Literati

Literati

Volume 1 2017

Literati, Volume 1

Literati Literary & Art Magazine Volume I 2017 http://gjhsliterati.weebly.com George Jenkins High School 6000 Lakeland Highlands Rd., Lakeland, FL 33813 Phone: (863) 648-3566, Fax: (863) 648-3573

From the Editor Delving into the jarring juxtaposition that galvanizes the reader to recognize the light within the darkness, Literati, Volume 1, examines the existential battle that exists in all of us. Weaving between the pages, prose and poetry, art and photography, collide, giving birth to outpourings of creative thought. Our expressive thinkers have poured their souls onto paper in the form of words and images to be shared with you, the reader.

We implore you to open your mind to the paradoxical world through the lens of art.

Editor in Chief

Back Cover :Duality – Selena Baker (Pencil) Inside Back Cover: Timeless Balance – Maria Checinski (Digital Art) 3

The Literati Literati (noun): well-educated people who are interested in literature or the arts.

A

motley crew of creative minds gather together to write prose, poetry, works of fiction and non-fiction in the classroom known to them as the Inkwell. To others, room 19-212, others still just call it Mrs. Holt’s room, but the ones who have been here since the beginning – back in 2014 – they call it home. The Literati are George Jenkins High School’s literary club. Mrs. Holt, our club sponsor, brought together a group of students who all have a passion for literature, writing and

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art. Last year we published out first Art Literary magazine, Follow the White Rabbit. We took the feedback we were given and are diving in again.

The Literati also hosts Spoken Word Poetry and Poetry Out Loud. We are The Literati.

Scan the QR Code to visit the Literati Website.

Front Row:

Back Row:

Raini Loomis Kaity Childers – Secretary/Networking Tayler Brown – Vice President/Managing Editor Bailey McArdle – President/Editor in Chief Rachel Dunn - Treasurer/Fundraising Mrs. Holt – Club Sponsor

Sarah Sittnick Ollie Veach Madison Mears Jaylend Carlough Juan Serna Matt Johnson Casey Sutton

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Patrons of the Arts Art (noun): The quality, production, expression, or realm, according to asthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.

With the support of sponsors and patrons, we are able to continue to offer some of the top literature

and art produced by the students at George Jenkins High School. Our sincere gratitude and thanks go out to all of our Patrons for making Literati, Volulme I possible.

Gold Sponsor: PUBLIX SUPER MARKET CHARITIES Green Sponsor:

A Glass Pro Safari Wilderness Ranch USA Softball of Florida Sherwood Tennis Court Construction Company Imperial Testing and Engineering DTI Legal Designs Lock Insurance, LLC The Acevedo Family Dietrich Hilliard Orthodontist MGL Engineering Incorporated Grindley & Williams Engineering Foley Immigration Law The Ringer Family Donors:

Red Elephant * Miller’s Ale House BD Mongolian Grill * Il Forno Marco’s Pizza * Tijuana Flats * Kristina Archer

Special Thanks Thanks (noun): An expression of gratitude

We would also like to give special thanks to the teachers and administrators who have helped us grow and connect with our peers across campus, linking literature and art across the curriculum.

Our Administration Team Buddy Thomas - Principal Tom Patton - Assistant Principal Lacy Emmerling - Assistant Principal Kevin Robertson - Assistant Principal Brad Hiers - Assistant Principal Diane Werrick - Dean Daniel Rawson - Dean Erin Crosby - Dean

Our Teachers Mrs. Anderson - Art Mr. Walton - Creative Writing Mrs. Bell - English Mrs. Huey - Accounting/Indesign Mrs. Borque - Youth in Government Mrs. Salas - Yearbook Ltc. Loftin - JROTC Mrs. Snow - Chorus/Theater

Our Friends Dr. Berheim - Florida Southern College Mrs. Joanna Fox - Creative Writing Mrs. Linda Perez - Volunteer

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Table of Contents - Literature Rise.......................................................................................6 Casey Sutton, Poem

The House....................................................................38-39 Tristen Walling, Short Story

Destiny.................................................................................9 Darquae Jenkins, Rap

Youth in Government Bill.................................................41 Tayler Brown, Nonfiction Bill

How the Devil Got His Wings....................................10-12 Shania Davis, Short Story

Martin Luther King Essay...........................................42-43 Jacob Lucas, Nonfiction Essay 2nd Place Winner in Polk County BoCC Essay Contest

Cliché .................................................................................16 Rachel Joiner, Poem The Palms of a Grandmother...........................................19 Camryn Locascio, Poem Closer Than Ever................................................................21 Anthony Maldonado, Poem Interview with a DJ.....................................................22-23 Bailey McArdle, Interview Richard Font: My Instructor.............................................25 Casey Sutton, Hispanic Heratige Essay Demoralization of the Minority .....................................26 Briana Stewart, Poem What Veteran’s Day Means to Me.............................28-29 Abby Fauteux, Nonfiction Essay Burn....................................................................................33 Thomas Townley, Poem The Last Ice Merchant.................................................34-35 Gabriela Cordovez Aldaz, Novella Excerpt Home..................................................................................36 McKenzie Caudill, Poem

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Of Cinders and Abuse ................................................44-45 Amy Richey, Short Story Be Careful What You Wish For..................................48-49 Lilyan Richards, Novella Excerpt Broken Brain......................................................................51 Ashlyn Rooney, Spoken Word Poem Forgotten Flowers ............................................................53 Tayler Brown, Poem Him...............................................................................54-55 Lilyan Richards, Short Story Momma..............................................................................58 Erica Gaffney, Poem The Sighting................................................................60-63 Ashlyn Rooney, Play Soccer Skills.......................................................................65 Elizabeth Adkins, Poem Hope and Happiness is a Sinking Ship.....................66-67 Casey Sutton, Novella Excerpt

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Table of Contents - Art Show Time...........................................................................7 Jade Rivas, Ink

Grandma’s House..............................................................38 Kristina Archer, Digital Photography

Destiny.................................................................................8 Yohanthony Padron, Digital Art

A Blue Lap..........................................................................40 Cierra Orick, Digital Art

Fallen Angel.................................................................10-13 Trinity Scott, Mixed Media

Diversity.............................................................................43 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Cityscape............................................................................14 Alyssa Day, Mixed Media

Sorrow................................................................................44 Mathew Medina, Charcoal

The Lion’s Den...................................................................15 Raymond Silvera, Mixed Media

Skulls 1,2,3...................................................................46-47 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Abandoned Playground...................................................17 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Be Careful What You Wish For........................................48 Lily Richards, Book Cover

Sorrow Rising....................................................................18 Cierra Orick, Digital Art

Broken................................................................................50 Yohanthony Padron, Pencil

I Stand Still.........................................................................20 Nagelys Garcia, Colored Pencil

Remembrance....................................................................52 Matt Johnson, Colored Pencil

Soundboard.......................................................................23 Juan Serna, Digital Photography

Torn....................................................................................55 Jasmine Richardson, Colored Pencil

1st Sergeant Font..............................................................24 Matt Johnson, Digital Photography

Abstract Self Portraits......................................................56 Caitlin Maguire, Mixed Media

Liberty in Tears..................................................................27 Jade Rivas, Watercolor

Abstract Self Portraits................................................56-57 Aneezia Chaisson, Ink

Hanging Liberty................................................................29 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Abstract Self Portraits......................................................57 Alyssa Selbe, Pencil

All that Glitters & All that Glitters 2.........................30-31 Jariana Gutierrez-Moya, Digital Photography

Momma..............................................................................59 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Bonfire..........................................................................32-33 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Clown............................................................................60-63 Lauren Marcewicz, Colored Pencil

The Wastes...................................................................34-35 Kathryn Burns, Chalk

In the Moment...................................................................64 Yearbook Staff, Digital Photography

Country Home...................................................................37 Harli Beerman, Digital Photography

Vengeful.......................................................................66-67 Cristina Lancranjan, Digital Art

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Rise

Casey Sutton Tenebrous and morose were the years before I found my calling; The art of written works and the cry of unspoken stories coming to my fingers and lips as easily as breath to my heaving lungs.

From the passage of time and the accruement of knowledge, I now consider myself an aesthete: Gazing into the inner workings of art, seeing the larger picture proclaimed by strings of music, of brushstrokes on a canvas, and of the staccato of tapping that binds words to paper.

Many of my nights are spent lucubrating, finding often that the brilliance of my works, Figuratively auriferous, Crop up in the less familiar hours to most, the dead of night where the creative mind flourishes.

The callow days of my youth were spent in eloquence, Having collected the words of others to house in my mind and let out in cadences, not too dissimilar to the trilling of the sweet songbirds, Luring others in like a siren and proudly showing my aptitude.

A whilom member of considered-family housed close to my heart set me on this gravelly road that I would find eventually paved with gleaming gold—our days spent with plaintive and anodyne-filled whispers alike carried by the zephyr, Refining and honing our skills, nurturing our growing talents.

Yet stories of youthful rapture seldom stay as such.

The loss of such a stalwart companion set me on a misery laden path, The golden gleaming stones that had met me before dulled at such a plunge into a pensive state of mind.

Little did I know, his existence in my life was simply a prelude to greater things, and in time, the tragic extent of the events that had transpired burned my body so that I could feed off the nutrients left in the ashes, Rising like a phoenix and burning brighter than ever before.

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Show Time – Jade Rivas (Ink) Name 1/Name 2

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Destiny – Yohanthony Padron (Digital Art) 10

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Destiny

Darquae Jenkins Chorus: Dropped on my knees and prayed to god Like tell me what's your plans for me.

He told me I’m gon’ be great So I’m ready for destiny.

I’m doing what I’m doing ‘Cause I know that this was made for me.

