Grymes 8th Grade Literary Magazine 2012 13

Grymes Memorial School

8th Grade Literary Magazine 8

2012-2013

Equilibrium Abigail Turner The horse beneath me shifts from side to side as I let the metal chain slip from my fingers to around the fence post securing the rusted gate shut. I hear distant slurred chatter from behind me in the barn area. I turn Musette towards a field of roaming horses and push her into a trot. Her trot starts out slowly and unwilling. I alternately give pressure from both legs and send her into a powerful trot. “One, two, one, two,” I quietly say to myself. I lift myself slightly at one and then gently land back down into the seat of my saddle at two. I now feel comfortable allowing a smile form on my face as I leave the drama and the cluster of people from the overcrowded barn and head into the wide open field. The horse beneath me propels forward with impulsion. Musette’s trot is balanced and empowering. I push my heel down and squeeze her with my calves every time I sit. She throws her head up, signaling that I have applied too much pressure. I let the reins slip through my fingers slightly and loosen my grip and she responds by returning to her quiet relaxed self. She tucks her head in, this is called a frame. As we round the corner of the field at a steady pace, I can see the slightest bit of her kind, gentle brown eye. I notice a sparkle of personality, a personality that I have come to know.

A big tractor outside of the fence catches her eye, and we suddenly drop a foot. I laugh at her as she regains herself and realizes she is just a silly little mare. Her eyes are a little wider as she looks at all the “scary” stuff. We pass berry bushes, and she is so polite as to run me in to one. I glance down and see red berry juice splattered randomly on my sky blue shirt. Musette’s quirky personality has required some getting used to. She always lets me know when I do something wrong. A buck when I give her too much of a kick for a lead change, a violent shaking of the head telling me to release the reins.

I look between her ears as I enjoy the feeling of floating across the grass; her extended stride covering the ground easily. I try to paint a picture in my head. I see an ecstatic thirteen year old girl aboard a horse she adores moving through tall vibrant green grass with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background. We arrive at the corner of the woods, and I am sure to apply leg pressure at her shoulder, making it hard for her to fall in and lose her balance. I glance at her shoulder; her dark brown coat looks glossy as the sun shines on us. Her dapples stand out on her in the July sun. Sweat marks are already prominent on her glistening neck. Her oversized elephant ears flop to a rhythm. Her mane is styled in a Mohawk fashion.

We pass a plastic trash bag in the field and Musette shies away. Her spooky disposition keeps me alert. I turn her inward from the outskirt of the woods, attempting to make a circle. Sitting up and lengthening my upper body, I drive her past the plastic bag. This time she acts as if there was never a problem. As we continue, I try to lock my eyes on the path I intend to take, making sure I avoid loose branches. I can hear Musette swishing her tail in agitation. Having to work is apparently not highly amusing to her. She would much rather be playing in the field romping around causing trouble. We pass a group of horses munching on grass. Musette suddenly goes stiff as she tries to look at them. She gives out a shrill whinny. A brown and white horse named Cricket neighs back in response. I make an attempt to have Musette pay attention to me again. Soon, she returns to an equilibrium that feels right. She has the attention span of a squirrel, but she has a heart of gold. She takes care of me, and I can tell she loves me just as much as I love her.

Aspen Gorman I sit on a table overlooking my best friends, my only friends. I look over my shoulder to see a muddy field with two men in hard hats. This is not the field I know. The field I know had a wall of tall trees in a perfectly straight line separating the parking lot from the millions of grass blades. The field I know had two large prickly pine trees and a ditch that I use to trip over every time we went out to play Capture the Flag. The field I know had a large hole were a pole would stand as girls weaved around with flowing skirts and friends. The field I know is gone.

All that is left of the field I knew is the tree I sit next to. The branches reach out as if saying not to leave. Years ago, I sat on this same blue picnic table with Emily and Gabriel. I remember the countless times after school I sat watching the kids jump around and skip, hop, run, laugh, play. Live. I am not a lifer but I might as well be because I have never felt different than the lifers. I look over to see Evan. He sits below where the ball used to hit the ground after every shot. But no basketballs land there now.

