Readers, Pandora’s box was always meant to be opened. Jealousy, despair, wrath, and loneliness couldn’t be contained. With their escape from the box came the unleashing of the complexities that encompass living. Whether through rose-colored glasses, kaleidoscopic whimsy, or acerbic cynicism, these core themes individualize the universality of the human experience and distort the ways in which people see the world.
The Lost Art Staff Editor-in-Chief: Nikki Caballero Managing Editor: Matthew Middlebrook Writing Editor: Johnny Millar Editorial Staff:
Noor Hummadi
Kelli Avant
Lauren Tyson
Brett Johnson
Lauren Schuchert
Ashlynn Dytco
Noah Jeffries
Advisers: Kaitlin Allen & Jason Braddy
Amidst the suffocating darkness, however, is the continued incandescence of hope and belief in redemption. Fortitude of the included works illuminates the black of Pandora’s box with delicate diction and cadence as colorful as the rose petals. The pairing of optimistic and bleak imagery is reflective of the magazine’s content, as well as the dispositional battle people constantly have. Placing the rose’s beauty in a web of shadows is symbolic of the connection between hope and darkness, and their paradoxical concurrence. Utilization of the Pandora’s box illustrates the profound influence emotion has on art and creativity. The idea that, for better or worse, feelings inject zest into art that enthralls readers and spectators. Escape of these core feelings from Pandora’s box is the ultimate release, and this expulsion fuels the writing and artwork found in The Lost Art. Perpetuity of the box and its contents bridge art, old and new, across all mediums and sectors of creation. Just as these themes saturate and attempt to bog down humanity, artists, such as those presented here, will always turn existential darkness into something beautiful. Johnny Millar and Nikki Caballero
Cover designed by Lauren Tyson
The Lost Art Volume 3 2016
McKinney High School 1400 Wilson Creek Parkway McKinney, TX 75069 thelostartmhs.com 469-302-5700
Loneliness “Drifter” by Abby Newell “9:33 PM” by Shane Grace
“Springs Lie” by Liam Ituarte
Jealousy “Gold” by Austyne Chetwood
“Stars Fold” by Shane Grace
Wrath “Thank You, Mr. Candidate” by Johnny Millar “Anthill” by Julia Haberkern “Glass” by Noor Hummadi “Emerald Eyes” by Kayla Benitez “Rise of the Toddlers” by Zoe Trask “Genesis” by Keith Ayiku
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Art by Kelli Avant Photo by Noah Hernandez Photo by Ruth Torres Photo by Frances Humphrey Photo by Matthew Middlebrook Photo by Jake Pierce
Art by Kelli Avant Photo by Lilibeth Sanchez Jo art series by Kylie Green Photo by Abigail Anderson
Art by Kelli Avant Photo by Matthew Middlebrook Photo by Jessica King Photo by Frances Humphrey Art by Kailey Sanchez Photo by Abigail Anderson Photo by Jake Pierce
Despair “Wounds” by Kristen Jolly “Rewind” by Kyla Lightfoot “Seen as a Rope” by Kyla Lightfoot “Mistreatment” by Teyah Murillo “Tide” by Alissa Fisher “Greed” by Treasure Treanor “This Is the Defamation of My Father” by Adyson Carpenter-Little “I’ll Call You Later” by Johnny Millar “Love is Never Enough” by Ameenah McKnight
Hope “Four Seasons” by Kayla Benitez “Sunsets” by Natalie Byrd “A Couloir” by Jacob Munoz “Mother” by Jade Hollins “Cosmos” by Gianna Crociata “Dance” by Kate Pepper
“Pair of Eyes” by Jack Brightman “Ileana” by Kirsten Reese “The Weapon of Knowledge” by Shelby Stuebner “Paradox Complex” by Austin Reyes
“Silver Lining” by Teyah Murillo
“Mirrored Hearts” by Shelby Stuebner
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Art by Kelli Avant Photo by Heather Baycroft Photo by Abigail Anderson Photo by Hayley Ligo Photo by Aleyam Maria Photo by Abigail Anderson Art by Shane Grace Photo by Annie Harris Photo by Abigail Anderson Art by Sean Chen
Art by Kelli Avant Photo by Hayley Ligo Photo by Matthew Middlebrook Photo by Matthew Middlebrook Photo by Hayley Ligo Photo by Aleyam Maria Art by Kelli Avant Animal art series by Kelli Avant Photo by Carennia Go Photo by Jake Pierce Art by Rebecca Landrum Photo by Carennia Go Art by Sam Westgarth, Isabel Galvan Photo by Clayton Dishner Photo by Noah Hernandez Photo by Abigail Anderson Photo by Clayton Dishner
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Loneliness Isolation is personal. Isolation is universal. It is a shout into the void, like a lone wolf howling at the moon. And an empty silence in response. A person can drown in these shallow waves of loneliness, until he feels there is no way out...