Give me the light so I can shine I know that all y’all came for me.

Dropped on my knees and prayed to god Like tell me what's your plans for me.

He told me I’m gon’ be great So I’m ready for destiny.

I’m doing what I’m doing ‘Cause I know that this was made for me.

Give me the light so I can shine I know that all y’all came for me.

Verse: Y’all ain't ready for me, Nah yall ain't ready for me.

I am the chef Wit’ the recipe.

The game is a pie You can't have a piece.

Boy you look tired Need to go to sleep.

I got ‘em scared You can't handle the beef.

I don't be keefing I'm still the chief.

I am the king Got the key to the streets.

Look in my eyes Trying see what I seen.

I seen crack heads And a few dope fiends.

That ain't half of the things On G street.

Half of y’all kids Ain't built like me.

I'm a young smart kid From the 863.

I know I'm the best And I could never be beat.

This my destiny Betta believe I’mma achieve.

Blood sweat tears Betta believe I’mma bleed.

I'm praying to god Tryin’ a get in foreign cars, But y’all want foreign broads I just wanna get large Get my momma dream car For her brand new garage.

Best believe I ain't fake I ain't even gotta flauge, I can't blend in the crowd Like I'm wearing camouflage, Everybody gotta see me So I'm making a collage.

I'll never mess up But you can try to sabotage, And I get the people happy when they see me Yes lawd.

Chorus

Scan the QR Code to watch the ENN production of the music video!

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How The Devil Got His Wings Shania Davis

Have you ever wondered what makes someone

heroic or evil? Or what causes someone to turn good or bad? Am I bad or seriously misunderstood?

I guess that’s for you to decide. By the way my name is Beelzebub, Lucifer Beelzebub.

My father’s name was Kunstler, but, he went by the name Kurt. My mother’s name was Cerrahi.

My father was an artist. He slept all day and in the night he thrived. Searching for inspiration going in and out of an alcohol induced reality. His paintings were beyond comparison; whether he used colors as vibrant as the sun rising early in the morning– or as dark as the black cat roaming in the night, they were always masterpieces.

My mother was a surgeon and a very good one at that. She had performed some of the most intricate surgeries. She had never failed anyone.

At the age of 32, Cerrahi found out that she was pregnant. With me.

When she came home that evening and told Kurt he was ecstatic. His eyes lit up like billions of twinkling stars.

“So honey what are we going to name her?”

Cerrahi inquired.

“Her?” Kurt asked.

“Yes, her.”

“Well how do you know is going to be a girl?”

Kurt said questioning her.

“I’m not sure I can just feel it.”

“Well...” Kurt began shyly.

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“What?” Cerrahi asked with excitement in her voice.

“Well I’ve always liked the name Lucy,” Kurt answered, “But we don’t have to...I mean if you don’t like it… it’s really n-” Cerrahi cut him off, “I love it...Lucy,” She said sounding it out like she was trying it on. “Yeah, Lucy, that’s it. That’s the one.”

A huge grin came over his face. He grabbed Cerrahi an pulled her in quite roughly. He kissed her, a long, deep, passionate kiss. He leaned down an whispered in her ear, “Cerrahi we’re having a baby.”

A few months later, my mom found out that she was having a boy. Her disappointment wasn’t in the gender of the child, but in the name. She and Kurt wanted the name Lucy so badly. So she changed it to Lucifer. “Close enough,” She had thought to herself. Another few months passed and my mother had me.

My parents had always called me their little angel, but, I think they were disappointed that I wasn’t actually so. One night they began a deep conversation.

“Honey, you’re a surgeon right?”

“Kurt, you’ve been married to me for eight years.”

“I know, I know, I just mean... You know how we call Lucifer our little angel?”

“Yeah, why?” Cerrahi replied with caution as if waiting for a big “blow.”

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“Well...,” He drew out the word, “What if we make him an actual angel?”

“You can’t be serious, Kurt,” she deadpanned.

“But I am! Just imagine it, Cerrahi.”

The longer she pondered the idea, the more she agreed with her spouse.

For the rest of the night, Kurt and Cerrahi devised a procedure to transform their child into an angel. In the morning their boy would be one step closer to becoming a celestial being.

At the age of three, I was not able to understand what exactly was happening. I wasn’t able to grasp the fact that my parents were completely insane.

That morning, my mom picked me up and carried me on her hip. She took me into a room I had never been in before. My father was in there waiting for us. The room was cold, made of steel, and lit by bright hanging lights.

My mother laid me down on my stomach atop the cold steel table in the center of the room. I heard the snapping of her gloves as she put them on. My mother then began to make excruciatingly painful incisions, carving into the flesh of my back. Even with the screams bellowing out in pure agony from my mouth and tears pouring out of my eyes; she did not stop. As she continued, the pain got worse. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four slashed into my skin. “Mommy, Mommy stop!

Stop Mommy!” I pleaded with her. She retraced the bloodied wounds she had made with the tip of her knife; she showed no signs of stopping. As the blade dug deeper and deeper my incisions were crying the tears I could no longer conjure.

I could feel warm streams of liquid running down my sides, only to realize that it was the blood drenching my back. She then began opening the incisions she had made on me, causing them to become wider and wider. She started adding what felt like pipes into the openings of my skin, attaching to my muscles. Then, my mother put a

mask over my mouth and I drifted off into a state between the conscious and unconscious.

When I awoke my back was sore, really sore. I moved my arms and felt light, wispy, fabric pieces brushing the back of my arm. I noticed that I was not in the same room I had started in. I was on my mother’s and father’s bed. I heard a door click open and footsteps approaching me. It was my parents. My mom picked me up and put me in front of a mirror saying, “Look at you, my little angel.”

When I looked in the mirror I was confused. I was in my body... but I had wings. I turned my head to the back and realized these wispy additions were attached to my back, right between my shoulder blades. Instantly fear consumed my entire being. I didn’t know what I was anymore; And the thought of that terrified me.

As I got older I began to ask questions; “Can I go out and play? Can I get the mail? Can I play with the boy down the street?” But their answer was always no. When I asked why not their response was always, “Lucifer you’re special, and sometimes special things have to be hidden from the world.” And that was the end of that; no room for discussion.

When I was of the age to go to school, my mother kept me home instead. She taught me everything.

Homeschooling wasn’t easy considering I’d never been outside before to experience the world around me. As I continued to get older and my time in the house grew longer, my curiosity for the outside world grew stronger.

When I was eight years old, there was one afternoon when my parents weren’t home. I heard a knock on our front door. I opened the door ever so slightly and popped my head out just to see who it was. What was there shocked me. It was another little boy. He looked to be about my age.

My excitement came over me and I forgot to hang onto the door. By the time I had realized what I had done, it was too late. There I was standing with the door wide open, shirtless, staring into the petrified eyes of the boy across from me. The 13

boy looked me up and down several times with a horrified look before yelling, “Freak!” and running away. I stood there with tears in my eyes and a shattered heart.

After that incident, I never went outside again. I never spoke to my parents about what had happened with the boy, and I never again questioned what I was, because I knew. No, I was not special. No, I was a monster.

During my early teen years my body began to reject whatever my parents had used to implant my wings. Slowly, but not noticeably, my feathers began to fall off. When my parents began to ask me why, I could not give them a reasonable explanation. They exchanged worrisome looks and took me by the hands. Dragging me, I was forced to re-enter the room where nightmares were made filled with agonizing pain from nine years ago. A room that had maimed my memories forever. I was on the cold, sterile floor. Instead of lying me down on the center table, they put me in a glass box. They attached tubes and wires to different extremities and started running a variety of tests.

I could tell by their expressions they were not happy with the results. When they finally released me, not a word was uttered even when I pleaded with them, I still got nothing. It was like I was invisible. Like I was nonexistent.

One morning I woke up and looked in my bedroom mirror to find all my feathers were gone.

What was left was what looked like a montage of skin colored pipes protruding from my back; jagged and deformed. They looked like broken sticks that had been bound together to form one horrific masterpiece. I was petrified as to what my image had transformed into. I slowly backed away from the mirror. Horror quickly turned to anger as I slowly began walking to the kitchen, where I knew I would find my parents.

“What did you do to me?” I asked them quietly.

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“What son? You’re gonna have to speak up,” Kurt replied.

“What did you do to me?!” I screamed “Look at me! I’m a monster!” I continued, “You made me an object to be feared!” I quieted to a barely audible whisper, “...You made me different.”

“Hone-,” My mother started and instantly my anger reignited.

“No! No, you don’t get to talk! I’ve lived my whole life with you crazy people, cutting into me, transforming me into a monster! But now... I’m

“But now...

I’m going to be free.” going to be free.”

I grabbed lighter fluid and matches spraying the lighter fluid all over the kitchen. I lit a match and dropped the match into the fluid pooling on the floor. The flames caught quickly. I looked into my parents’ terrified eyes; all I could do was laugh. As the flames slowly came over them I realized that I too, was being engulfed in the raging flames. The pain I expected to arise never reached my nerves; the darkness engulfed me. When I awoke, I was on a throne made of crimson thorns and bleached bones... My parents’ scorched bodies lay at my feet.

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Fallen Angel – Trinity Scott (Mixed Media) 15

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Cityscape – Alyssa Day (Mixed Media)

The Lion’s Den – Raymond Silvera (Mixed Media)

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Cliché

Rachel Joiner It is true, what they say.

Your youth flies by in an instant, your hair soon sparse and gray.

Before you know it, you’re off to college. Out the door.

Moving three bins of sheets and clothes up to your new home on the thirteenth floor.

Scrambling to finish finals, get that degree.

Can’t believe that for a time you were wild and carefree.

School is now just a distant past.

Out in the world, everything is moving so rapidly, so fast.