Grace sits where everyone would form a line to play four square with Mr. Mercer. Loretta sits at the foul line were we would practice making shots on the hoop and play H-O-R-S-E. Mary sits below that basketball hoop. The hoop is lonely without its companion. Cordelia sits on the other side where the ball from the four square game would always roll.

All the memories are invisible unless you try to find them. I try to see them and I can in little flashes before they fade away. This is my last month here. I don’t want to fade away with all these memories. I don’t want to be that memory that you look back at only once or twice a year. Soon enough, there won’t be these spots to look back on.

I almost wish to run, run the yellow brick road as we used to every Friday or run to the Carrington house with Emily laughing all the way. I want to run to every spot in our fifth grade movie and then run back in time so I don’t have to leave. This school is forever changed by the things going on.

I know, I’ve been told before that change is necessary. Change is good but the only thing about change is there is no going back. I can’t go back to the third grade and live it all again. I can’t go back to fifth when everything was easier. I wish I could do it all again. Once everything was about friends and having fun, no responsibilities. Now life punishes you every time you mess up . You can’t do something without realizing what the consequences are. You can’t have fun without thinking of that history paper that is due next Tuesday. You can’t escape even if you try, you’re pulled right back into reality.

Sadly having a voice does not come with the all the freedom you desire. Change is necessary for things. The straw blown around is supposed to help build the grass again, but it won’t replace all the grass and trees and the old memories that have been ripped apart. The tree in front of the Carrington house reminds me of the time when I sat below that caring limb doing homework with Emily. Talking about how we could be sisters and how fun that would be. It pains me deeply to leave my sister. I am not ready to forget these things and not ready to close the door in the front hall for the last time. I can see my hand reach for the smooth silver handle to the old door. I turn my head slowly looking at the Mona Lisa painted long ago. My eyes are fogged by salt tears that fall onto my white eyelet graduation dress. I turn and look out to the front circle, hear the creak of the door, and feel the cool breeze hit my legs, and then I do it. I step out of the front doors of Grymes Memorial School.

Change Carrington Alexander Frazier The wind blows and flowers start to bloom. Bugs and wild life are finally out and are ready to enjoy the nice weather. The leaves on the trees shake as the wind slightly blows. The flower buds wake up and are ready to enjoy the nice sunshine. The bees come out and search for nectar to take back to their hive.

The birds fly high above my head searching for food. Well, I know I am surely going to miss this place so badly next year. I will surely miss having the chance to write about how I feel and share with my fellow classmates in English class. In 7th grade there I was: shy, nervous, and definitely afraid to speak. Last year, I was like the fly caught in a spider’s web afraid of what people thought of me.

In 7th grade, I always thought of myself as the big loser like Hanna in Pretty Little Liars but not anymore. Since this is my last year at Grymes, I feel like the real Carrington Alexander Frazier. I have changed throughout the years. At first when I came here, I didn’t know what to say or do, but now I am not the same girl who was afraid of facing her fear.

To my fellow Grymes friends all I have to say is goodbye for now. Last year I sat under a tall oak tree knowing nothing about how to write, but now after almost three years I have learned so much from this place, and I will treasure Grymes deep down in my heart forever.

Christmas Sierra

She sniffles and sips hot cocoa. The melted marshmallows leave behind a foamy mustache on her top lip. She licks it clean and sets her mug down on the hearth. The fiery flames lick the sooty bricks in the fireplace. The flames dance in her big brown eyes until she turns to face the evergreen tree. She inhales pine and cinnamon as her fingers trace the edges of the ornaments. Each one has a story, and this girl knows them all. Her taste buds tingle and she breaks away from the memories for a taste of cocoa. She gulps it down and sits again, waiting, her back to the fire.

