ODYSSEY
MAGAZINE
“ Without literature, life is hell. ” Charles Bukowski
ISB HS Literary magazine 2013
The Odyssey 2012-2013
The Odyssey Club Members 2012-2013 Jusmita Saifullan Alitha Partono Becca Chairin Molly McCarty Cole Whiteley Samantha Brickerd Johanna Stiefler Johnson Thanya Chat
The Odyssey 2012-2013
Stars
Poetry Contest Winner: First Place
By Brittany Taylor I owe my inspiration to the stars People make excuses, let you down, aren’t dependable Stars come out at the same time, same place, every night Problems can seem big and overwhelming Compare them to the endless ocean of twinkling lights Realize just how small and insignificant they are When people fall, they try to drag you down with them Falling stars give us hope, enough hope to make a wish Looking up at the radiant silver pool Forget all of your current endeavors Enjoy your freedom and life Often I wonder what the stars do while they shimmer all night long Do they admire their serene state? Or do they find it monotonous? Do they look upon us to see what adventures await them? Witnessing all of the pain, heartache They must see countless acts of hate, and selfishness Enough temptation to destroy all innocence
The stars might even turn away in disgust vowing to never look again But they do Every night they continue to look down on us Going through our lives, learning all of our deepest secrets But why look when there’s so much pain? Love If they witness all of this hate Think of all the times they’ve witnessed love Random acts of kindness The love of a mother Two people breaking all of the rules to spend one night together This intriguing emotion is unpredictable and pure Love often shapes the best adventures The best stories Before you do something think of the stars Would you destroy their hope in humanity or restore it? I constantly glance up at the beautiful stars and wonder Do they ever look down on us and think we’re beautiful too?
Life in Bangkok
By Ella Park
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Silence ON By Helen Chang
To say that we will meet One day, Is a lie With plane ready for flight We promise to greet With fondness and delight We both cling on To the promised joy To believe Separation will be short awhile So we pray, And trudge on, On unfamiliar streets So we live In frayed hope; Remembering you Frozen in time I wonder If road's gone astray. Time runs on like a haze, Giving me its silent gaze.
Poetry Contest Winner: Second Place Blundering silence Ripping your characters apart A mirrored image of you set for so long. But I knew it was within our expectation And I think you knew it too. Friendships fade In a drop of brittle word That left a little stain Of unspeakable silence To remember all those years We know it was the truth: separation, Yet it stirs up unruly tears But in the end it doesn't matter Who let go first. Me or you.
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By Anonymous
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The Odyssey 2012-2013 It's Friday But I'm Not In Love By Azreen Bhai
I’ll never forget looking, searching, finding you Standing with you during the intermission Fifteen minutes, worth more than the 87 days of turmoil before it. You smelled bad, like whiskey and microwaved roses, Which I would come to learn was the smell of really bad weed. One hundred and fifteen days later Holding hands, felt like for hours The sounds of screeching, screaming, cans of snow spray falling below us The moon was out, but I can’t remember looking at it once. Five days later Our first fight, blown out of proportion, Just because I can, just because I wanted to. Another five days Bliss Twenty days I love that you can’t spell the word servant And that you eat like a child Your voice, the way you say my name And follow me around like a lost puppy The way we can talk for hours, consume the world around us But also revel in the silence, devouring the details. I loved the poem you wrote, But I don’t want it, don’t need it, anymore It’s no longer mine to keep and so I am returning it: “I am nothing of a painter, But in my head I drew a picture of you and I Perfect shades of pink, black and white Here I lay, just a fool I am nothing of a poet But in my head there was a song about you and I
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Poetry Contest Winner: Third Place The beauty inside was captured by the words between the lines But here I lay, just a fool.” And we can skip the next thirty months Because they’re all the same, redundant, repetitive, superfluous bullshit I had already been in the Intensive Care Unit for two days when you choose to go to Bonnarroo you should have come to see me, I knew you would I thought you were going to I would wake up every morning, asking if you’d come, called, something, anything. The answer remained the same stagnant no Though the pity that accompanied it increased over the course of my eight day stay. There were tubes everywhere, people came to see me to say goodbye, Cried in my hair and told me I was going to be okay, Though they didn’t really seem to believe it. The jelly beans said what words could not. While my idiot doctor kept reassuring me that I was an “honest guy” and that my liver would be fine you were off crushing, rolling, snorting things you did well, things that made you numb and not care the only thing they had in common was the fact that once you came down, I was all you had, all you wanted. But that wasn’t even the worst part It was awful when you denied it Like that time June walked in on you and that fat guy In the bathroom at that party You were holding the foil
The Odyssey 2012-2013
And that guy, all sweaty, with the lighter and the spoon, just blinked at her, confused. She was embarrassed, felt sorry for you, Shut the door and ran away, You went after her, asked her to not tell anyone, especially me. Worse than your absence at the hospital, by my side on that boat or when I had that surgery, Worse than that time on the stairs, or on my balcony, or the ear fingers Worse than that picture, or that party or those lies Is that it took me another 450 days to stop. I am somewhat ashamed to still be thinking these thoughts, Standing here, saying these words, But I needed this catharsis, To purge you from my memory with one final act. I warned you from the start, I am not my mother. And one day you’ll wake up, Looking older than your number age, wrinkles on your face Alone, naught but your crooked teeth The peril of the junkie’s existence.
