McKinney High School 2019 The Lost Art Literary Magazine by The Lost Art

THE

LOA ST T

V O L. V I

The

Lost Art

The

Lost Art McKINNEY HIGH SCHOOL 1400 WILSON CREEK PKWY. McKINNEY, TX 75069

Vol. VI

Literature

Photography and Artwork

Table of COntents Cover Art

Reality

Megan Ward Nathan Unsted

Preface Art Sarah Moorehead

by Sarah Moorehead | Colored Pencil

journey through THE

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We constantly strive for order within chaos. In this volume, we seek to explore the devolution of rational thought. Similar to Freudâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Theory of the Mind, each of our sections reveals a different aspect of the mind. In the first section, Reality investigates our need for order. Next, States of Consciousness represents the nature of ambiguity. In the final section, Dreams navigates disorientation and lack of clarity when things fall apart. As you delve into our mind, embrace the blurring of the chaotic and orderly.

Ethan Brausen | Photography

REality

Landry Raymond | Photography

Shearing A complex character I have learned to accept. His teeth no longer dangle in dainty white, for his heart is much too small to be seen in daylight. Peter, such a twisted root with branches only long enough for those who shower his soil with fresh water. You will forever anger me, Peter. The sight of your upturned nose and poised shoulders will continue to scar my skull. Summer tells me that you went to Italy. Did you find what you were looking for? I wish I could see you stuck in that state of self-reflection, but I know no mirror will volunteer to provide a platform of truth. You will forever make me sick, Peter. I often wonder, if I could trick Father Time, can I convince him to release the answer? Not even the Angel of Death could give me peace as I lay in my green sheets. It makes me uncomfortable to reminisce on the times of blooming roses. After the third manipulation, I convinced you to knock before you touch. Regret lies heavy within your veins, but trust me, you don’t need to own up to anything. I don’t know what it's like to be a coward, but I do know what it's like to leave one. Forever.

by Anika Newland

Meeting again, the clouds were so heavy that day as they swirled in conceptual confusion. Your mental state is predictable, but I dare not admit my thoughts still linger at your door. You make want to sever my limbs and examine them with a magnifying glass. You have an effect on me that is uncontrollable. Picking at my bare cuticles, I wait under the fern where we first laid eyes, the only thing you can’t take away. I can give you my mind, touch, air, but I can’t change the way I look at you. Often mesmerized by your spirit but only in the darkest of light, lowest of low. I’m baffled by you, Peter. I only use you as a tool, something to help me learn, for I know you never will. Hiding is only temporary, Peter. Seeking is permanent danger. My own hazel clouds drip as I throw everything I once loved into the frigid waters. I peer through the stained glass of this holy space, only to realize I hope the best for you. I hope you find everything you were trying to change. For in the end, when I really concentrate on your soul, I only find pity.

Ver isst

ichvermisse

by Nalla Smith

January 28, 2019, was the day you died. 5 packs a day killed you. The weight you carried was unbearable. That oxygen tank wasn’t heavy, but you still managed to let it drag you down. In and out of the hospital. Tubes that never came out of your nose. You couldn’t breathe. Tears of sadness fell from my eyes. Prayed every night that I’d still have you the next day. I’d still get a call every now and then from my Oma. I could’ve done the same. It wasn’t meant to happen this way. Not now not like this. Chocolate chip cookies every visit. You loved playing bingo every Sunday with Gunda.

The tremble your body created when you got cold was heartbreaking. You sat in your recliner and attempted to breathe. I drove two hours to get help wishing that you would never leave. Veins started to appear more than before. They weren’t blue anymore. Coughing. Wheezing. Unable to laugh. That’s when I couldn’t hold it back. You knew you were dying. That’s why you didn’t want assistance. But when your heart stopped working, was it worth going the distance? Lungs are pink. Yours were black. I don’t think they were supposed to be like that.

A pillow soaked of teardrops I found in your bedroom. It was time for you to get some rest soon. The kitchen table was your safe spot. I bet you missed Opa. Remember that’s where he tied the knot. You guys would drink coca. You’ll be able to see him everyday now. Pictures upon pictures laid out on the floor. I’d never seen you do this before. You must have been sad. I could see it in your eyes. Were you thinking of of the good ol’ times? My heart crumbles when I think of how you must’ve felt. I couldn’t imagine being in your shoes. Such different lifestyles. Yet so alike in the stubborn department. Yes, you were stubborn. That’s why you hated going to the hospital. I took you once. The week before you passed. That was the last time I saw you crash. Hatred you had towards that place. You said, “Get me out of here.”