The girl looks up when a creak erupts from the stairs. She watches as a young boy in fuzzy blue pajamas creeps slowly down the staircase. His eyes are wild with excitement as he sees the array of shiny red paper and gold bows. The glittery packages twinkle in the firelight. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he rushes for the presents, right past the girl. He does not see her, but she sees him. The boy sorts through all of the packages and she leans forward to grab a piece of peppermint bark. She takes a bite and the rich peppermint flavor crackles through her mouth. The boy yells, “Mommy, Daddy! Santa came! He came!” His parents quickly come down, not bothering to change out of their pajamas. They just want to see their son’s bright face.

Christmas Tree Jack Perdue Christmas scanned the area around him; he looked at the grey sky and watched the clouds prepare to drop snow; he looked at the trees around him, watching how they stood tall to make the forest look good. He looked at the frost covering the ground, keeping the Christmas spirit from sinking.

Wind blew on Christmas and he shivered. Christmas loved the cold in December; he believed that snow, ice, and frost were magic. He checked the spots that would soon be used for the squirrels to sleep tonight. They felt warm, but he pushed the branches together in those spots to make sure that the squirrel would not be cold. He listened to the birds singing carols for all of the forest to hear. A small deer trotted by. Christmas knew that he would need a place to sleep tonight so he offered shelter beneath his bows on his pine needles and fallen twigs. The deer lifted his head and starred at Christmas with a curious look. He starred for a few seconds and said, “Thank you!” in a surprised tone. At that moment, Christmas felt like there was beautiful music playing in his ear, those words were the greatest present he had ever received.

Christmas watched the sun maneuver through the sky and felt the air become colder. Once the sun was asleep, the squirrel showed up with his family, and asked if it was okay for them to stay. Of course, Christmas said yes. Next, the deer arrived and lay at Christmas’ feet. Soon, the squirrels and the deer were sound asleep but Christmas lay awake thinking about everything. Christmas felt like he was a decorated tree sitting in someone’s living room. The squirrels were the ornaments hanging from the tree, the deer was a present sitting underneath the tree and the stars and angels above him were like stars and angels on top of a Christmas tree. The forest had decorated Christmas with finer ornaments than the finest and most expensive in any store in the world, and these were free. The forest was very quiet. He could not even hear the birds. Everything must have been sound asleep, dreaming about tomorrow, or tomorrow years ago. A bright star shined down upon him, and Christmas realized that his name meant giving, and the reason he felt so beautiful was because he had given so much and the gifts that had gone through the ones who had received them, returned to him and his joy lit the snow and brightened the forest.

Clue Queen Emily Aylor The dice tumbles onto the board. It lands on five and Miss Scarlet makes her way into the dining room.

Her red dress sways behind her and her eyes hide a secret. The silver revolver lies in the center of the well set table. It reflects back at Colonial Mustard. He is blinded by the glare and a little startled. Maybe he is hiding something. The die is rolled once again and Mr. Green is knocked to the ground. As he gets up something falls out of his pocket but he is quick to grab the object. The die reads two and professor Plum shuffles into the dining room to join Miss Scarlet at the table. He sits with a mysterious grin on his face but refuses to make eye contact with Scarlet.

I scan my suspect list and begin to announce my accusation. At this point, one could cut the tension with the small silver game knife lying in the conservatory. I remember the only rule of this game. Trust no one.

I take a deep breath. “It was professor Plum, in the dining room, with the rope.”

I look around at the three pairs of worried eyes. Each quickly darts from person to person in hopes that someone can prove me wrong. Slowly and one by one, each shakes her head in disappointment. I smirk and reach for the small orange envelope labeled “confidential.” I pull out the small cards, backs to me. I turn the three cards over and read each one carefully.

“Professor Plum, Rope, Dining Room.”

The smirk has now turned into a victorious smile. I have done it. I hold the cards up for all to see and let out a fake evil laugh as angry stares are shot my way. I have won the annual Christmas CLUE game.

Once a year all of the cousins come together to battle for the right to be the CLUE queen. With this title comes many things, the most important being bragging rights. There is a small battle at Thanksgiving but the actual war is on Christmas morning. I hope this tradition will continue in my family for many years to come. Mostly because I always win.