You meet the love of your life, the other half to make you whole.

Marriage, baby, playful threats to fill a stocking with coal.

Don’t blink the time just goes by too fast.

You have to make memories, make each and every moment last.

Friday Nights Lights are back again.

It’s senior night. Your baby is starting, defensive end.

You gleam with pride, completely smitten with your creation.

You pack him up, send him off to college, your heart filled with adoration.

You know the cycle is just beginning, The world as we know it, just keeps on spinning.

It is true, what they say.

My youth flew by in an instant, my hair soon sparse and gray.

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Abandoned Playground – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography)

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Sorrow Rising – Cierra Orick (Digital Art) 20

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The Palms of a Grandmother Camryn Locascio Her hands; Fragile as a feather, yet as rugged as a tree.

Each wrinkle represents a new story, A crazy life.

Those hands worked hard every single day for our family; They tried so hard to satisfy our wants and needs.

Those hands could barely make ends meet; They couldn’t provide for six young children.

But somehow--those wilted palms managed to do the impossible.

And in a few short days they will be gone.

It’s a sad moment for the rest of us, but I know those hands are happy to finally be free.

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I Stand Still – Nagelys Garcia (Colored Pencil)

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Closer Than Ever Anthony Maldonado

Where is he?

Out alone in a cryptic world, Where one shall be secure from dangerous encounters?

It's been 20 years and still no sign; Patience isn't on my agenda anymore, Only the stars‌ The only beautiful element that keeps us closer than ever Where I don't think of anything except him.

My body is paralyzed, but my mind still functions.

All I know is while I look at the stars, he is doing the same.

Desire wants to see him, but faith has started to fade.

Give it more time and I might as well go mad.

As long as the exquisite night and glimmering stars are present, My faith has not left.

With many more obstacles to face, and An arrival to be anticipated, I'm still fighting forward.

I miss you brother.

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Interview With A DJ Bailey McArdle

George

Jenkins is overflowing with musical talent. Between band, orchestra, chorus, and musical theater, just to name a few, music is around every corner. But what about the kids who don’t fit the classic musical mold? Juan Serna is an up and coming DJ who transferred to Jenkins from Kathleen, with a love of mixing music.

Q: When did you start mixing music?

A: I started mixing music around a year ago. I started with a program called Virtual DJ, and what it does is it takes and analyzes the tracks from your computer and it uploads them to the program and from there you can actually mix and match and time lapse real tracks. I started out with pop music, then a little bit of rock, and then I got introduced to EDM music and from there it really took off.

Q: What setup do you use?

A: My current setup is two controllers; my main one is a DDJ-RX, which is a four channel controller with two cog wheels and can handle up to four tracks at a time, and I have a mobile controller, which is for if I have to play a set really quickly or if I'm doing a personal party I'll use that one, it’s a DDJ-RB and can only handle two tracks at a time.

Q: What is EDM? A: It's an acronym for a genre of music and in turn stands for Electronic Dance Music. It started ot as a broad genre of rock but has since stepped out and become its own little niche. EDM is usually played in nightclubs or festivals. It’s a very high 24

energy genre that makes you want to dance.

Q: What musical genres inspire you the most?

A: Personally, even though I didn’t start out with EDM it's what I mainly do now. But what inspired me first, and what I started with, was techno and electronic which are more of an ambient style, they're more free flowing and less with a pattern, more about layering different instruments and tracks together.

Q: What is the most challenging thing when getting a gig?

A: The hardest part about getting a gig is really when it comes down to skill versus experience. In the DJ world, to get a gig its generally very easy if they're personal parties or if they are small time venues like bars, but for larger venues like clubs or festivals it comes down to how long you've been doing it and how many gigs you have played.

Which ends up being a battle in its own because you need gigs to get gigs but if you don't have any gigs under your belt, you're not really going to get hired. But the best way to do it is just to play whatever you can even if you start out playing for free and work your way up.

Q: What is your overall inspiration to make music?

A: It’s actually a really interesting story; back when I moved here from Colombia, I wasn't a citizen or anything I was only six years old; I came with my older brother. He was the one who introduced me to techno and electronic because he was a DJ. He got his own controller, which its kind of

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funny, back then controllers were huge because the tracks weren't electronic, they were record. He had his controllers, his collection of record labels, and he would physically scratch and mix tracks.

I would sit at the table when he would practice, and he would pull out his speakers and just start scratching, and mixing, and I would just sit at the table and listen. I thought it was so cool and I enjoyed the music; I could feel the music; it was great. So I realized that this is what I wanted to do. So I asked him about it. The first thing he told me wasn’t, "Okay, we need to get you to start mixing." He told me, "Juan, I want you to go learn how to play the piano, how to play the guitar. I want you to learn what music is." So I went, and I learned how music worked and how to play the piano, and the guitar. After I had done that, he introduced me to Virtual DJ and he told me that he wanted me to start practicing. So I did that for a year until I finally got my controller. Really the most inspiring part was not the journey I made, but rather seeing my brother so proud of me. It

was something I tried so hard to achieve because he's a successful DJ and plays all kinds of festivals and big venues. He is what really inspires me.

Q: What are your aspirations for DJ-ing?

A: All in all, I really want to keep it as a hobby because what I ultimately want is to work in a studio and mix other artists’ music. But it is something I love doing and something I want to keep doing.

Scan the QR Code to visit the Juan’s SoundCloud and hire him for your next event.

Soundboard – Juan Serna (Digital Photography)

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1st Sergeant Font – Matt Johnson(Digital Photography)

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Richard Font: My Instructor Hispanic Heritage Essay Casey Sutton

Growing up in the United States, every

man, woman, and child hears about our armed forces, and we are raised to respect our armed forces; after all, they are the ones protecting us and allowing us to keep living with the same freedoms our nation was founded on.

The United States Army was established on June 14th, 1775 by the Continental Congress who fought to gain independence from Great Britain with George Washington appointed as the Commander. Ever since this act of defiance in the name of liberty, the United States Army has stood for, as stated in Section 3062 of Title 10 US Code: preserving the peace, and security, and providing for the defense of the United States and any areas occupied, supporting national policies, implanting national objectives, and overcoming any nations responsible for aggressive acts that threaten the peace and security of the United States and its citizens.

Many people grow up hearing stories of war, whether it is from the mouth of a survivor, or from the ink printed on textbooks. Conflict is a familiar thing, and we garner the same sort of respect and sense of duty from our family, mostly when they themselves have been in the military.

Most people do not set out with the intent to go straight into the military—but this is certainly not the case for Richard Font.

Before retiring as a First Sergeant, Richard Font served as infantry for the Army, the men on the front lines, and the backbone of the US Army, serving to repel any threats towards our country.

He also served as a sniper as well as a United States Army Ranger, an elite military formation of the United Sates Army.

When asked about his time served, the thing he remembers most about all of this is Ranger school. They pushed all of their cadets as hard as they could, more often than not having little to no sleep as they tried to see just how far they could go until they broke. It is a 61-day trial that has been called, “the most physically and mentally demanding leadership school the army has to offer.” They push the cadets as hard as they do to make them learn how to be a combat leader while, “enduring the great mental and psychological stresses and physical fatigue of combat.” First Sergeant Font spoke of how, on average, they usually ate two or fewer meals a day.

His time after the military has been spent teaching kids, like myself, how to better themselves and become successful. As a JROTC instructor, he cares deeply about us all, and he has made every cadet’s experience in JROTC more enriched with his mocking threats of push-ups, his yelling in Spanish, and his concern and care for everyone under his command… No matter how much he may deny it.

Citations: “10 U.S. Code § 3062 - Policy; Composition; Organized Peace Establishment.” LII / Legal Information Institute. N.p., n.d. Web. 08 Sept. 2016.

Hogan, Jr. By David W. “June 14th: The Birthday of the U.S. Army - U.S. Army Center of Military History -.” June 14th: The Birthday of the U.S. Army - U.S. Army Center of Military History -. N.p., n.d. Web. 08 Sept. 2016.

Ranger School Web11. N.p.: U.S. Army Ranger School, n.d.

PDF. “75th Ranger Regiment.” Goarmy.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 8 Sept. 2016.

“Ranger Hall of Fame”. U.S. Army Ranger Association. 2010.

Retrieved 6 July 2010.

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Demoralization of the Minority Briana Stewart

Patriarchy equals power Separation solidified by cement.

Mal de ojo focuses its gaze on the United States.

My doors welcome the “criminals” I am related to.

Let’s make America inclusive again.

The hope that sailed my family here, Is stronger than the racism Trying to sail me away.

You seem to forget that your ancestors wore the label “foreigner” long before mine.

Do not threaten me with deportation in my own nation.

I am a person, Not an anchor baby.

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Liberty in Tears – Jade Rivas (Watercolor) 29

What Veteran’s Day Means to Me Abby Fauteux

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henever Veteran’s Day comes around, there is always a mix of emotions; within my community, within my family, and, most importantly, within myself. Sadness, anger, and pride all swell inside of me as I send remembrance to the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. On this day, many Americans may have trouble knowing exactly how to celebrate. What started as a day of remembrance for those who gave everything in World War I has grown to be the day to honor all 25 million service men and women who have given their all or who are still giving their all to our great country.

When contemplating the sadness of this day, I can’t help but to reflect on the horrific tragedy that happened but 15 years ago. Almost 3000 lives were lost that day, yet that is not the part of the tragedy that comes to mind. What comes to mind is the people of our military. People that did not run from danger but, rather, ran straight towards it. Those who never stopped to wonder why they risked everything for people they would never even know. The men and women that picked up their weapons to defend their country in its time of need; to help their brothers and sisters overseas.

