about Jim’s freedom. This conflict involved a boy either taking the easy way out or stepping up to a challenge. Huck could have easily ended his 40

journey at any time by turning Jim in, but he did not. Instead, he lied to the authorities, tested his own conscience, and even thought he was defying God when he said he would “go to hell.” I also could have ended my inner conflict instantly by listening to my friends and attending Fort Atkinson High School.

Instead, I chose the long drives and rigorous academic life of Edgewood. Both of these examples prove the difficulty of stepping up to a challenge.

Scott Peterson (11)

Nimbostratus Be warned— The sky is draped in celestial hues, A melange of ferocious color: Crimson, maize, purple, rose.

A maple in autumn would wilt with envy.

The smoke lies beneath the fire.

A monstrous, looming plume Extends the horizon upward.

Only a sliver of skylight defies its Consuming girth.

The mysterious apparition is approaching.

Miles away its innards twist and writhe, Possessed by stratospheric forces.

They gurgle and belch thunderous booms, Disturbing the composure of its cousin Earth.

It traverses lakes, rivers, and rocks, Possessed by indiscretion and lack of direction, A perfection of nature’s manifestation.

The terror it arouses demands veneration.

Indeed its presence impels trees to bowing prostration.

It need not summon its aqueous armies And vaporous forces of waste and devastation.

Its imminent eminence sufficiently serves to Strike the terrestrial soul with apprehension and Reverent contemplation.

Ben Braus (12)

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A Gift A shooting star soars across a bare cerulean sky.

Its color burns white like an egret’s feathers reflecting the sun’s rays.

It dances above me to a glorious symphony.

The celestial heavens are its stage, and nature is its audience.

Stretching its pointed arms across the vast sky, the star paints a resplendent picture.

The sky is the canvas, and the glittering star is the paint.

Blown by an angel’s breath from God’s hand, the star glides slowly,

placidly,

beyond the horizon.

Though the star is gone, the painting it created remains vividly in my mind.

The star is a gift of serenity to the world.

Nature’s gift.

My gift.

Maureen Backman (9)

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Heaven on Ice Sitting atop his perch, a crazed and vigorous man gazes down on the gleaming ice ahead of him. The man’s blue eyes stay focused on his work. His droopy eyelids show the extreme fatigue from working the past two nights. His straight hair is as short as a freshly cut lawn. A faded red baseball cap covers his hair and casts a shadow over a small portion of his forehead.

His face shows some age, as the skin has become weathered, but when he drives out onto the ice and looks into the crowd, his smile gleams like the sun. Seeing all the fans supporting a team and a game he loves brings him back to the arena every night.

This zamboni driver stands as tall as any other man does and possibly even taller. His muscles are built from all the work he has done. He is dressed in some of his warmest clothes for the cold conditions of the ice rink. His worn blue jeans grip his long legs as a soft breeze circulates in the building. The aged man shudders when the breeze blows through the small holes in the knees of his pants. His flannel shirt is red plaid. He leaves it unbuttoned in order to display a gray t-shirt with the team’s logo. The only visible portion of his old dirty shoes is an image of a black Nike logo, which is surrounded by dirt and dust.

With a look of determination, the zamboni driver continues to cruise around the rink. Occasionally glancing at the fans, he cheerfully waves in response to their calls. While he loves to communicate with the fans, he refuses to lose his composure and abandon his current task. He has to finish rejuvenating the ice, and he must accomplish this task quickly.

Although this man may appear to be crazy, he is just like everyone else. He loves each and every one of the people and is a gentle man that would never hurt a soul. He often finds himself signing autographs for the children that think he is a famous personality. In their minds, the zamboni driver is special, and they always thank him for his generosity. He is doing what he loves and accepts little pay to improve the game he enjoys so much.

Once he drives the zamboni off the ice, he becomes just like anyone else, a cheerful man enjoying the game. When not on the ice, the driver becomes a little excited due to the intensity of the game. Cheering his loudest leads to a very hoarse voice. When the day finally ends, the zamboni driver finds himself exhausted, but his satisfaction in making others happy makes every minute worth the toil.