Team A-Go-Go Cordelia Hogan “Once I say go open up your folders and find envelope marked No.1. Go where it says and then you are on your own. Everybody has their timers? Okay. Ready? Good Luck. Ready. May the Force be with you. 3….2….1….GO!” My fingers are already on the clasp, I just needed to get the first envelope. The fake brass bends easily under the power of my fingers. The brown folder is open. The speed of my hand into the folder is uncanny. I grip the white envelope.

“Where? What museum??” My team watches me, their eyes filled with hope and excitement.

“MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY! GO GO GO!” We tear off running with the crowd, ignoring the paths and the puddles. How crazy we must look, a group of middle-school-ers racing through the capitol city, armed with clipboards and pens.

I stop the group.

“Wait guys, it’s this way…” I say as I wave towards the big cream-colored building, clearly marked, with a large banner and all, “Museum of Natural History.”

We change direction, disregarding our mistake and sprint again. We silently decide that this mistake shall not be argued over, just forgotten. I see Mrs. Bost’s bobbing white hair in the crowd.

“I’ll meet you back out here!” She yells as we run up the stairs. I don’t look back to match her voice with her face. She has already disappeared into the crowd and Team A-Go-Go is in competition mode, no time for looking back.

We break through the doors, and so it begins.

My Desk Evan George Stergis I’ve sat at this desk for only a few years, and within those few years, lots of items have been placed upon it at some point, and they all have their own stories. Socks that have been on my feet and traveled with me to Montana and back sit in the right corner. The white threads have started to fray at the top, pulling at it would only make it longer. A green stuffed wolf from when I went to Graves Mountain Lodge with a friend of mine is perched on the top of the desk. Papers from school litter the entire left side, a reminder of the past school year that contained many ups and downs, smiles and frowns and was a great year. To my right, schedules of my choice of two high schools that I’ll have to pick by the end of the school year, rest near the frayed socks.

The back of the desk is filled with pockets, to the left and right. Shelves and below are holes. The holes are filled with books that I have yet to read. I should put them on my bookshelf with respect to the stories that they hold. The shelves to the left are filled with things I don’t quite remember getting, but they are there anyway. These things include: a 50 states quarter album, an alligator head, papers about camps and baseball cards. When did these get here? Who knows? Perhaps they have come from the memories deep in the folds of my brain, faint memories that barely remain. My focus pans to the right shelf, nothing there, reserved for my future and the long path ahead of me.

As years pass, they will fill with papers and objects I can barely comprehend at the moment. The pockets in front of me hold journals and pencils for my current year, each are labeled: Algebra, Science, English, History, and Spanish. Each are filled with knowledge gathered from the months and weeks spent in school. Tape covers a small hole in which a rusted broken light lived, broken off and clipped for more space.

Not only do I change, but so does the desk. Memories come back to the wooden desk when I fall asleep on it after a long night of studying. One night, I knocked over a cup of water and ruined my homework so I did it again. Life is good when you don’t think about the obstacles. Live in the now but remember your past and let the future come to you, don’t try to make it yours, let it guide you instead.

Fairytale Mollie Armm

Once upon a time there was a pariah named Gretchen. Gretchen lived with her two stepsisters, Kim and Khloe, and her stepmom, Kris. Gretchen worked for the Kardashian’s every minute she was breathing. Gretchen’s father left her and her family at an early age, leaving her to the Kardashians. Gretchen has blonde hair that is always matted to the back of her giraffe neck with fly aways in the front, making her look like she is constantly being electrified. Gretchen wears a gray apron everyday and converse that are so last season. Her acne is out of control, and she always smells like onions. Gretchen has braces with yellow bands on them. They make her teeth look like they were dipped in butter. Her stepsisters, Kim and Khloe, always wear their Marc Jacobs one of a kind dress.

Their chocolate brown hair is always curled to perfection. Their eyeliner is never smudged, and their lipstick seems to never fade. Every outfit is accompanied with a one of a kind handbag.