On this day, I also look beside me. To the empty couch where my brother used to lay, or down the hall to where I used to see a light streaming from under his door. I used to come home and start talking to him about my day.

But he is not there anymore. He has not been because he is one of the very few in this world who decided that their country is more important than themselves. He now risks his life to protect the 99 percent of Americans whose response to a terrorist attack was no more than a small flag in a window. He bares arms for those who cannot, for those who refuse to do so themselves, and also 30

for those who are set on destroying him.

Their struggle is our struggle. Their struggle is my struggle. And that is where the anger starts. Anger that so many people deny these saviors benefits when they themselves would not take the place of the fallen. Anger that so many American citizens dismiss the military as, “war-crazy”, “unintelligent”, “attention-seekers”, or “self-centered”. How can our country’s peace seekers be war crazy?

“Their struggle is our struggle.

Their struggle is my struggle.”

Is it unintelligent to know how to use high tech equipment or earn a college degree while fighting overseas? When our military is given the bare minimum and still perform their duties without complaint, how then, are they attention seekers? Also, it is rather impossible to put your life on the line, especially for strangers, when you are “self-centered”. If these ordinary people have the courage to pick up a weapon to defend the freedom of an entire country, then that country should at least have the courage to support those who fought tirelessly. But we do not. We sit on our couches while they sit on street corners, we stuff ourselves and they starve, we complain about every small aspect of our lives while they fight, and sometimes lose, silent battles within themselves. Yet Americans remain motivated to do nothing.

Just yesterday, too many were lost and a knock on the door late last night brought their families to their knees in a grief that will never, ever go away. Thousands more have suffered wounds since it all started, but like anyone who loses

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Hanging Liberty – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography) life or limb while serving others—including our firefighters and law enforcement personnel who on 9/11 were the first casualties of this war—they are not victims, as they knew exactly what they were doing- that they were sacrificing themselvesand were doing what they wanted to do. Those with less of a sense of service to the nation never understand it when men and women of character step forward to look danger and adversity straight in the eye, refusing to blink, or give ground, even to their own deaths. The protected can’t begin to understand the price paid so they and their families can sleep safe and free at night. No, they are not victims, but are warriors, your warriors, and warriors are never victims, regardless of how and where they fall. Death, or fear of death, has no power over them. Their paths are paved by sacrifice; sacrifices they gladly make—for you.

Despite the anger and sadness, I still feel pride on this day. As president Woodrow Wilson put it in 1919, “To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s

service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations…” Therefore, I have pride for my nation, for my brother and the others that serve alongside him, for those that gave their lives before the present and for those who will take on this prestigious role in years to come. It takes more than courage to stand your ground on foreign land. It takes honor, commitment, and a sense of duty. For that, I thank the armed forces.

Today, Veteran’s Day honors the duty, sacrifice, and service of America’s nearly 25 million veterans of all wars. We should remember and celebrate those men and women. But lost in that worthy goal is the forgotten meaning of this day in history — the meaning which Congress gave to Armistice Day in 1926: “to perpetuate peace through good will and mutual understanding between nations ... inviting the people of the United States to observe the day ... with appropriate ceremonies of friendly relations with all other peoples.”

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All that Glitters - Jariana Gutierrez-Moya (Digital Photography)

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All that Glitters 2 - Jariana Gutierrez-Moya (Digital Photography)

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Burn

Thomas Townley The fires of the underworld rage with fury unseen before.

Capsules of knowledge caught in the flames are countless.

Pages upon pages screaming in the fires are impossible to ignore.

The wrath of war-like behavior continues until no city is soundless.

The leather has been set ablaze without hesitation.

Red blood is the ink for history’s next chapter, A chapter to be read by more than one nation.

Corruption coupled with chaos is a sign of prewar.

Ares hot breath is expelled over Europe; already in distress, The swastika creeps over national borders, causing uproar Gunshots and nefarious warfare is to halt progress

The leather has been set ablaze without hesitation.

Red blood is the ink for history’s next chapter, A chapter to be read by more than one nation.

Bonfire – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography) 35

The Last Ice Merchant A Novella Excerpt Gabriela Cordovez Aldaz

T

he pastures lay still as the morning creeps around the Andean mountain range.

VicuĂąas begin to wake with their long woolly coats, damp from the cold night. The fresh cold breeze runs smoothly across the land, announcing the morning that is to come. The condor rests in its home inside a cave on the mountain Chimborazo, a strip of sunlight crawls onto the birds giant wing and dances its way up to awaken him; its neck unwraps from the comfortable contortion, and he lowers his beak to look for the vulnerable white eggs that lay inside a deep nest. The swoop of his wings shake the branches surrounding his beloved young and he seeks for any imperfections on them. Emerging out of the cave, and gliding down the mountain side, his colossal wings expand wide, casting a shadow onto the rest of the Chimborazo children. The vicuĂąas stand and eat the thin dry grass, with the aspect of it almost being dead; along the small rocks peeking from the ground, the lizards creep onto them in search of sunlight for warmth, and further down the plains the shadow passes over a mother fox

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walking onto the rocks with her pup chasing the small reptiles behind them. She looks up into the sky to see the mighty bird waving away, he tilts his head downward and sees the children beginning to wake.

Heading back over onto the mountain, a putrid smell of a decaying buck lures him down to search for it. A carcass lies in the cracks of the mountain, its neck torn from side to side reveals the artwork of the Chucuri. Long before the humans roamed the lands, the small evil creature battled the condor. The giant bird looks at the buck and lets out a shrill cry warning the rest of the Chimborazo children of the death of their brother.

He picks up the body with its beak and returns home, where it digs its talons into the carcass and strips off the meat from the bones.

On the outside plains lies the small village of Guaranda where the Quechuas people live, all boys who grow into men inside the village, eventually learn the ice picking techniques, and the women grow up to learn how to weave the

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vicuĂąa wool into blankets and sweaters. All the ice and merchandise collected in the village are later transported by mule into the nearest town, Riobamba, which is 40 km away. The Quechuas lived enjoying the simplicities of nature; their clothes were hand woven by the women in the village, and their methods of work were somewhat outdated to those in the town. In 1913 the RiobambeĂąos seeked help from the Quechuas only for their weaving and ice picking skills, the snow growing on the Chimborazo was plentiful, and the people needed the Indians to bring that ice into town.

The Ushca family was widely known in the village and town, they were the ones who began the ice picking decades before and because of them the Indians in the village were allowed to go through the Condors Pass and reach the ice.

Eugenio was the eldest Ushca man alive, after him came his son Rodrigo, and finally his grandson Oswaldo. The Ushca men were extremely skilled, and although all families had the same opportunities on the mountain, this family always had the most ice to sell.

Their long lineage in the town, and successful work gained them respect from the people, but what was most important to them was the continuous harmony between the land and the people.

Long before the Indians began to pick ice, the condors relentlessly attempted to scare off the Indians from the land. The Condors Pass was an extremely dangerous trench which led the main path into ice layered caves, this would soon become the main areas of picking. The Indians never dared to hike any higher than the river on the mountain, for the condors did not allow it, until Derbez Ushca climbed into the cave.

No man with a reason to live would be dumb enough to climb past the river, but Derbez had a great reason. He learned from his grandfather about the magic between the mountain where the ice laid, the condors who protected the land,

and the people, whose purpose was to maintain and care for the nature around them.

While walking through the pastures, Derbez found two giant eggs hidden under a small straw patch, he inspected them closely and imagined that something of that size could only belong to one animal... The Condor.

He gently picked up the giant eggs and wrapped them in his chal, looking around to make sure that no one -especially the person who took them- would see him taking the hidden treasure.

Once he was back in the village, he realized that the eggs must not be seen by anyone, so instead of heading home, he went out onto the mountain. Hiking the treacherous path, he closely and carefully crawled up the side, attempting not to hurt the eggs; once he reached the Pass, Derbez heard the screech of a condor from above the cave. He looked over on the arched rock and found himself surrounded by three of the giants, each one screeching louder than the other, he slowly reach around his back and with much ease he brought out his chal. The condors jerked their heads back and aggressively flapped their wings, Derbez lifted one hand in a hold-on motion, and unveiled the eggs. The biggest one of the three launched down onto the ground in front of Derbez, and picked up the eggs one by one in its thick beak. The two remaining condors dived down to level with him, and bowed their heads in a calming way, in a state of shock and confusion he could only bow back and as he looked up, the condors flew away.

The Wastes – Kathryn Burns (Chalk) 37

Home

McKenzie Caudillo Faint smell of spiced pumpkin tickles your nose, The gliding of toy wheels rattle the floor, Followed by the stomping of his tiny toes.

The moon finds itself nestled in the sky, so cozy, As the flickering reflection of T.V. illuminates the room.

The roaring microwave echoes throughout with a rhythmic popping, Endless bickering and taunting of who gets what.

We lay comfortably across the couchSide-ways, Up-right, Criss-cross, Whichever suits us at the moment.

Taking short breaks to check on who’s still standing, So dreary eyed, she lay Elevated by the pillow as her wispy bun floats in the brisk air.

A timeline of love and laughter snapped, printed, and framed, As we bundle up and the night hits dusk, T.V. blaring, Eyes slowly falling, Saturday night, 10 p.m.

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Country Home – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography)

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The House Tristen Walling

Grandma’s House – Kristina Archer (Digital Photography)

O

“ ne, two Freddy’s coming for you.

Three, four better lock your door. Five, six grab your…” The radio began to fade into the distance as I hear my parents arguing about how long I could stay out tonight. I quickly began to pack up my costume and my candy bag and snuck out the back window to cross the woods behind my house.

Before I took off towards the wood I cracked my window with a rock that was on the ground so I could sneak back in later. I ran to the edge of the woods and stopped. It was like something was holding me back.