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Drifter
Abby Newell
A beautiful man, alone. Isolating himself from the outside
world and all the sharks lurking outside his window. He would spend all day inside the concrete box, pressing repeat on the day before. Clothes piled and rotting. Nothing will change because no one knows he’s been wearing the same shattered face for months. Days melting together, he’ll break out of the perpetual cycle.
My phone ringing for the first time in a year, it will be the last time
for months, and he’s asking if I’m still in town. I was. He said to come immediately. I did. My life stopping because of a phone call; I had pity for him. He was a ghost floating in and out of existence, without anyone noticing otherwise.
Arriving at the house, I was greeted by a hug from the cigarette smoke sitting on his front porch. He came outside, spider webs shaking loose of the hinges. A shell of a man I once loved asking me, “Where have you been?” I’d been here always. “Only a phone call away,” I’d say. When he spoke there was dust escaping his mouth and the words falling like snow. Only speaking ten words to each other, I left. Leaving him to a desolate existence, leaving a beautiful man alone.
Noah Hernandez | Photo
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8 9:33 PM
Shane Grace 9:33 pm in an empty grocery store and I’m trying to reinvent myself with tears pricking my eyes and the taste of day-old frappuccino still bitter on my tongue. I can’t decide if either my body won’t contain a restless soul, or one far too resistant to change. Am I bending to the will of my hate, singing lonely and deprived, or the desperate attempt to love my own decisions? 9:43 pm in an empty grocery store And I’m trying to solve myself wondering if this is where people find God - urban and shiny and alone. Where their sinning hands feel the most dirty? I’m wondering if the divine was never in the sky, but in the way that people will love you. Love you when you don’t deserve it. Love you enough to spit on your face and kick you to the ground - then kiss your blood on their bruised knuckles And tell you that you’ll be okay. 9:51 pm in an empty grocery store and I can’t face myself anymore because I feel as if these hands have killed. I’m asking maybe the reason why I’d rather my ribs show than my feelings is because I’ll finally be able to feel my own heart beat and remember that I’m still alive.
Ruth Torres | Photo
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Frances Humphrey | Photo
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Springs Lie Liam Ituarte
Spring bloom of flowers New opportunities rise Love was once born here Now we stare off waiting, lost Missing your music of spring
Matthew Middlebrook | Magnolia Blossom | Photo
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Jake Pierce | Photo
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Jealousy Coveting what another has is selfishness in its purest form. Jealousy transforms you from the inside out, taking what is beautiful and twisting it into that greeneyed monster. You become a shadowy wraith, hiding your intentions from everyone, even yourself. And the consequences of such deception can be detrimental...
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Gold
Austyne Chetwood Run Sun glazed in creepy critters His golden bliss illuminates broken thoughts and tiny hearts Clarity is revealed You must have him. It’s an apocalypse They stroke his body tearing each memory away Carving into his golden body empowered with the touch of King Midas. Torn They want to solidify his peppered face Hide him away from greedy thieves Using him to ignite their world They want to be amazed. Their world filled of blazes and sparks Of fire and gold They want Him.