The other day, Kris, leaving as usual, left Gretchen with an insane amount of chores to do before she returned home. Gretchen had to paint the driveway pink, scrub the pool with her toothbrush, and inspect every blade of grass and cut them with scissors to exactly two inches. Kris was leaving for some new plastic surgery she saw in a catalog. That time she was getting her lips done, for the fifth time. That morning Gretchen had went down to the mailbox and saw an unusual flyer sticking out from behind the short red flag “McJagger’s Ball,” Gretchen read out loud. Her brown eyes lit up with excitement.

Gretchen galloped away back to the mansion, the one right next to Oprah’s. She burst through the two polished wooden floors and ran to her bedroom under the stairs. This might sound similar to Harry Potter but it’s not, her room has only a toilet, while Harry’s has a little bed. Back to the story.

Gretchen threw open the door and squeezed herself down in the corner between the wall and the toilet. She started to brainstorm ideas for her perfect dress. The perfect dress came to her mind. It would be lime green and to the floor of course, but it will have stickers all over, and she will wear her grey converse underneath. Gretchen got so excited that she began to cry. She decided to sing herself to sleep so she will awake to a beautiful day of dress making. The only problem is, it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. Just as Gretchen got settled down for an afternoon nap, there was a knocking on her door. Gretchen opened the door and Kim passed out from the smell that’s been trapped in the room for the past seven months. Nobody had ever opened her chamber before. Gretchen shrugged her shoulders and settled back down but doesn’t fall asleep.

A few hours later, Kris returned home. She slammed the front door and waltzed inside. Her lips looked as plastic as a rubber duck and fake as ever. Gretchen realized she forgot all about the chores.

She realized she doesn’t care and that maybe she will get married to McJagger and run away to his castle. Gretchen slowly dozed off and began to snore. She snored as loud as a train horn. Her head tilted to the left and rested on the cold toilet seat. She woke to a knocking at the door. Gretchen’s brown eyes slowly opened and she nudged the door open. To her surprise Kris was standing there. Kris never bothered with Gretchen’s “room.” “Gretchen my grass is still two inches overgrown!” shouted Kris.

“I don’t care anymore Kris,” Gretchen shouted back. Gretchen knew she was in trouble because she could practically see smoke coming out of Kris’s ears.

The world is pitch black and there was a ringing in Gretchen’s ears. Gretchen’s brown eyes slowly opened and she is face to face with a little boy. “Are you the prince?” Asked Gretchen in a groggy voice.

“No, this is Japan,” responded the little boy. Gretchen then realized that the Kardashian’s knocked her out and shipped her to Japan.

Not all fairytales end how you think kids.

Imagination Grace Wilbanks “It’s a free write,” Ms.Bost says. “Yes!” I think to myself. I can finally let my imagination fly. I won’t care about the red lines forming under my words; I will just set myself free. My thoughts have been locked up for hours, thinking as people want me to, saying what they want me to say. But now, I don’t care. I guess I will write about riding, that’s the only thing I think about most of the time. Russell taps his fingers on the desk. One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three…

The rhythm methodically swirls into the sounds of hoof beats. A canter, three beats. Right hind, left front, left hind together with the right front. One, two, three; one, two, three. Ellie canters freely in the field. When I ride her, we become one. Her steel shoes implant a mark into the grass temporarily before it springs up again. I have left my mark.

“Russell! Work!” Ms. Bost yells. But imagination takes her voice and puts it into Pam’s mouth, soon developing the sentence, “You ready Gracie? Single, combination brick wall then end on the outside.” Lorretta sneezes. Imagination yet again churns the sneeze into a whinny as Ellie becomes excited to begin our next journey. A stinkbug lands on my leg, and I tighten my calf muscles to get it off.

But in another world, my left leg squeezes Ellie’s side, she picks up her right lead. “Go pass your pace and into your working rhythm.” Russell’s rhythm appears again as Ellie and I canter to the single. One, two, three; one two, three. Her stride stays the same. Her bay body comes forward and over the jump.