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By Becca Chairin
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Afterlife
By Johanna Stiefler Johnson
Short Story Contest Winner: First Place
Lola was sad. She had sadness bubbling in each rounded bone in her spine, each tendon on the curve of her foot, each plate in her skull, line on her palm. It was a tangible thing, she thought, because she could feel it as it ate the lining of her stomach and stretched the skin across her knuckles tight. She could feel it when she clenched and unclenched her fists, when she let her hair down from ponytails, smiled. It was the kind of sadness that likes to sneak up on teenagers in the dark. Not entirely explained because she had friends and a mother and father and a bed, and yet every day was a chore that went on for hours, hours. Lola was sad. Lola wanted to die. This is much as the star knows: it is falling out of the sky and soon it will be dead. Travelling at the speed of light, it passes meteorites and toy rockets and planets encircled with halos. Bits are torn away from its face and back; space is skinning it alive. Every dazzling moment that passes it a moment that forces it closer to hell--that is, Earth, the star’s destination. It does all it can to slow down but it’s no use. It is falling, and as it cries and prays to the sunrise that is life will be spared by some unrealistic turn of gravity, it realizes there is no use. Far ahead, through the elastic darkness that implodes upon scorching eyes, it sees a foamy layer of pink clouds. Soon, people will be pointing at it, making wishes because it is a shooting star and they have no idea of its suffering. Wishes will be whispered into windowsills or curtains, lovers’ shoulders, grassy hills. People will make trivial, wasteful wishes and grand ones. Wishes will be made that are forgotten in the morning over cold cereal or bread, toasted to diminish the staleness. No one will spare a thought for what happens to a star after it’s flung across the sky like a pistol shot. The star is a pinprick children depict in drawings of night skies. A celestial body. It is falling, falling, dying. Lola had never in her life seen a shooting star. They were phantoms, she believed--the hallucinations of insomniac minds. She lived in a blaring city where the sky was clouded by dull pollution and lights. She wished on eyelashes instead because shooting stars were unreliable. It was an icy January evening that Lola decided to die. She had not pulled out any eyelashes that day and therefore had nothing to wish upon. She felt very sad. Wishes are for losers anyway, she decided. I’m going to die, she added. According to the puffy-lipped weather woman, it was very cold, but Lola did not put on a jacket as she walked quietly out her door and into the city. The lights shone around her like flies with kaleidoscopic eyes that saw her through each socket. The buildings skulked and watched her, a teenage girl, fair and bare, wearing nothing but slippers and light pajamas. She walked silently through the streets and towards death. This idea made her belly jump. The wind was cruel and whipped at her hair, below zero, yet she felt nothing.