What did it do to you? I was trying to help. All you had to do was let loose. You couldn’t walk straight. Always tripping over your own feet. Your balance was gone. Physically and mentally. I couldn’t do anything about that. Your body ached in pain. Ibuprofen was your best friend. It helped you sleep. Your dreams kept you awake at night. You woke up scared. Scared that you were going to lose your life soon. It was impossible to get you to realize you were sick. I swore to God that it wasn’t going to happen. But the time has come to an end. I wish I had never lost the most amazing old woman that impacted my life. The way she did. I’m sorry, I wish I could’ve done more.

Art Spread 3

Britteny Parr | Photography

Fossils

by Lilly Harlowe

The last of my kind. Adventuring in foreign terrain, solace within the silence.

Wolf

by Ava Aprea

Do you ever wonder what it’s like out there? Outside of these four walls, these atmospheres we surround ourselves with? I feel like I’m constantly suffocating. As if the world built a bridge under shark-infested waters and demanded we walk across it. Maybe we’re supposed to drown. Like the wolf howls to the moon, we howl “Wolf!” so that maybe someone will howl back to us. Was there ever a time, when leaves turned purple in the autumn glow, before we taught the trees how to grow? Did we ever consider the way we treat things now is how they will continue to be treated? A wise grandfather once spoke to me, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. This life is perfect just the way it is; embrace it.” We say nature doesn’t have feelings, but if you’ve ever cut down an apple tree, you’d here its groan with each whack of your sap-coated axe. How intolerant are we, to take everything for granted like we have an unlimited supply of resources to waste? We are not guaranteed lifetime warranties, so if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Instead try embracing it.

Then maybe, our children, the next generation, will treat this world better than us, because look at what we’ve done. We’ve created a society, an ancient civilization, that would rather fight wars than settle them. Rather tell people they have a right to free speech, but then silence them. Rather write stories about little girls who love themselves, classified under Fantasy, then to shut down the bullies who keep it from becoming a Reality. Parental compassion, I warn you, isn’t everything. And sometimes we need to hear it from ourselves that we are beautiful. Nobody ever taught us how to love ourselves, just how to love other people. Don’t you want to get out of here? Live in a place that isn’t filled with people who are all talk and no play. Who stop holding grudges over the petty things. This world, this atmosphere we surround ourselves with, it’s too small and too undiscovered to concern ourselves with all the things that don’t make us better.

Jared Glatz | Photography

Light skin by Nalla Smith

Are you mixed? Does this answer your question? Curly hair that never loses its pattern, unless burned with heat. I am the definition of natural. Sun-kissed skin that glows in the sunlight and shimmers in the moonlight. Green eyes as if they were taken and carved from Emerald City jewels. Flower-blossomed lips. Pursed and soft to the touch. Style so unique no one can steal.

Fanny Mendoza | Photography

Break W

Just look at me again. I swear I’ll hurt you. I’ll break you the same way you were built. Just look at me again with those eyes. I dare Break Me you. Look at me with those opals that gaze upon my reality, bash me, and build me back up again. Eyes that have the only key to the secret places in my heart. Eyes that look at me straight in the soul and tell me everything I am feeling without even speaking. Eyes that make me shake and contract with their very presence. Eyes that can pool up my guilt like water from a well. Stream tears as easily as the river flows down a mountain. Make me tell truths like I have never lied. Eyes that strip me of my courage and will to fight back. Make me nothing but a helpless child. Eyes that make me forget what I was even going to say in the first place. Eyes that drag me down into an unconscious bliss. Eyes that weigh me down in my despair, allure me into doing their deeds. I stand within your judge’s chambers deciding if I am guilty, if I am worthy of you. You stare into me with those eyes, those beckoning eyes that glisten in the moonlight with a wet seal of disappointment. Telling me that I am not enough and never will ever be. Eyes that write your feelings with invisible ink on the inside of your mind keeping them hidden from the world. Just look at me again. I know you will be coming back for more.

by Kalliope Kovatch

Britteny Parr | Photography

Elizabeth Chan | Photography

Cherished I have never felt so alive. No one will ever understand this but you. I scream so loud, the back of my throat aches for days, but it’s worth it; I’m having the time of my life. Secrets swirl as our braided hair holds flowers... such delicate, innocent, pink petals dancing in the wind of youth. I will never have to hide my faults, for you have the same ones as I. I will never hide my true feelings, for you understand me in totality. Although we have grown into tall sunflowers, the wind is still the same. Whispers of your pain only strengthen us both to reach toward the unchangeable. The beauty of effortless effort has made me realize why I cherish you most, why you truly are my person.

by Anika Newland

I don’t believe that you deserve to be served on a silver platter, but I know the silver platter would be happy to host your reflection. Passionate eyes and a big laugh are truly the gifts you bring to the world. Seeds spread throughout the soil, but I can always find myself coming back to you, naturally falling back in place through compassion and truth. Weeds aren’t even in our frame of reference, for new memories in the form of buds arise. Don’t look too far. Everything you need is in reach, but let’s explore the possibility of the unknown. In the end, I never want you to leave, I cannot imagine tackling life without your impeccable presence, what we have is special, just know I recognize that.