“Come on, its just the woods you big baby!

Jackie’s house is just on the other side!” Said the voice in my head, trying to convince myself to go into the woods.

I turned around one last time before setting off into the woods. As I began walking through 40 40

the pines, everything was normal; then, the wind started picking up and blowing my hair in every which direction, so I stopped and waited for it to die down. As I sat in their waiting, trying to keep my mind off of the woods, the song on the radio played in my head.

“I’ve got to get out of here. This place is getting to me.”

I put my hair up and took off as fast as I could. Before I knew it I was standing in Jackie’s backyard. I started for the back door where Jackie walked out to meet me. We went inside of her welcoming home and headed down the hallway to her hot pink room. I began to unpack my costume; we were dressing up like Thing One and Thing Two from Dr. Seuss.

“Jackie, dinner is ready!” Jackie’s mom yelled from the kitchen.

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“Okay mom. Be there in a second.” We headed out to the kitchen. Her mom cooked our favorite meal: mac-n-cheese and hotdogs. We started to scarf down our food as the big clock in Jackie’s living room began to chime seven times, 7:00 pm. Scraping our plates into the trash, her mother began to tell us the rules for trick or treating: don’t talk to strangers, don’t go places alone, and don’t go places you don’t know. Jackie and I grabbed our candy bars and left on our mission to collect as much candy as we could in one night.

went to. She heard the chainsaws and screaming coming from the woods but she knew that it was Halloween and began going down the driveway of the house I went to. She reached the door with no trouble.

It was starting to get dark - the further the sun went down, the cooler the air got. People were starting to die off around 9:00 but Jackie and I decided to keep going to houses to collect our candy. At 9:45pm we reached the houses at the end of the Sycamore Street, Jackie and I split up and went to one of the two houses; I grabbed the short straw and had to go to the house with the long driveway with woods on both sides. Walking down the scary driveway, I was starting to get this weird feeling that someone was watching me. I kept walking faster and faster the more I thought about it. Within 100 feet of the house, a man in a clown mask jumps out.

“Excuse me, but I can’t find my friend Ashley”

“Haha, thought you could scare me?” trying to sound more confident than I felt.

“I-I-I don’t think my friend is here. I-I’m gonna go home.”

I kept walking towards the beaten up wooden house that had a shattered front window.

I reached the steps to get to the doorbell which felt like a lifetime away.

“Oh no darling. Have a seat, I’ll give you a caramel apple. She should be here soon.”

Ding, dong.

“Trick or ...”

The door began to open slowly… in came two clowns with a bloody girl dragging behind them.

The door started to open, standing in the doorway of the house was another clown with a chainsaw who then began to chase me down the driveway until the clown from before had started coming towards me, closing me in. I took off into the woods that sat parallel to the driveway. Jackie had finished getting candy from the house she

Ding, dong.

“Trick or treat!”

A creepy old lady with wiry gray hair with a twitchy eye opened the door.

The shaky voice answered “Yes, she came for candy. She is in the back yard. Come in my dear.”

“Okay…” she said, not knowing what to expect.

The house covered in red with white furniture. The smell of rotting flesh began coming to Jackie after the old lady slammed and locked the door behind her.

“Th-Thank you.”

The shaky voice yells from the kitchen “She’s next!”

The clown walks towards me. The one with the chainsaw grabs me and covers my mouth with a cloth and everything went black as night.

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A Blue Lap – Cierra Orick (Digital Art) 42

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Martin Luther King Essay Jacob Lucas

It is one of Man’s greatest follies, some might

say, that we should let ourselves constantly fall prey to our own most base beliefs. Generalization, a wonderfully constructed word that illustrates my point well, consistently plagues the human consciousness at every moment. A man once spoke of a dream; a dream of a beautiful time, where we came together based on the who, and not the what. His words still ring in the ears of millions, billions, of people. Yet here we stand, with our tainted minds at the ready, primed to besmirch this man’s work. If he could view the turmoil upon his nation now? It is simply impossible to imagine that he would do anything but weep. Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King fought and died for his dream; a noble cause with near-utopian ideals.

Believe now, America, that it is time we picked up where he left off.

The best thing we can possibly do is amongst the hardest to propagate. We must, as a collective, remove the idea of associating colors with people.

As it stands, the word “Black”, already has negative connotations. It reminds us of darkness, our primeval fear. Meanwhile, the word white already has the meaning of “pure” and “sanctified”. By associating these words with people, it not only cements old ideals, it insinuates a form of bias.

“Why should one be called pure, and the other evil?” You see, to separate humans in such a way is illogical. There is no reason for this pseudosegregation besides our own twisted views, and skewed perceptions. This is a beautiful goal, yet virtually unobtainable on a personal level.

“However, that doesn’t mean we stop fighting.”

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In reality, racism is impossible to squash completely. However, that doesn’t mean we stop fighting. Campaigning and protesting are still wholly viable. Even talking to someone stuck in their old views can be a small help. The point of the matter is, your help in small doses can help in massive proportions. Say you convince someone of your side, then that person would attempt to convince others. It is in our human nature to argue and gossip, so many will spread said ideals as a plague. A plague of positivity. As more and more attempt to make others believe these ideals, so will the thoughts spread.

Perhaps one of the few others ways that racism could be fought is through the ideal of kindness ad infinitum. A stereotype is formed from ignorance; “Well, that one person did something. I have not met any of them that do not do that, so they all probably do, right?” The only way to cause these generalizations to crumble is to show others that not all people are the same. Show them that their bubble of ignorance is not true! However, this is a dangerous game to play. Considering our modern society, attempting to pop most bubbles could lead to violence, or at the least, arguments.

Even with all of these hitherto mentioned ideas, racism is a heavily established institution with deeply ingrained roots. Rome was not built in a day, yet contrary to what some may think, it didn’t fall in one either. A slow decline over the course of centuries is the most hopeful we can be. In all likelihood, the animosity will never truly die. We can beat it down and batter it until it is crippled, but it will get back up. You see, racism is almost as determined to survive as misogyny is.

Whether someone is a different color from you, or a different gender, even a different age; it does not matter. To advance culturally, we must let go

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of our differences. If we truly wish for happiness and equality? Then we cannot discriminate against anyone, color or otherwise.

So today, we hope to overcome our differences.

To achieve this lofty, impossible goal. He had a dream America, and he martyred himself for it.

Now shall we let him die for it, or with it? The choice lies with you. There are hundreds of ways that you can help subtly, and each and every one works similar to a ripple, helping in tremendous ways later on. So in confidence, we must not let

this dream die. This dream of a utopian future, a grand society. Humans need something to work for, and this is an amazing goal. We once thought we would be unable to reach the stars, then the moon, and now Mars. Why not aim for another thing we deem impossible? Something a little closer to home this time? Let’s end this vicious cycle of belittling and anger. We may yet be the generation that ends this, millennials. So in a last hurrah, let us rejoice, at least, in how far we have come; and a toast, let us hope, for a future without hatred.

Diversity – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography) 45

Of Cinders and Abuse Amy Richey

A

bout a year ago, there lived a girl named Ella who, at the time, was 16 years old.

She had bright, blonde hair and azure eyes to match. Although, her clothes didn't express her beauty due to her being like that of a slave to her stepsisters and her stepmother. Her real mother passed away when she was young and not too long after her father remarried, he too joined her mother. Now here she is with her rich and “beautiful” stepsisters. Every day she worked on her hands and knees, scrubbing until no speck remained, with no reward. Some days, she would even be beaten if a task wasn't done perfectly to their standards. They felt no remorse, no pity, no...

They wouldn't even care if she were dead. Ella did contemplate suicide, but felt that there had to be a way to escape this madness, this hell. She does attend high school, but her stepsisters bully her every day and humiliate her constantly in front of all their peers.

It was barely dawn, and Ella awoke by four as she did every morning because she needed to do her chores and make her lunch. She quietly made her way down the stairs of their mansion and grabbed the Swiffer Duster to shine the marble-tiled floors. It doesn't take her long, she's been doing it for so many years. Ella makes her way to the kitchen and prepares a nice lunch for herself since her stepmother won't give her money for food at school. She drops her spoon when she hears screaming and rushes to where her stepsisters' room is.

She slams the door open asking, ”Are you alright?” Her stepsisters are huddled in a corner and on the opposite side is a tiny spider.

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“Why are you just standing there? Go kill that monster!” One of the stepsisters screamed.

Ella sighed and walked over to the small spider and

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lightly squished it. She looked to the stepsisters for approval. Luckily, they frantically nodded their heads and shooed her away.

School wasn't as easy as she hoped. Ella had already gotten milk poured on her, taunted every class period, and had to hear people tell her to go die. Part of her was used to this by now, but part of her wants it to stop. She sat in her final period of the day and waited for the teacher to announce their assignment for the day.

“Alright class, for the next week we will be doing a project and I am assigning the partners.

There will be no changes so don't ask.” As he went down the list of teammates, Ella heard her name called and her head sprung up.

“Ella, you will be partnered with Collin.”

Collin? Why would the teacher pair a low life like her with a rich, handsome boy like Collin? She couldn't wrap her head around it. The teacher then said for everyone to get with the person they're working with and to begin planning. He is walking up to Ella and she is expecting a torrent of brutal comments to come her way, instead, silence.

“What do you want the project to be about?” Ella looks at him shocked, but she gets the courage to respond.

“Um… I don't know really. How come you didn't make fun of me or demand to work alone?”

He laughed and said, ”I don't really care about all that stuff. Why bother going out of your way to make someone else's life miserable?” he asked. She nods her head and they begin to work.

Well, they may have slacked off a bit and began to talk about other things.