Next, turn left, come back to pace. Okay, now to the combination. Two strides to the bounce. I am getting nervous; those fences are substantially taller than the others.

Russell’s fingers quicken in velocity. Her stride also grows faster. We are three strides out, and I don’t see the distance. Noah punches my shoulder. It startles me enough that I pause, and then take a deep breath. I smile, and journey back to the ring. I finish the combination perfectly, and the brick wall comes very naturally. As we round the turn to the outside line, I focus in on the distance. Right leg every stride: one, two, one two-the bell rings.

The loud bell quickly locks my imagination away again. Ellie’s bay coat soon fades into gray and then into the abyss. My fingers desperately grip the reins as they slowly melt away. I sigh, as I let my foot out of the stirrup and slide off Ellie. “Back to the real world,” I sigh. Back to school. Imagination carries me back to school and into reality. My helmet and boots dissolve into dust particles and travel back into my closet. My hair unbraids itself exactly as it was at school. My figure appears again in the blue plastic chair in front of the computer. Deep breath in, my imagination is set aside. It will wait patiently for me to pick up my notebook and pencil once again and set it free.

Paths Hayden Davis First a blinding flash, followed by a mesmerizing sea of red and the embrace of defeat. Thoughts coincide with dreams in a paradox of reality. This brave soul was born of fire and forged by water, and now it wanders without aim through the quagmire of oblivion. It simply moved, in a path, determined by destiny and controlled by fate through the world of the mortal. Mortal in body but eternal in spirit, this phrase gives it a cause to fight, fight against the oppressive cruelty of mankind and all of his treacherous ways.

The blood that now flows across the cold hard floor is merely another unforgettable stain on the memory of mankind. Yet he forgets. He simply moves on along his path, never questioning or wondering. This is a tribute to those whose souls have left their bodies not because destiny deemed it time but because mankind never learns, yet always forgets.

This is a tribute to those who fell to earth from twin steel giants on 9/11. This is a tribute to the young at Sandy Hook, striving to gain an education and forge their own path in the world whose blood was spilled in vain, for no cause and with no gain.

This is for the students of Virginia Tech, Columbine, Oklahoma City, and the innocent moviegoers of Boulder Colorado. This is for the Jews in the holocaust whose blood ran as thick as that in all of history, and for those stranded in the gulags with no hope of salvation, forcefully condemned to a life of brutal servitude.

This is for those who fell in the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and for the spectators at the Boston Marathon. It’s for those in the Atlanta bombing, the men, women, and children on the streets of Syria, and those who die every day in the alleys of American Cities.

Some may forget the valiant paths he or she embarks upon through your lives but those who can fathom the pain of a family who is forced to suffer the passing of a loved one will surely‌ Remember. If we can take time to observe these atrocities, we may avoid them in times to come.

The Home Stretch Colleen Mairs The warm sun glazes the tall tree branches hanging over the uncut grass, their edges sharp. The smell of spring coats the air with a soft and smooth motion. The mountains in the distance cuddle the Grymes’ horizon in a way that makes you feel at home. A strong glare pierces my peripheral vision, Abby’s bronze hair gleams in the bright and cascading sun rays. A cherry tree sits to the right of her, the cherry blossoms burst like fireworks as they have done in earlier years. As the deadline creeps closer and closer, the trees no longer sway in the right direction nor do the clouds align in correct form. Ants find new homes due to the construction as well as the graduating 8th Graders find new schools for their freshman year of high school. Birds glide high in the air while the sound of construction drills into my brain, making the big train in my thoughts come to a stop.

As the construction spreads across campus, I realize how much Grymes has changed and how much I have changed. Since my arrival here, my personality has altered as fast as the autumn leaves that hang ever so slightly on the tall standing trees. But with a new personality, comes a new attitude. Time flies, people change, nature changes. I guess over the years my surrounding environment has caused me to be a person who sees life through a camera lens, impeccable and flawless. If I had to leave something behind, it would be to engage. Engage in groups, engage with others. Don’t avoid communication, instead embrace it. Be who you are, not who others want you to be. Goodbye Grymes. I’ll miss you.