July 19th

by Ava Aprea

I hope this is the last time that I write about this, though I know it will not be. July 19th, 2017, was the worst day of my life, July and I often wonder if that little known fact will ever change. I like to think that if I had just gone home it would have never happened. Maybe, if I had screamed a little louder or fought back a little harder I wouldn’t feel the way I do now. Violated.

If I had walked quicker, maybe I would have been able to see that it was not his venomous smile, glancing at me, knowing I was once the flower he picked from the ground, whispering, “They love me, they love me not.”

Too many times has my PTSD gotten the best of me, chanting as if I can’t hear it already. “If I had; if you had; if we had. . . just said ‘no’; pushed him away before his hold tightened.”

If I had told the truth, to all those people asking if I was okay, I know that I’d have an army built on pity, standing armed behind me. Pity is always the first to the battle and the last to win. I want Integrity standing on the front lines of my own Hundred Years’ War.

It plagues me the way he turns corners, before I can catch the malicious gleam in his black eyes.

If I had demanded his hands not touch me as if I was his to have.

If I had made sure he couldn’t lace me into his fingertips as if I was his tragedy to write. If I ever have a daughter, I want her to come home covered in twigs and tree leaves, laughing about a breeze that left her on the ground with a jagged scrape on her shoulder to remind her of the good ole days. If I had a daughter, I would make sure that every bone in her body was built with a loud booming voice and the ability to retaliate even when the odds seem deafening.

If I had just gone home that day, then maybe when I think about the son I might have on a glowing Sunday morning, My first thought won’t be to teach him how to have and give consent, but of how to play with the bees instead of killing them. If I ever had the chance to see my invader again, I would command my words like a gun pointed to his head. My soul would shatter and be built again, because the only thing I would ever be able to say after all it’s done to me is: “If I ever had a son, I would him teach how to have and give consent.”

States of consciousness States Division

Kai Gutierrez | Photography

Elijah Kelley | Digital Media

THe Shadow

by Cole Crawford

The shadow, soaked in evil, drained of life, gold into black. The shadow, moving queerly, creeping and shivering, wordless. The shadow, drenched in anguish, parted from the sunflowered torches, a body of vile. The shadow, a wicked kingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blade. The shadow, a rainbow turned cold.

First Dates

by Lee Moran

Where it all began Funny games Pretty laughs Autumnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just in time Pink lip gloss A yellow dress Blue-green stripes Slicked-back dark hair

Haylee Winstead | Photography

A Kiss Goodbye years of waking up to the hollow feeling of daydreams that marvel in the wandering hope that tomorrow we might rummage through our burst memories in a series of fateless endingsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; we simply arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to be.

by Ava Aprea

Sydney Anderson | Photography

Forgotten

W W

e ories and Keepsakes

Landry Raymond | Photography

Elijah Kelley | Mixed Media

Savahna Simmons | Etching Maisha Shaeef | Photography

Alex King | Mixed Media

Aileen Flores | Pen

Lily Ortiz | Watercolor Britteny Parr | Photography

Sarah Moorehead | Colored Pencil

ford

f f ili

e h T

le Co y b

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The Bailiff, with club in hand, surcoat pulled tight, patrols the streets. Praise be to the Bailiff, the protector of the town, the executor of the law. Where he walks, justice follows: Justice for the bread thief. Justice for the woman of vice. Justice for the pickpocket. Yet there he sits, our glorious Bailiff, fat from his bread, pleasured by his mistress, bejeweled in confiscated rings.

Phillip Soltys-Niemann| Photography

You SIR Are NOTHING... You, sir, are nothing, a brown mold within a world of white cleanliness a broken body with a broken ancestry, the most bitter dark chocolate no one ever eats an irregular mind of dark emptiness, unworthy of your given name, derived from the Saxons, and your family name of Celtic origin. So you and your cartload of monkeys sail back to the dung heap you call home. Stop hiding behind that Anglo facade and act like the savage dog you call father and the fathers before him. Listen to the distant cries of those skin-burnt tools of fine history, and make sure you pay attention, when that sweet old southern lady says, “Stay in your lane, Negro.” You, sir, are nothing and will stay that way, always walking with your hands up high and a 9mm pressed against your hollow skull!...