He laughs and says, ”That's great. I had no idea your stepsisters were afraid of a tiny spider.

Although, you're not bad at all. I don't know why people would be so harsh towards you. Here, how about we work on the project at my house? That way, we can get it done faster and a more fun

way”. She glances up toward him and says, ”I would love to, but I don't think stepmother would allow it. I am the only one who does the cooking and cleaning. Sometimes I even get bruises and I don't get dinner that I made. I will ask and I'll let you know. Here's my number”. The bell rang just as she gave him the paper and she made her way to the bus.

He stopped her and said, ”Wait! I just wanted to say that no matter how others think of you, I find you absolutely beautiful”. With that, he left to go to his Mustang to drive home. Ella could not believe her ears. The last person to say that was her father. She felt something on her face and realized they were tears. She was crying and she didn't even know it.

She arrived home with a smile upon her face, but her “family” had other plans. Apparently, her stepsisters had overheard a rumor and gotten pictures from one of her classmates of Ella and Collin laughing together. The stepmother was so displeased that she attacked her without mercy.

Fists flew, legs kicking. Ella was already on the ground by this time. Soon, the stepsisters joined in. This was the worst and prolonged beating she has ever received and she cried silently as they did what they wished. One of the stepsisters recommended giving Ella scars to remind her of her sins and grabbed the sharpest knife in the kitchen. She sliced her wrists and down her stomach. Blood flowed down her ivory skin in contrast. As they left to their separate rooms, they didn't realize just how deep the wounds really were. One of the cuts on her wrist had gone too deep and too much rich, red liquid was bursting out of her wound. Her vision is blurry as she slowly begins to close her eyes; never to open them again. Only Collin bothered to visit her grave with a bouquet of bright red roses. He set the roses down gently atop her tombstone before falling on his knees and burying his head in his hands.

“...she attacked her without mercy.”

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Skulls 1,2,3 – Harli Beerman (Digital Photography)

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Be Careful What You Wish For A Novella Excerpt Lilyan Richards

Book Cover

rematch. That crazy old bat actually beat me at Candyland.

When they come to get me, I am still

sitting cross- legged in the middle of the cell, and when the doors open I stare expectantly as if they are late to my party. “Well boys, it’s about damn time. Do you know how rude it is to leave a lady waiting?” They just continue to stare at me blankly as if I didn’t say anything. I rise to my feet before they can yank me and step out the door. I would walk the whole way to my room by myself if only I knew the way. I offer them my arms as if we are going to skip down the yellow brick road together.

“Oh, come on? Are you guys not allowed to smile?

What kind of rule is that?”

I laugh a little as they close the door. It must be hard to keep a blank face with so many “mentally ill” people running around. I think any sane person would laugh, or maybe I have just been here too long. I sit on my bed and wait for Nurse Ally to come and get me to take me to the cafeteria. Rose and I are supposed to have a 50

I must have fallen asleep, because when Nurse Ally comes to get me, I wake with a start.

“Food time?” I expect her to smile at me or show any emotion, but she is just as blank as the orderlies from earlier. “What’s wrong? Oh come on, no one likes a Mopey Melanie.” She looks over at me now. “I just… I thought you were making progress. You weren’t as bitter and I thought you and Rose were becoming friends. I thought that maybe Dr. Winters was helping you, but it looks like I was wrong.”

I keep walking, but the goofy smile on my face disappears. “I’m sorry. I like Rose enough.

I mean, she’s fine and all, but there is nothing wrong with me, except that no one in this place believes me when I say that. You all just think that me claiming my innocence makes me crazy.” She doesn’t look at me again until I have grabbed my food and we are seated. Rose rushes over and sits across from me.

“Are you okay? You weren’t at meals yesterday,” she says. She sounds legitimately worried about me, which is a pleasant and welcome change. I nod, “Apparently claiming that you are not crazy while standing in the office of the head physician of a mental institution counts as insubordination and is grounds for solitary.” I try to say it the way I imagine Dr. Winters would, and at the thought of his name I lose any appetite that I had, so I lead the way to the board games and grab Candy land. “You’re on,” I tell Rose, the hint of a smile on my face.

…

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Nurse Ally is still giving me the silent treatment on the way back to my room, and I think that maybe I have really offended her. I am just about to apologize when she grabs my hand and shakes it. She tells me in a rather loud voice that she is sorry that she spoke out of turn towards me, but when she pulls her hand away, a piece of paper is left in mine. I know better than to read it until I get into my room so I just nod and wait for her to open the door and leave. I lie down on my mattress and pull the sheet all the way over my head. Amazingly, with these awful lights, I have enough light to read the note. On a napkin from the cafeteria she wrote “I believe you.” On the wings small butterfly of hope, my heart soars and I wait patiently for her to return. We have much to discuss.

She comes later and wakes me in the dark. At first I think that I am still dreaming, but then she taps me on the forehead, three quick light taps, and I know that I am awake. I get out of bed and try to ask her what is going on, but she puts her finger to my lips and shushes me. She grabs my hand and leads me, stumbling through the dark behind her, down the hallways of the institution.

She must know this place like the back of her hand if she can navigate it in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from the emergency exit signs. We go down countless hallways before she comes to an abrupt stop. I can hear her punch the code into whatever door we are at. I have learned in my short time here that very few of these doors can be opened by a code; most can only be accessed if someone buzzes you in. Once the door opens, she pulls me through and it takes a minute before I realize where we are. It isn’t until I hear the cars racing to and fro that I know that we are outside. “Pinch me,” I say and she does.

She sighs, probably from exhaustion, “I told you, I believed your story. Either you are telling the truth and you have no mental illness or you are extraordinarily capable of controlling it and an amazing liar. Plus I looked into your arrival and found that it was extremely suspicious. Most concerned family members ask more questions about the care their loved one will receive. Some even demand to be given a tour of the facility. Very rarely do they just dump someone, no questions asked. Now you really do have to leave before someone realizes that I didn’t clock in.”

I give her a brief hug and whisper my gratitude before turning, only looking back to wave one last time. She waves but runs back inside immediately after. I look both ways before heading out into the night. I don’t know where I am, but I know that going back to Greenville might not be the best idea, so I decide to hop on a greyhound bus and see where it takes me. At first I think that someone may come for me, but even if they ask the cops to find a Mary Anne Jennings, they won’t be looking for me. I walk to the bus station, only a few miles from the institution and buy a ticket to Lake Moonbeam City, Florida, a three hour drive from Greenville. A nine hour bus ride from where I am.

Scan the QR Code to purchase and e-book of the novella for $.099 or a print verion of the book for $10.00 from Amazon.

She hands me an envelope with cash and my driver’s license in it, the only thing I had on my person when I was brought in. “Now you are on your own. I can’t help you now, hell, I shouldn’t have helped you in the first place.”

I look into her eyes and ask, “Why did you?”

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Broken – Yohanthony Padron (Pencil)

Literati, Volume 1

Broken Brain Ashlyn Rooney

My brain is BROKEN. Tormented, provoked, harassed.

My brains fried from the mayhem of emotional shocks of melancholy and wrath.

FAT: At age eight, I found out what it was like to be different.

To the classmates, different was spelled: F-A-T. Different because I wore an XL. Different because my uniform pinched my hips and pulled my skin into a muffin top that could only be hidden by a sweatshirt.

Shot with their words like bullets from an automatic gun, Jellybean, Whale, Thunder Thighs, drilled their way into the back of my head.

Piercing my larynx unable to swallow.

I stopped eating.

My eight-year-old wounds painfully bleed red when I take off the thin bandage I gave myself to be okay, still till this day.

DEPRESSED: At age thirteen my differences were brought back up to the surface.

To my so-called friends, different was spelled: D-E-P-R-E-S-S-E-D. The wounds festered like gangrene.

I was plagued as different for being alone and afraid of the world.

My friends left me dilapidated out in the cold with an inky heart that still sits in my chest till this day.

ANXIETY: At age sixteen I was hit with another round of differences that creeped up on me like a thief in the night.

My own self realized that my differences were spelled as: A-N-X-I-E-T-Y. I could never reach people’s standards of the perfect human being.

Now I’m in a state of trauma, frozen in time only hearing my fears being screamed at me from all sides.

My mind’s skin has now blistered over from the scrapes of constant malice thoughts that consume me.

Attacks, sobbing, hives, pressure impale any mood with their distorted ways.

Destroying the little feelings I have left, I’m now benumbed.

My brain is shattered.

My fretful dermis only hangs on a tiny sliver of a pipe dream now.

My brain will never seem to heal, I’ve been through the inferno of vile utterances.

Strained, troubled, burned.

My brain is BROKEN.

Their silver bullets pierced through my skull into the already battered tissue.

Loser, loner, emo, freak, punctured the untouched parts of pink flesh.

I was left in a daze of rainbows turning black and smiles twisting to permanent frowns of despondency.

I was used.

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Remembrance – Matt Johnson (Colored Pencil) 54

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Forgotten Flowers Tayler Brown

Just another day, just another wave.

The current pulling you in; You seem to fall deeper and deeper, But the truth is, it's endless; a cycle.

All you remember is black umbrellas, The pounding and pouring of the poisonous rain.

One marker made of stone, A solemn tribute engraved with a name.

Every day you got up no matter your pain.

Stiff smiles, fake fractures, having to carry on the farce and say you're okay.

The truth is you're not, so you visit on Sundays.

A bouquet of white stargazers to wash away the thoughts of yesterday.

Slowly, with the ebb and flow, you're forgetting about yesterday.

The days following—you healing.

Hole in your heart no longer holding you down; A weight sinking into that endless hole, The current that accompanied—lulling you further and further into the abyss....

For the first time in years, a true smile found its way flitting on your face.