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Reaching Out
By Alitha Partono
She reached the outskirts of the city, and was soon following the meandering trail of a footpath through the fields. It was hard to tell how long she had been walking, but the sky was pitch black now, and her fingers were blue. The air that escaped her lips was a veil of mist that came in puffs. Lola looked around and wondered, almost serenely, what would be the best way to take her life. She walked forward, and her steps were weighted down by bags of sand. The thought that beat themselves against her skull were frenzied warriors, and she felt them all until they were bruised in every lobe of her brain. Lola longed to escape this prison of skin, which clung to her like honey in a beehive. She examined her legs--dark against the powder-sugar snow--her bony fingers, her ragged hair between fingertips. She pressed her palms over her eyes in an attempt to make the suffocating darkness absolute. Then she dropped her hands and looked into the sky, which is where she saw it.
The shattering sphere breaks through a sheet of clouds with ease. People in this world look up at it and exclaim. Middle school girls wish for storybook romance. Ambitious freshmen wish for glorious futures. Scientists and writers wish for breakthroughs and boys wish for beards bigger than their fathers’. The star is nearing its hell, where it will land and explode and perish. Splintering glass. When it vanishes from the sky, oblivious people will grin because they can say they saw a shooting star. Will any of them realize that the very thing they wished upon was petrified destruction? No. The star screams, but there is nothing to be heard over the wind. Lola’s mouth kissed the air in a perfect “o”. Her eyes were satellites in her head and she stood motionless, seemingly submerged in a pool of dark water because she heard nothing but swollen silence. The shooting star was like a piece of sunlight falling right out of the sky. Mesmerizing. Lola’s mind was supple, white, as the star grew larger. She envied is lack of emotion, its reckless fire. Little did she know that it did not want to fall, did not wish to be a source of people’s hope and admiration. It wanted life- the ability to stay like a fixed lighthouse in the sky, forming constellations. The star was coming towards her. Lola had never seen anything so great or bright or beautiful. It burned like all the sadness and hatefulness inside her, but it was magnificent. She spread her arms. Closed her eyes and imagined melting away like candle wax. Lola had never laughed so hard. Lola wanted to die.
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The Odyssey 2012-2013 The star is so close it can taste sea air on its fiery lips. It sees the tops of buildings and the stretching yellow fields. It sees pointing fingers, and can almost hear the wishes that are sighed into downy pillows and shouted elatedly from rooftops. It sees the girl, and she is drawing very close. Move, you fool. When it hit her, the star was no longer a burning orb of light but a meteorite that left a crater in the face of the Earth. Lola burst into flame as it cascaded around her with the force of a thousand mines, and just like that, she was nothing. She floated away upon wings of palpable bliss. Everything inside her stopped--heart, brain, sadness. The star stained the face of its very hell. It no longer burned, no longer screamed, no longer cared that wishes had been made on its excruciating agony. Lola was dead, too, and she could see everything as though through a misted window. It was very quiet. She floated away, letting her eyes follow the dent in the ground, which had been made by something that was once glorious. She wondered if she could look closely enough to see the remains of her aorta or intestines--proof that she no longer existed as a pumping heart and veins. The hole gaped and she had to look away because even now, dead and extinguished, its yawning emptiness blinded her. She had stolen its place among the stars in the sky. Scientists would study the dent in the face of the Earth and call it a meteorite. Policemen would investigate the disappearance of a teenage girl. Tell me it’s not as bad as I think it is, moaned the fallen star, this corpse that had, not moments ago, exploded into itself and taken a life while wishing on itself to keep its own. I’m sorry, was all she said.