Stop… Look away… And listen carefully… You, Alex, are something. The brown spot on white paper that you just can’t get rid of. A being of structured DNA, wrapped in a glorious sheet of melanin skin. You are that 72% nice and sweet but has a kick to it. You can look down to see a checkered ancestry, but can blend it up, rev it up, and mix it up to your Caribbean beat. Your name was passed down from the white man, and you still find proudness in being a Cornelius, and you still find passion and love within their race. You come from a line of Great Men, the heights they reached cannot be examined, so be like a seed and grow exponentially

by Alex Cornelius

when they try to bury you. Do not go gentle into that good night and embrace the light that improves the way you handle that corrupted might. When you are faced with a strong enemy, think not of the fear of death and destroy them with the solid snap of your dark fingers and with a heart of pure hope. Remember, child, that they always wanted to keep you in a shack, but didn’t know that they can’t beat the black!

Elizabeth Chan | Photography

Whispers + Shadows

Whispers and Shadows by Tamim Nassery

Darkness closing in. Strangling, choking, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breath. Whispers haunting me.

Karina Hamzeh | Colored Pencil

Standalone Art Spread

BRoKen Crayons STILL COLOR by Valerie Landis

I am convinced the reason the sun rises in the morning is not because of some work of God but because it can no longer wait to see everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face again. There is so much unfolding on this side of the gate. I am not there yet. But I am moving toward a place where my skin fits best. I am ready to feel the world does not owe me anything but the opportunity to see it clearly. To see the sun rise with the only expectation of making the world shine again. I may be lost but I am still the light. Although I am fragile I am still.

Brady Coate | Photography

Drea scape

Delaney Bora | Photography

Kaitlyn Eshbaugh | Etching

One Day

One DaY You will wake by Arielle Mack

One day you will wake with the sunshine tapping lightly on window panes, asking politely to enter through the blinds. Crisp sheets lining pillows left with head imprints from long nights of sleep One day you will wake, and you will be thankful. You will not complain of little food and a big appetite, nor will you listen to the sounds of silence and beg Oneback Dayto the present. for the noise to come You will wake and be thankful because there is no glass half full glass half empty, but a glass with water sloshing on the inside, and you will be thankful that there is any water at all. You will walk and watch as lines from concrete pavements greet you as quickly as they disappear. You will look up to the sky and never wish upon a star for something greater because you are loved. And that is all you need and more. You will look upon those who are sick and be envious, for they have more strength in their fingertips than an entire country of people. You will be envious of their strength that blooms like a garden, a garden that never dies, even when the light doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shine. You will arise and be thankful. Then you will really be awake this time. for Kate Pepper

46 Sarah Moorehead | Watercolor

Ode to Owls

Oh secret of the forest, with your silent wings and feathers patterned as tree bark, blending like wet paint into night, dusk, dawn. Oh mighty hunter, with your curved dagger beak and spear talons, swooping like a wraith upon your prey, its heartbeat pounding in your asymmetrical ears. Oh fluffy marshmallow babies, toasted to a golden brown and fierce as kittens, furiously gulping down every morsel of food the way a fat man devours a turkey leg.

Ode To Owls

by Emma Christopher

Despite the sayings, not terribly wise, with two thirds of the head being occupied by eyes and leaving little space for brains. Majestic nonetheless, silhouettes in the night, guardians of forests until the end of time. Of mystery and misconception, love and death, strength and fragility. To the eyes, gods and goddesses cloaked in Feathers, omens of whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to come, or maybe just birds, beautiful birds.

Sarah Hurd | Photography

y CASTLE by the sea by Karen Moon

One day I will grow old in a castle by the sea sleeping under the stars, and only when I please will it ever rain. The stars will never, ever be dim or faint. The moon will never fade to black. It will forever shine above me like a lighthouse for dreams. The sky will be blue, and fluffy white clouds will make dragons. The fields will forever stay green and fresh and vibrant and clean, and there will always be a new adventure around each corner. I will never be lonely, for there will be friends and family with me in my castle by the sea. The library will always be filled with books I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t read and would love to meet, and every doorway will hold magical secrets. I will spend my days exploring and singing as I lay in bed and dancing through the meadows and beaches and forests there. In my castle by the sea.

Spread 20 (Art)

Ashley Magno | Colored Pencil

Spread 20 (Art)

Judith Ramirez | White Charcoal

Taylor Bouck | Photography

Ro e

by Tamim Nassery

A golden light beaming gently upon a city. The city of Caesar, of Augustus and Nero, of marble buildings, shimmering. Oh, Rome, city of emperors, how we desire your brilliance and light.