Wave by wave, memories washed away; Pulled out to sea, where you could never reach.

Putrescent flowers withered, never replaced.

Gazing at the stars, lost at sea.

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Him

Lilyan Richards

I

would love to tell you this wonderful story about my immense popularity in high school, of the amazing parties I threw when my parents were out of town, and how I had the perfect “Ken and Barbie” relationship. I’m sure I could tell you that story, but it wouldn’t be mine.

My story starts in my sophomore year of high school when my childhood friend and life-long crush asked me out at homecoming.

Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, there was no one bursting into song, no one taking pictures, no one cheering, hell, no one even cared. He asked me to dance, and as he twirled me around the gym, he looked me in the eye and asked if I would like to be his girlfriend.

So simple, and yet somehow, so magical. I won’t say that our relationship was perfect, we certainly had our fights; I will always believe that our love was real.

We weren’t the popular kids who walked down the halls followed by an entourage laughing at our every idiotic remark. No one was hanging on our every word and movement, thirsting for our attention, doing anything to get in our good graces and climb up a rung. We kept to ourselves, with our small, close group of friends. Our time at the bottom of the social ladder was spent together, going to the movies, having picnics on the beach and body surfing until the sand rubbed our skin raw. We were a modest couple; only holding hands as we walked down the halls, maybe a quick kiss before one of had to go to class. When we weren’t with our friends, or at school, we would got to this little spot at the end of a park and sit on the hood of his car, looking at the stars and talking about everything from classes we hated to books we loved, planning trips we knew we would probably never go on. The longer we stayed out talking, the longer we were together and the less time we 56

each spent at home. It was here that I think we were our truest selves.

The summer before our senior year we would just drive around town. We weren’t going anywhere in particular; we would just... talk, getting lost in each other and falling deeper in love. Sometimes, we would pull off somewhere, just on the side of the road, lay the seats down, and try to guess what the clouds looked like, what constellations and planets we could see. The week before school started, we were on one of our drives; it was dark and his eyes were locked on mine.We were planning a beach trip with our friends for our last weekend of freedom. As we waited for the light to turn green, he tickled my ribs and laughed as I squealed, begging him to stop. I went to smack his hand away, playfully, but he grabbed it and kissed the back as if I was his princess and he my prince. He kept my hand in his, intertwining our hands. Before the moment got too serious and mushy, he looked at me and said, “Knock, knock.” I rolled my eyes, but played along, asking who was there. “Little old lady,” he answered. I asked about the little old lady in question, and with the most childish grin on his face, he yodeled, “Littleoldladywho!.” The light turned green and we were still laughing. He turned to me, his eyes shining brightly like the stars, a slight smile on his face as he said, “I love-“ Crash! The end of his sentence was lost as the car was hit and suddenly we were rolling.

Time slowed down then. Everything was flying around his car: papers, my purse and everything in it, our phones, soda cans, fast food wrappers. The windshield and windows shattered, spraying glass in side the car, stinging my skin.

The seatbelt held me in my seat as we flipped, breaking a few of my ribs, causing a sharp, stabbing pain every time I tried to breathe which was made

Literati, Volume 1

worse when the airbag deployed slamming into my torso before deflating, not that I could really breathe anyway. It wasn’t until we stopped that I realized that the blood curdling scream that filled my ears was my own, no trace of the laughter from only moments before.

Soon enough, there were feet outside my window. People were shouting, I could tell by their faces, but I couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in my ears. A man knelt down, his lips asking if I was ok. Could I move? I tried to shake my head no, but was met with blinding pain. I couldn’t even look over to see if he was ok. There were so many feet outside my window, so many cars pulling up and looking in.

Eventually the paramedics showed up, shining flashlights into my eyes, calling to each other, not that I could hear them. They backed all the onlookers away and I took a deep breath, the stabbing pain returning to my sides. Firemen came to my side of the car and cut the seatbelt pinning me to the seat, and the paramedics in blue laid me, carefully, into a gurney. Everything blurred into a sea of faces and voices and then there was nothing but the sound of my own heart beat on a monitor as the black tide pulled me under.

I woke to the bright lights of the hallway and the rooms raced past. Once in the room needles pinched my skin; doctors and police officers asked me questions; my mother cried.

And then I was gone again.

I finally woke to dimmed light of my hospital room. The TV was on and my mom sat next to me in a chair, looking at it, but clearly not watching. My father stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. I reached out to touch her and felt a stab of pain in my right arm. I gasped and my

mother and father turned to me, tears in their eyes and relief on their faces. I heard my mother’s voice and felt my father touch my hair, but I wasn’t looking at them.

There was a woman in the hall; I could see her out my window. She wasn’t facing me, but I could see her clearly. Her eyes were tired and she looked more fragile than I had ever seen her.

She talked to a man in a green uniform… A man in hospital scrubs. As he talked, she wrapped her arms tighter round herself as if to keep he heart from spilling out of her chest, as if to keep herself from falling apart. I couldn’t hear what the man said, but the more he talked, the farther her strong façade fell. Suddenly, she collapsed against the wall and I finally understood what had happened. Her son, her only family, the love of my life was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

I was no longer worried about my broken arm and leg, about the cuts and burns that blanketed my skin. The pain I now felt was much worse than any physical pain ever could have been. My heart screamed, but only pathetic squeaks escaped my lips.

Rivers flowed from my eyes, unstoppable, even by the pain tearing through my body, my heart and my soul. I could feel my parents touch, I could hear their voices, but none of that mattered now. I looked at her again, the scream had stopped, but I was afraid the tears never would. The man was gone now and she turned to look at me. She came into my room and sat on my bed and we just held onto each other, falling apart, yet holding each other together.. Both of us the other’s last tie to him.

Torn – Jasmine Richardson (Colored Pencil) 57

Self Portrait – Caitlin Maguire (Mixed Media)

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Self Portrait – Aneezia C

eezia Chaisson (Marker)

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Self Portrait – Alyssa Selbe (Pencil)

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Momma Erica Gaffney

Tiffani Lea Bell, My mother.

She works five days a week, twelve hours a day, and I have a knot in my stomach because it’s all for me.

She pushes me: pushes me for good grades, pushes me towards success, pushes me to be happy.

She is my motivation.

She comes from cows munching on moss, waitressing at Red Barron, living in a small apartment with my dad’s family, with bad intentions but sublime potential.

That potential got her where she is now.

With me and my stepdad by her side, she is unstoppable.

She works sedulously, all for me.

I long for the day when she realizes how much I love her, and it is my fault she doesn’t know.

I don’t always say it, I don’t always who it, but I habitually think about how much she means to me.

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Momma – Harli Beerman (Photography)

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The Sighting Ashlyn Rooney

Scene One:

Inside Caspar’s white Kia Soul car in the middle

Clown – Lauren Marcewicz (Colored Pencil)

of nowhere, Caspar’s driving.

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CASEY: "So why did we sneak out of the house?"

CASPAR: "We're going to Nora's and I want you to entertain her younger sister Val." CASEY: [laughing] "That girl you've been trying to sleep with?"

CASPAR: [embarrassed, trying to hide face] "Shut up.”

CASEY: "You're such a f-" CASPAR: [interrupting] "Don't say that word Casey.”

CASEY: [shrugging] "Well you are one." [rubbing fingers through Caspar’s blonde hair] "Even got the haircut."

[Caspar moves his head away from Casey annoyed] [Casey laughs and turns up the radio] [Fifteen minutes’ pass after a few short chats between Casey and Caspar take place. After the fifteen minutes Caspar starts to slow down] CASEY: "What's wrong?"

CASPAR: "There's something in the road."

[Casey squints eyes to try and see the object] [Caspar keeps driving until stopping when he finally see’s what there] CASPAR: [frozen] "No-" CASEY: [finishing Caspar’s sentence] "-way."

CASPAR: "It can't be. I thought these pranks were just fakes for twitter."

CASEY: "Me too." [notices the object walking towards them] "Drive!"

CASPAR: [whispering] "I can't."

CASEY: [frantic] "What do you mean you can't?

Press the gas!"

CASPAR: [wheezing]"But it's a clown."

CASEY: "Caspar it's coming closer!"

[Caspar stays silent] [Casey turns to Caspar and turns soft]

Literati, Volume 1

CASEY: [whispering and touching Caspar’s arm] "Cas." [another clown starts walking toward Casey’s door] CASEY: [shrieking] “Caspar drive!”

[Casey’s door opens and a clown rips her out of the car] CASPAR: [snapping out of frozen state] "Casey!"

[Casey tries to escape, clown knocks her out with a punch] Scene Two: In an unknown basement, hours later. Casey is laying down, chained up, and wakes up.

CASEY: [waking up, messy hair, whispering]"What the hell?"

[Casey tries to get up and hears chains. She looks down to see she is chained to a wall and she starts to panic. She starts to scream for help and Caspar shushes her from the dark] CASPAR: [whispers] "Stop, they'll come down here."

CASEY: [ecstatic] "Caspar!"

CASPAR: [worried] "Shush!"

CASEY: [whispering] "Sorry” [wondering] “Where are we?"

CASPAR: "I don’t know."

[Loud chainsaw noise echoes through the room and Casey and Caspar fall silent. Bangs then sound through the room coming from upstairs as long as a hammer] CASPAR: "They’re upstairs I think." [pauses and then continues] “We have to try and get out of here. We need an escape plain. I think my pocket knife might still be in my pocket."

CASEY: "But we're in chains."

[The chainsaw goes off again].

CASEY: [frightened and whispers] "Cas, I'm scared."

CASPAR: [bravely] "Don't be."

CASEY: "Don't act like you're not scared."

CASPAR: "I'm fine."

CASEY: "You weren't fine in the car."

CASPAR: "Casey there is no time to argue."