Untitled
By Tata Tangthanakul
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The Irony of Being Cupid
The Odyssey 2012-2013
By Alitha Partono
“Bull’s-eye,” I mutter to myself, watching two young’uns stare at each other like they’ve discovered the meaning of life. I quickly hide my weapon in the pocket of my jeans as surreptitiously as possible, satisfied with my work. It’s Valentine’s Day. While the rest of the world’s male population worries over flower orders, chocolate grams, and trinkets best left unnamed, I am swamped with work. Yes, as anyone would expect, February 14th is the busiest day of the year for Cupid. Just like February 2nd is a busy day for groundhogs all over Pennsylvania. At least, I think Groundhog Day involves actual groundhogs. Anyway, my point is that I’m exhausted and it’s not even noon yet. Too many people have decided to profess their love on Valentine’s Day every year. And they all need my help! Who else is going to make sure that they fall in love with the right person? Well, I guess it’s time for a snack break. Sitting on a nearby bench, I conjure a granola bar from the depths of my backpack to munch on while watching people stroll around the park. I’m halfway through the honey-nut goodness when I spot a gray-haired man fidgeting with a small box while a middle-aged woman sits on a bench reading, a few feet away from him, oblivious to her surroundings. I can see the chemistry floating in between them like intoxicating perfume. All he needs is a little nudge. I check that my gun is loaded before aiming at the man’s heart. The invisible bullet hits his chest and forms a barrier around him that only I can see. Then, I proceed to do the same with the woman. The second her barrier forms, the man walks up to her and starts talking. She looks up and smiles lovingly. Mission accomplished. I am about to put away the gun when I hear a shrill voice say, “You’re Cupid, aren’t you?” I turn to my left and find a teenage girl staring at me in awe. Oh, no. Teenagers are the worst. They always expect me to help them impress a “crush” when there is not an ounce of chemistry between
Short Story Contest Winner: Second Place them. I need to come up with a cover before it’s too late. As if reading my mind, the girl says, “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to get someone to like me. I’m just curious.” She shrugs. I study her freckled face and braided hair and decide that she’s harmless. “I prefer the name Will,” I say, taking another bite from my granola bar. “Oh, so you’re undercover?” she asks, sitting next to me without invitation. I raise an eyebrow at her. “No. William is my middle name. And I don’t like being associated with archers in diapers, so I don’t usually prefer my unfortunate first name.” “And instead of a bow and arrow, you use a gun instead?” she asks. She was not kidding when she said she’s curious. “I have a crossbow at home, but people don’t seem to think it’s acceptable to carry around a medieval weapon during non-Halloween days,” I explain. “My dad is more of the bow and arrow type, anyway.” Now that she’s got me talking, it’s hard to stop—I don’t get to talk about my job often. I might need to find a Holiday Mascots Anonymous group sometime soon. I heard the tooth fairy formed one recently. “Can I look at it? The gun, I mean?” I eye her suspiciously, but I’m tired of being so uptight all the time. I’ll probably regret it, but I hand her my precious weapon. She silently examines the device while I marvel at how wonderful the park is without her voice constantly yapping at me. “Would you like a chocolate heart?” she asks, holding up a paper bag with the word CHOCOLATE written across it. I politely decline. I’ve tasted way too many chocolate hearts during the past month. Chocolate tasting is part of the job. Not that I’m complaining. “Do you have a girlfriend? It must be easy finding one when you’re Cupid,” she asks. She seems to enjoy this encounter, unironically. Meanwhile, my day just went from incredibly busy to incredibly annoying. When will she go away?
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The Odyssey 2012-2013 “On the contrary,” I say, throwing away the granola wrapping in a trashcan nearby. “I can’t shoot myself, and the only other Cupid around is my dad, who I rarely spend time with anyway, so no, I have never been in a relationship.” Why I keep on answering her questions is beyond me. But I suppose this makes for a more interesting Valentine’s Day. “You know, I can help you with that,” she says, still fiddling with the gun. “So you just shoot two people in the chest with this, right? And then they fall in love. So if I—” It dawns on me what she’s trying to do when she points the gun directly at me. This is obviously the worst mistake I have ever made. If she even tries to shoot me… I don’t even want to think about it. “Wait, no! You’re not authorized to—oh!” And she hits me perfectly. I feel a bit woozy for a few seconds. “Oops! Sorry,” she says. She bites her lower lip in regret. “I think I missed.” Something catches my eye. “Wow,” I say, completely spellbound, “that tree is really lush, green, and…beautiful.”