Outside y Window by Karen Moon

Outside my window, there are the budding roses of freedom beckoning to me. They call to me, telling me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll reach them soon, taunting me with their sweet scent. Outside my window, the trees thrash in the wind, restless and desperate to be free from their roots that chain them to the earth. They want to float away into the clouds and dream. Outside, it pours. Rain lashes at the glass, and thunder crashes. Lightning lights up the room, and the sound of raindrops are violent on the roof. The glass separates me from the tempest. But as I lean on the sill, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but wish it was not the wellmeaning barrier that it is. I wish it would vanish, and I would drift out into the thunderhead above.

Outside my window, the thunder tells me to cower; the darkness screams to be afraid. Every flickering light demands that I be nervous. The ruthless wind screams, threatens me to stay inside. But no matter how loud the squall gets outside my window, no matter how much it promises destruction, I do not flinch. I stare out the glass and wish I could feel that force of nature around me, on my skin, in my hair. Outside my window, it storms, but I do not fear it.

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a eg

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in the end of the Night

by Tjaden Thornock

When the stars fill the night sky, your eyes come to mind. Your smile comes through a dream, a dream that you’d be mine. The bleeding edge of the horizon shows the sun disappearing from the sky. Your laugh, all I can hear, calming my heart, as the darkness passes by. As the world’s end hurdles forward, all I’ll ever see is you. When the crust is cracked by the sword, the dust of the Earth breathes forth Heaven’s dew.

Sarah Moorehead | Colored Pencil

To The lost art staff: We are the creators of a book that defines student expression, a magazine that sets no bounds on creativity and art. You have created a magazine that amplifies the artistic voices of students. The commitment, time, and dedication put into The Lost Art is invaluable. We thank our staff for the long hours and grueling tasks we asked of you. We titled our magazine The Lost Art not only to pay tribute to the appreciation of all art forms, but also as a place where lost voices, lost expression, and lost individuals can find themselves. A place where we provide a home and shelter from the realities we so desperately try to escape. Our work will not go unnoticedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;for The Lost Art has been found.

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To s. Katye Rutledge and rs. Kaitlin Christian: There are not enough words to describe how much you are appreciated. Your souls are filled with kindness, compassion, and understanding. You have given us a place where we can escape and explore our artistic and literary capabilities without censorship. As more of us join and some leave, you both continue to usher in new generations of creators. Your impact on us permeates through each stage of our minds and stays with us for the entirety of our existence. Without the two of you, our minds would have been closed to our own possibilities of creating success. We love and admire you both and look forward to future volumes and memories.

Sponsorships

On behalf of the staff and those whose work is published within these pages, we would like to thank all sponsors who graciously donated funds to help us create the best literary magazine possible. We greatly appreciate your contributions that paved the way for the creation of a book full of student expression, allowing for the encapsulation of McKinney High School’s unique student voices. The Lost Art grows each and every year, and we could not have made this year’s volume without your support. Once again, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

PLATINUM TIER Global Images Design Catherine and Keith Kelley

GOLD TIER McKinney Art House

SILVER TIER Carrie Laughlin and Jay Gerard Dr. Meredith Packard, Packard Family Orthodontics Jo Laughlin Carrie Laughlin Bill and Linda Lundstrom Annie and Erich Hudgson

BRONZE TIER Katharine Watson

Colophon The Lost Art was produced using Adobe InDesign CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe Illustrator CC. We chose three complementary fonts to enhance the theme of our magazine: Adobe Arabic for our body font, Glitched–which was purchased with a commercial use license off of Taracks.com and designed by Isaac Taracks— for our titles and folio, and Gilroy Light for our bylines. The Lost Art Volume VI was printed by AlphaGraphics in Plano, Texas.

Staff Editors-in-Chief Lilly Harlowe Megan Ward Elijah Kelley Sara Hummadi Literary Editor Sarah Moorehead Graphic Design Editor Nathan Unsted Advisers Kaitlin Christian Katye Rutledge

Graphic Design Staff Milana Malko Photography Staff Aiden Denson Kai Gutierrez Darion Spearman Tjaden Thornock Literary Staff Jason Mathai Allison Meitzen Consultants Savahna Simmons Timothy Ward Alannah Heaps Kacie Herrington Matthew Thompson

Club Members Cole Anderson Jeremiah Amparo Gabe Gonzalez Samantha Grayson Lina Pham Victoria Rushing Zoe Smith Haylee Winstead