Mark Jones (10) 43

Sail

Inspired by the painting, “Lake Lucerne,” by Albert Bierstadt A small boy settled down Upon the wooden planks of his father’s sailboat.

He looked up to the mountains that towered over their tiny boat.

The mountaintops appeared to have been dipped into pure white snow, And the bases of the mountains were dotted with massive trees.

The little boy looked down as the tiny boat glided through the water.

The translucent green waves rippled away from the edges of the boat As the tiny village from which they started began to fade from sight.

There was a slight outline of the church’s rising spire, Which pierced the sky as it reached high up from the hilltop.

The tiny homes clustered into a little gray mass, Their colors and rough textures blended to one smooth color and form, While the trees beyond the village formed their own deep green blur.

The boy looked toward the mountains again; He was very near to them.

They loomed above him With their rocky cliffsides almost engulfing the tiny vessel.

The bright sun still shone on them As they continued away from the village.

The boy’s father called out from the stern of the vessel, And the small boy obediently began to separate the fishing nets.

They would use the largest net And hope that fish would swim their way.

The large nets were lowered off the tiny boat, While the cool gentle breeze swept through the sails And pushed the boat onward.

Closer and closer it floated toward the growing mountains.

Amy Porter (11)

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Trip for Two “Falling in love.” It sounds more like an embarrassing episode down the stairs than something you would want to experience. It seems more of a bad or painful occurrence than a wonderful and magical one. It’s almost as if you should say, “Oh, tomorrow I have to go get a shot, and then I have to fall in love!” Who would want to do that?

Those were my feelings. I was not about to “fall” into anything that I didn’t want to.

But, as I’ve heard said many times before, thank goodness things don’t always turn out the way you plan!

Sure, he was the “new guy”--just moved here actually. And no one really thought he was anything special or out of the ordinary. Even he didn’t think that he was all that great. But I sure did. So do you want to know what I went and did? I fell. And it wasn’t just a little fall either. I went head over heels. Why? I certainly don’t know.

Maybe it’s the way one of his smiles can light up my day like a Christmas tree. Or maybe it’s the way he looks deep into my eyes when he talks to me, as if he’s reading my thoughts before I can even say them. Or maybe it’s because he still sleeps with a teddy bear and he’s proud of that. Whatever the reason, I do know that he was worth the fall. Because of him, about five-hundred more butterflies exist in this world.

The only drawback to this wonderful trip is that you never know if you’re traveling solo or not.

(I know this because they live in my stomach and wake up whenever I see him walking toward me or when I answer the phone hoping that it’s him.) And because of him I can wake up each morning with a smile on my face and jump out of bed not dreading the day ahead of me. I count the hours, the minutes, and the seconds until I will see him again. Our conversations seem like a dance; we fit together so well, and the words flow gracefully and naturally.

The only drawback to this wonderful trip is that you never know if you’re traveling solo or not. If only I could know if he’s fallen too! What is he thinking and what is he feeling right now? I dread and fear the answer, for it could flip me right back, heels over head, to where I used to be. But I know I cannot endure much longer without knowing how he really feels. After all, love IS a trip for two!

See you next fall!

Jaime Rehmann (12)

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Assignment: Write a Poem How do I begin?

Images pellet cluttered emptiness

of space above my neck,

little soldiers never cease,

but somehow don’t break through.

Metaphors and similies,

the tools with which I,

like a sculptor, chisel a phrase,

are no use to me.

Personification weeps that

she cannot be tried;

none of her nuances persuade,

unable to communicate.

Apostrophe, you devil! Why do you

mock my inability to express

what you are, encapsulate

your effects?

Synecdoche -- an unpronounceable stream

of letters passes through my soul,

having no impact,

withholding its full self.

Hmm...maybe I have already begun.

Ellie Boucher (12)

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Edgewood High School 2219 Monroe Street Madison, WI 53711 (608) 257-1023 http://www.edgewood.k12.wi.us

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