Don’t forget about me….

Experience Mary Simms She sits quietly and gently rests her head on her arm. She has been told to try and escape her body and view herself from above. Her soft blonde hair flows around her black leather vest. She’s just a child. Her head usually filled with so many things is now completely blank. The air around is still and silent.

I am she. As I go up and up, I see through the rough red building surrounded in a sea of grass.

And inside those walls is that one loose strand of hair that lifts up from all the rest and tries to go with the still and silent air. But the walls that protect me from the outside are caving in as her mind remains blank. Outside, where you have to learn to grow up and become something, is getting stronger and walls don’t last forever, they fall.

The farther up I go, the less connected to me I feel. I can only picture the way I am now. I just can’t slow it down to stay where I am. I’m going to have to leave some day and that day is coming just a little too fast. I don’t know where I’m going. I feel a spark and realize the outside is coming in and a thought presses into my head filling a speck which will eventually turn into more. I don’t quite understand everything that filled into that one speck of my brain but as the walls start to tumble, I will understand more and more.

I go up and up, seeing all those people in their homes and cars, filled with the outside. Some are doctors, some are policeman and some are teachers and librarians. They teach people to understand and to live in the outside world. Some people call it reality and some people call it growing up but whatever it is, it is coming faster and faster into my head as I sit here gently. As more of the walls begin to wash away, more thoughts come into my head. That little speck has turned into something more and developed like a flower. One minute, it’s a seed and the next its spread to a fist.

I don’t want to have to understand or grow up, I just want to stay me. These walls will not last much longer. Maybe a few weeks at the most but once the walls fall, my whole life will change. I have to change. I have to except what I’m going to become. Growing up, they say is never easy but I will understand soon enough. I will have to support myself and be like those people I look up to, but I thought I would always have to look up to someone, even though as I grow up, people watch me and learn from my mistakes, but they don’t know all the lessons I have learnt from how I have messed up and the embarrassment that came along with it.

Having someone to help you along with those things are important. I never did. My parents grew up in a totally different environment and community. I had to learn by myself and my parents could only support me with the things they knew. But one wall is down and that came with more wisdom and knowledge. The outside isn’t as scary as it seems. Growing up comes with lots of responsibility but I’m ready for that.

Just because I’m growing up and I’m not as ready as I seem, some day when I come back and you see me again, you will still see me as that girl as she sits quietly and gently rest her head on her arm, you will see that she made it and turned out just right.

Who am I?

Loretta Nelson

I’m a Blue Diamond About to touch my dream I am the number 3 It is the start of a new beginning I am waves Above the water I am hope Something to keep I am love Something to experience 3 I am a laugh My voice brings happiness I am an eagle Soaring above you I am a saxophone My music dances through your ear I will be the voice You will always hear

My Brother’s a Cajun Noah H. Brear To Isaac, enjoy.

“And I popped out of my shoit and jumped into dat wivah ta catch dem cwayfish! I hopped out haulin’ a ‘ole lotta dem!” says my brother, Isaac, clearly talking about his new line of work at his job, Miter, “So when I gowt back, me ‘n’ momma fwied up so of dem delish cwayfish and den chowwed down ta da Saints game!”

It’s always been this way in my house. My brother, Isaac, lives up in DC, but will come down for holidays and special occasions. I was never around when my brother lived at home. He was 15 when I came around, so when I could remember him, he had gone to college.

Isaac was born in New Orleans in the 80’s which makes him not only a “Ragin’ Cajun”, but also a “Retro Cajun”. My mother often tells me that Isaac only lived in New Orleans for about a year and that he doesn’t have an accent, but that “cwayfish” isn’t fooling me.

Isaac, like most Cajuns, does not know what a whisper is. Whenever we talk, I come out of the conversation with my ears bleeding. Constantly I am being tossed out of libraries whenever my brother comes to help me on research projects.