[Loud bangs are sounded on the door and Caspar moves near Casey] CASPAR: [whispering] "It will be okay."

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Clown – Lauren Marcewicz (Colored Pencil) 64

[Casey starts to cry and Casper holds her tightly in his arms] CASEY: [scared] "I don't believe you."

CASPAR: "Let me think of the plan then." Caspar spoke.

CASEY: [thinking] “We are never getting out of here] [A bang echo’s through the walls] CASEY: [saying out load] "Just give it up. You know we're not going to make it."

[Caspar starts to cry into his sisters neck as he holds her closely] CASPAR: [tired] "We shouldn't haven’t snuck out for my booty call. I'm so sorry that I dragged you into this Casey." he said and then kissed my cheek.

"If we end up dying in this hellhole.” [pauses and then whispers] “Just know that I love you sissy."

CASEY: [surprised] "You haven't called me that in years."

[Caspar stays silent and cuddles more into Casey] CASEY: [meaningfully] "I love you too bubby."

[Caspar smiles and the door to the basement slams open. Casey screams and clings harder to Caspar. The clowns run down and take Casey away from her twin brother. Casey tries to grab for Caspar but can’t grab onto him.]

CASEY: [screaming bloody murder] "Caspar!" [yells at the two clowns] "No! Please No!" [Caspar tries to yell out for Casey but a clown kicks him] CASEY: [hiccups] "Cas-Cas-p-par!"

[Casey, crying, finally gets to the upstairs blindfolded] CASPAR: [faintly] "Casey!"

[Casey just sobs harder at the fact that this was actually happening right now but Casey was left sitting alone in a wooden chair. The clowns then start dragging Caspar upstairs. Caspar then gets placed next to Casey in a wooden chair. Caspar grabbed Casey’s hand in his and squeezed as the clowns crank up their saws.

Then I felt Caspar sitting in a chair next to me.

Caspar's hand then found mine.

CASEY: [thinking to herself] “At this very moment I miss the sight of Cas' blonde curly hair and ocean eyes that were always prettier than my moss ones.

I miss the sound of him laughing and him yelling

Literati, Literati, Volume Volume 11

at me over me taking his phone to see the newest girl he’s talking to. I miss the way he’s sit next to me during a scary movie because I end up always peeing myself. Most of all I miss the little times he’s say I love you randomly.”

CASPAR: [thinking to himself] “I’m so stupid. Why do I have to be such a jerk and date all the girls I lay my eyes on. If I would have just stayed with that chick Casey told me to stay with last month.

We wouldn’t be in this mess. Casey. God I put her into this mess. Casey is such a good sister and I’m such a crap brother. I really am. All Casey does is try and be there for me. What do I do? I get her and myself kidnapped. What twin treats his twin like that? God, if only I could say that I’m sorry and just hug her one more time. I sound like such a sissy, but dammit, I just wanna hold my sister.”

[Chainsaw sounds] CASEY: [thinking to herself] “I love you, Caspar.”

CASPAR: [thinking to himself] “I love you, Casey.”

CLOWN ONE: [roughly speaks and takes blindfold off of Casey and Caspar] "Open your eyes."

[Casey and Caspar look around the room confused.

The lights come on and pictures of them start to appear. They notice they are in their living room] [The two clowns then took off their masks] CLOWN TWO: [takes off mask, annoyed] "You two won't be sneaking out again anytime soon will you?"

[Clown two takes mask off and glares at them] [Casey and Caspar realize its just their parents] The End

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In The Moment – Yearbook Staff (Digital Photography)

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Literati, Volume 1

Soccer Skills Elizabeth Adkins

Dribbling down the field with the ball at my feet.

Got nothing to lose not even defeat.

Varsity as a freshman? No problem.

Juking players out left and right, I’m ballin’.

You say defenders don’t score. Yeah, check my stats.

Shoot upper ninety, SCORE! That’s a fact.

Last game I scored a couple now I’m looking for that hat trick.

Bet I can do it without breaking a sweat, not even one drip.

My soccer career is now just beginning.

Wait a few years, I’ll be D1 and winning.

Nothing can stop me and the love for the game.

Slide, scratch, strike, ignite; bright burns my flame.

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Hope and Happiness Is a Sinking Ship A Novella Excerpt Casey Sutton

Vengeful – Cristina Lancranjan (Digital Art)

I

t flinched, looking up and revealing the well wrinkled lines of its face, as well as the haggard visage of an old crone. She shook when she moved, eyes going wide at the sight of our guns. My men filed in behind us, most of them gasping openly at the amount of treasure before us, and I stared dead straight at the woman, my eyes lidding as I numbed myself.

I think it started after the first few times I had shot and killed someone while on board with our first Captain. I had been horrified when I was faced with just what I had to do, and it wore away a tough shell I had built up, and I wondered to myself, ‘How could I have ever thought that I could do this?’ Of course, I had done just that, I had shot them, all the while telling myself in a deafening mantra of “it was me or them”…

Stelios had brought it to my attention a short time ago, having found it unsettling how emotionless I became in this situation, saying my eyes lost their light while I aimed at someone with the possible intent to kill. He wasn’t wrong about it; it was hard to keep up the façade of mercilessness, letting your enemy know you meant business, as well as understanding that you may have to kill them, and recognizing that inevitability in some situations only hurt the crew.

It didn’t help me, not that night where I sobbed into my hammock with Stelios’ hand drifting along my back in a desperate bid to comfort me from the one above me; nor any night past that. It was a thought I nursed over alcohol on nights where emotions were permitted, but I made up the state of mind for myself, that way I couldn’t put any of my crew in danger with my own twisted morals.

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“Hands where I can see them.” I snapped out, the old woman taking a moment to respond before she did just that, lifting the shriveled hands. I nodded to Henry, who crossed over to her, grabbing her arms and holding her in place. I stared at her for a long moment before holstering my weapon, looking to Stel. “Get everything catalogued, the sooner we get back, the sooner we can drink ‘till we can’t feel feelings.” I said, a small smirk quirking on my lips.

The gold in front of us was a hell of a haul, and even Collin, the baby-faced teenager in the crow’s nest would be getting paid well, even compared to what I would get, or Stelios’ cut.

The man in question nodded, beginning to bark orders to the rest while he counted the coin that went past. Any object of glittering gold was taken, the men grabbing as much as they could take before heading back towards the stairway, taking it back to the ship. I watched contentedly, glad we had taken heed of the rumor we had feared would be a dead end, and we would have to scour the coast for merchant ships to try and salvage the expedition.

A guttural rasp caught my attention, and I cocked a brow as I turned, looking down to the woman.

wrist. I almost slipped, the strength bearing down on me surprising me. We were both shaking, an unmovable object and an unstoppable force bearing onto one another. Her eyes were manic, sickly yellow orbs skittering around with madness as her hissing breath filled my lungs and burned my eyes.

She wrenched on of her hands away from my hold, throwing her weight behind it and pinned it to the harsh stone floor beneath us. I felt my knuckles split from the harsh impact, but that pain was nothing compared to the lightning arcing from my hand as she plunged the needle through the meat of my hand.

Scan the QR Code to puchase a copy of the novella for $2.99 on Amazon.

“You’re making… A big mistake.” She growled, looking up at me with beady black eyes, sending a chill up my back. I rolled my eyes, moving to turn back to watching my crew, pausing at the shuffling sounds behind me. She threw Henry off, the man crying out in shock and drawing my graze from the loot to the scene behind me, barely having a second to react before the weight of her slammed into me, tackling me to the ground.

I snarled, wrenching to try and throw her off, but her weight stayed firmly planted above me, straddling me and pinning me to the ground.

She cackled as her hand rose above her, and I went wide-eyed at the sight of the needle, cold, glittering silver. As her hand came down to stab me with it, my own hands flew up, catching her 69

Colophon Font

for Headings -Imprint MT Shadow, font for standard text - Lao UI. Polk County School Board Printing Services, Bartow, Florida published 200 copies of this magazine on 32 lb matte. The cover was printed on 80 lb matte cover paper and features the creative artwork of Selena Baker, colored pencil. Elements from the cover were used to illustrate the Table of Contents pages as well. The inside cover (front and back) features Timeless Balance by Maria Checinski.

Submissions

Purpose

Rights

Literati, Vol I is the 2016-2017 edition of George Jenkins High School’s Art Literary Magazine, the ninth in print since 1995. We sent last years magazine out to literary critques and we have tried to improve our magazine based on the critiques given. This year, our biggest leap forward was publishing in color. We also expanded our writing submissions by reaching to programs across campus such as JROTC and Youth In Government.

We also worked with Yearbook and ENN t.v. productions to make multimedia connections.

We have brought together talents from students and teachers across campus to bring to light the talent and art that lives in the students at George Jenkins High School.

As with any publication, the views express are not necessarily the views of George Jenkins High School, the editorial staff, advisors, or Polk County Schools.

Submissions are sent to Mrs. Holt, 19-212, in Freshman Academy. All worked composed in George Jenkins’s High School Creative Writing classes is considered for publication. GJHS Art Literary Magazine embraces every opportunity to publish the work of any student submissions, regardless of format or length. Students who are not enrolled in Creative Writing or Art classes are invited to submit their work for publication.

All writing and art submissions are considered by the Literati editorial staff which chooses based on quality, appropriateness, relevance, and overall impact. Staff maintain the right to edit works for clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copy rights of their submitted work.

Awards and Recognition National Council of Teacher of English Recognized for Highest Award, 2016 Florida Scholastic Press Association Silver Award, 2016 Colombia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist, 2016

Back Cover :Duality – Selena Baker (Pencil) Inside Back Cover: Timeless Balance – Maria Checinski (Digital Art) 70