Hyangwonjeong and Chyhyanguyo By Esther Lim
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Evelyn
By Amber Barnett
Short Story Contest Winner: Third Place
When I met you, you were lying down in the street. From that alone I should have known you were extraordinary. You sure looked tired. I didn’t know your name then--you were just a stranger. And everything about you was red. Your dress. Your lips. Your hair. You were sanguine in every meaning of the word. Your skin was rosy as if embarrassed, and yet even lying on the ground you looked a proud woman. What struck me most was the elegance of your body; it reminded me of a landing swan. Your bare feet were delicately crossed as though for crucification, and your hands rested gently on your pearl necklace in your sleep. You were lovely. Evelyn. When I learned your name, I remembered thinking how fitting a sound it was for you. Its sound and meaning implied radiance. I remember how the sun glinted off the glass around you, like a shattered halo, and I thought everything so appropriate. Right before I saw you, I saw a white handkerchief fall from the sky. It fluttered by in a subtle descent, like a wayward butterfly. It was serene and it was beautiful, and I watched it for a long minute. The crash that followed the handkerchief registered faintly in my mind. I turned around, and saw you for the first time, sleeping. You had followed your handkerchief just as gracefully as it had fallen. The metal bent impossibly around you looked to me like a blackened crib. Evelyn. Evelyn the extraordinary. Everything about you was red, and you were perfect. In red there is birth, there is life, and there is death. I would never know your birth. Or your life. But in death, you were lovely.
The Most Beautiful Suicide By Robert Wiles
May 1, 1947
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Understand
By Samantha Brickerd Pink and red lines All around your wrist. Tell me Sweetheart, How has it come to this? The one you love Has left And the ears of the world Suddenly fall deaf. Hope is drowned out By the silence of your screams And the nightmares, Become your only dreams. Then the darkness Begins to engulf you And you start to wish, That your life was through.
Oh, Sweetheart Hold your chin high, Because that’s all they want, They want to see you cry. Don’t let them see Through the closed door. Don’t let them see Your knees hit the floor. Smile and say “I’m fine,” Because you know They’ll ask all the time Let them believe That you are at your best When you and I know This is the worst.
I watch Heart breaking I know that smile your wear Is only you faking Tell me Sweetheart How do I save you from yourself?
Have the courage to be imperfect. By Jayna Milan
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Sangkhom Manthan
By Gunn Chaiyapatranun
Dig Through Me
By Praewploy Kiatpipattanakun Faceless nights where I sit up awake in that field, silence and noise coming through the pores, bleeding out streams of endless mist, oozing drops of your smile, your voice, it comes out from the room of grinders and honey and Winnie-the-Pooh bears, chirping birds and that one book sitting in your Amazing-Wonderful-Heartrending shelf My honey drips on your books, your hands. There it is, my pen, in your mouth, from the honey, created, ah it grows in your mouth, And it bursts, ink spattering the honey, so that it turns yellowish-blue. You open your mouth and it is gone. But I have a smear seeping through my body, right down to the soul. Dig through me and you shall find it!
Cigarette Smoke
By Nick Callahan
In a sick dark room Where the sweaty walls Dripped with the sour smell of tobacco Lay a grey, unkempt book Of little importance No matter how often read It never felt understood Because those who did Never acted upon it And with every hand that clutched its seams They tore them And it had pages that it did not want read These pages were stuck together The book was sick And it’s sickness seethed The words written in blue eyes Turned scarlet
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Who Am I?
By Hannah Morgan Who am I? I think the real question is, what am I not. I am not a warm, colorful summer I am not a Sunday morning. I am not a field of flowers dancing in the breeze I am much colder than just a December freeze. I am not the ray of light shining through a window on a Tuesday afternoon, I may have seen many thunderstorms, too many, too soon. I, however, am much more complicated than a late Friday night, I’m a shattered mirror in the middle of October. I am the cold, gush of wind that blows through your open door I am the January chill that will freeze you to the core. I am the sound of muffled thunder in the distance of a storm. I am the brick tied to the sting of a balloon, preventing it from floating away, I am the unfortunate, unwanted hailstorm in May.
The Weeping Willow
By Meredith Shepard The weeping willow, is a dying, crying tree Her draping branches caress the ground below Her dark wooden trunk is built of hidden sorrow
Untitled
By Anonymous
She grows in the shade, ignored by all Awaiting the heavy ‘thunk’ of an axe’s fall
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She puts out leaves, like little green tears A blissful way to unburden herself of fears She does her best to reach for the sky But alas, the weeping willow is a crying tree, destined to die
The Odyssey 2012-2013
The Pretty One By Samantha Brickerd
Everyone loves the pretty one She’s smart, energetic and fun. Oh, she is loved by all, But she swears she’ll never fall. She will smile and keep it hidden To her showing tears and pain are forbidden. No matter the sorrow. She will wake up, and wear a smile tomorrow, Each day she lives has been rehearsed Some days she wishes roles were reversed. She doesn’t want to be the pretty one. All perky, bright and fun, All she really wants; is to be alone.