Like Werewolves, Cajuns transform at the sight of a full crayfish. That said: going to China Garden in Culpeper with Isaac is a nightmare. Once in the restaurant, he kneels down and howls, “Wheah is da wivaaaaaaah!” before dashing off. Then, in the distance, you can see little, red crayfish shells flying in the air and screams of the people around.

Well, now Isaac is getting married to a person from Boston named Catherine , which means that if they have kids, they will like to eat Boston Crème Crayfish, and I don’t know that Ben and Jerry’s carries that.

Isaac and Catherin recently traveled to New Orleans. I am assuming, because I don’t know, that Isaac got a “hankerin’” for some crayfish. He told us about his experiences in New Orleans during Easter.

I had to translate for my friends and some of my family, although some do speak Cajun.

This is what he said: “So me and Catwan went down to Owins and got cwayfish. MMMMM I love me some cwayfish weal good.”

This is what it translates to: “Catherin and I headed down to New Orleans to experience the city and dine on their cuisines, especially crayfish. I enjoyed the crayfish.”

So, my brother and I have some cultural differences, but that doesn’t separate us as a family.

Sure, my brother is a raging, loud, carnivorous Cajun and I’m a young country club city-boy, but right now I can’t un-brother him. He’s family, retro, crayfish-craving, Cajun family.

“Summer” Thomas Williams The hot and sticky summer air clung to the small child’s wrinkled shirt as he tugged at the corner of his mom’s blouse. His deep blue eyes shot up to where his mother’s face was hidden behind the ledge of the counter that jutted out from the table top. The mother’s face became increasingly wrinkled with annoyance until she disappeared behind the counter and knelt down to the same level as the child.

“Mom I’m thirsty, it’s so hot,” he cried out in a pitiful tone.

“Here’s some money, you can go get something to drink.” The child quickly shot his arm up to grab the crumpled 5 dollar bill with his damp and sweaty hands. Without any notice, he scrambled off down the middle off the gas station and disappeared behind the end of an aisle that read ICE COLD BEER. The mother calmly whispered, “Other way, honey.” Only a few seconds later, the child passed through the opening at the end of the aisle. The child’s small feet slid across the tile floor with a distinct flopping of untied shoelaces. The mother turned back to the clerk and asked for twenty dollars for pump two, along with a 12oz can of vanilla coke, the drink she assumed the child would return with. Almost simultaneously, a black and red coke can was placed upon the counter, and the child opened the door and skittered out to the car, the small crumbles of unearthed asphalt crackling under his heavy steps.

Once he reached the car, he slid his fingers into the door handle and pulled with all his weight until the door lurched open with a clunking of plastic and metal. A precautionary step was taken backwards before the leap into the car that seemed many feet too high to clamber into. After this series of events, and multiple attempts at the leap, he strapped himself in to his seat and patiently waited for his mom to make her way across the parking lot. To pass the time, he lightly kicked the seat in front of him, alternating feet, he seemed to enjoy the swishing sound that his jeans made as his legs swayed to and fro. The mother quietly opened the door and placed the ice cold can into the hands of the child. He held it for a couple seconds, taking in the blizzard that the can was releasing into his hands. He struggled to squeeze his small fingers in between the coke’s bulging lid and the small aluminum lever opening system. Finally, he gave up on the seemingly impossible battle and quickly resorted to his mother for help. She easily opened it and handed it back to the boy who quickly snatched it up and brought it directly to his face, letting the dark liquid roll over his tongue and the sweetness engulf his senses.

Throughout this child’s life, he will always remember that feeling of a refreshing vanilla coke sweeping away the hot, sticky air on a summer’s afternoon, and the small movie clip of his mother’s face as she glanced backwards through the rear view mirror, and he lifted his eyes from the can to meet hers.

When their eyes met, the child held his gaze, and the mother did the same. He giggled and the mother followed in a laughing chorus as they pulled away from pump two, and the child brought the can back to his lips and let the liquid rollover his tongue, and although the mother could not see it, a tear of happiness rolled down his cheek.