Untitled
By Earn Phichaiphrome
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Tomorrow And Forever By Abigail Rutledge
I think of the note often The crumbled feel And the dents of the pressed writing The soft curves of blue ink And tears sting my eyes at those last words, whispering “I love you, Tomorrow and Forever.” But that car had to come We had to leave your house, Without anyone knowing And we took the car into the towns cobbled roads. Without anyone knowing And the car turned the corner Without us knowing And the last thing I saw hurt more than my crippled leg Black Black sky Black pavement Black smoke Your dull black eyes And your last colorless words, “I love you, Tomorrow and Forever.”
Untitled
By Anonymous
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Define “break” Because I’m afraid I don’t understand How one syllable, Five simple letters Quite an insignificant word, really Can mean so many things People break in shoes Break out in sweats You can break in a horse And you can certainly break a promise Glass windows, voices and days break Bones, too I admit, the modest word itself Break Seemingly innocent Casts images of shattered wine glasses and skulls across My guarded mind And I must remind myself that my parents Always look forward to coffee breaks, that I Like boys who aren’t afraid Of breaking the tentative ice, that the World could do with a bit more spontaneity and Breaking news is extemporaneous I remind myself that the word itself Break Is not always referring to me Remind myself to let sunlight break through the shades And perhaps break open a box of chocolate When my mind is too tired to dwell on broken hearts
Dubious Thoughts
By Johanna Stiefler Johnson
By Ciel Sriprasert
Break
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Untitled
By Morgan York No time wasted Attitudes changed Expressions are lost in translation But the meaning is true The feelings are pure They lay hand in hand together A cool wind invites shivers Closer and closer they huddle Protecting and salvaging warmth
She feels a shift then an absence Then it’s not darkness she sees But chocolate pools That reach out into eternity Their lips touch Warmth fills her cheeks A closeness never known An instinct never touched
At last silence Darkness engulfs the sky A peaceful moment Shared and expressed The company is valued
Gerascophobia
By Amber Barnett
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At last they break Driven by duty Instead of need Time is sacred Though valued However short lived it may be
The Odyssey 2012-2013
Blink
By Sing-Ying Lin mirrors of today depict life a barren essence toiling away as the time ticks beings marching round void of sense a pointless existence a single ticket from a show film reel stretched too tense snapped, won’t bend, won’t bow a view from the box seat a show of moonlight players dancing with sore feet independent void of haunting prayers a reel of film flash and roll and it’s over life tolled chance lost and trolled shamed with regrets, bitter screams slammed with never ending words cadavers throwing into the broken dreams and none of the pleas ever hears it is too late it is now known an advice of the old so dusty worn to the bone rarely used, rarely told: live wisely yet without concerns in the present without the frets don’t watch as the threads burn and end up without regrets.
Forest Fire By Helen Chang
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The Odyssey 2012-2013
Toil
By Sarah Poff
I sit alone on a tainted white bench For a bus that will never put me first Could it be that I stand too close and stench To lie, to thieve, to starve or die of thirst My weary body lies tattered and torn Broken, beaten to a dismal pallor In cotton fields as a slave I am sworn Unlike the soldier fighting with valor Were it put to vote in the grey heavens An eternal equality resides Make us courageous amongst our brethren To go where pride and fear together hide Rise above the chains of white dominance Stand strong with dignity and prominence.
Down is Up, Up is Down By Paz Porapakkham
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The Odyssey Club would like to thank... ISB High School Students HS Creative Writing Classes HS English Teachers Odyssey Advisors
Mr. Fitzgerald Ms. Fretheim
HS Principal HS Art Teacher
Mr. Bradley Ms. Lambie-Jones Khun Toto
HS English Secretary
Khun Nong
The Odyssey 2012-2013