Lilibeth Sanchez | Photo
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Kylie Green | Art
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Stars Fold Shane Grace
stars fold their infinities like origamitaking new shapes, paper planes into paper cranes into‌ nothing. i heard they spill their guts when the pressure becomes too much i heard we pluck our life force from their insides like scavengers, fingers dirtied in death. pulse, ooze, destroy repeat. amidst the gritty stardust in my veins, and those interstellar atoms that rattle when i coughi’ve always been jealous of the stars, wondering what it would be like if my centuries lasted that long.
Abigail Anderson | Photo
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Wrath What starts as an uneasy tightness in your chest escalates into a fiery fury. Your fists clench around a weapon poised to decimate, slaying raw and seeing red in all your unadulterated wickedness. You have submitted to your wrath...
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Johnny Millar Thank you.
For showing me that manchildren make the most money, and that close-mindedness is the way to open the minds of your supporters.
For expressing that misogyny is the way to a woman’s heart. and that menstruation is the only reason a girl couldn’t like me.
For showing the world that hair doesn’t make the man, and that wigs are much classier than toupees.
For demonstrating how conviction is what matters, and that if you say something enough, it’s almost like it’s true.
For calling out the evils of the liberal media, and emphasizing that without your leadership, America will never be great again.
For self-funding with the help of investors, and reminding us that even billionaires need support now and then.
For representing the Christian morals the nation was born upon, and embodying how devoutness doesn’t necessarily mean pious living.
For being courageous enough to discriminate against an entire race, and attempting to whiten up the melting pot.
For proving that reality TV takes brains, and politics is a mindless hobby between shoots.
And for giving us the privilege of watching you laugh all the way to the White House.
Matthew Middlebrook | 4th of July | Photo
Thank You, Mr. Candidate
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Anthill
Julia Haberkern Drowning in tears of regret are the ants. Softly crying out but to no voice to hear, left in their sorrows to fade. Like ants they tumble out of their hill home to crawl to work with all the others though without the others, without the rest. They carry the burden of life on their backs and are forced to watch the queen eat their fruits and eat their lives. Like a fungus this queen grows as she sucks her honey so sweet and deadly that other colonies simply step away breathing in the intoxicating scent as she floats by. They call her generous, worthy of the revolution that birthed her worthy to do as she wished when she wishes on the battlefield that marks her hive. Like a spoiled child those who obey, she smiles at, all others dead by morn.
Jessica King | Photo
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Frances Humphrey | Photo
Glass
Noor Hummadi Greedy hands Versus Needy lands The hands that knead dough Versus The hands that need dough We live in a world where we constantly compare ourselves Downgraded to the level of dirt because someone is more beautiful We forget that comparison goes two ways, all four quadrants on a graph; It is not just negative Look at yourself a little positively Feel the gravity It’s pushing us down, the elite our sun and the needy practically gone Feel a little There are mouths drier than the Sahara desert Hearts colder than when the sun sets The cackling of hyenas daggers to their ears We are the hyenas Our laughs echoing Our lives materialistic We scavenge We make ourselves the prey We should pray Clear our hearts of the holes that are forming
Our decaying hearts that mold into only organs The beating silenced no longer a rhythm of life But a nuisance Not the sound that brings tears to men and women’s eyes Soon to be labeled mothers and fathers The fetus soon to spring Petaled flowers and dewy stems Will not know life other than what they were given A fetus elsewhere will be born into the world missing a father and lacking a home A thorny garden obscured from sunshine Greed will encompass their lives, their wants for more will always be strong Both deserving Life is unfair A merry-go-round malfunctioning The rhythmic pattern of lives rupturing The world moves too fast The slow revolutions of the earth that we do not feel Suddenly become a treadmill on the highest speed We stumble and we trip tightening our grip We grip onto the rails kicking our feet up and back to the same motions To have our calves ache once again Life moves as fast as a hare but feels like a tortoise Isn’t it sad that animals treat each other better than us humans do? Humanity, a term that we coined But still it is undeserving Because we are serving No one but ourselves.
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Kailey Sanchez | Art
Emerald Eyes Kayla Benitez
My stomach turned into a thousand little knots when I looked into your eyes. Not the good kind Not the kind that made me jump for joy Not the kind that made me smile like an uncontrollable idiot. Our love was a burning candle on repeat A burning flame that lasted years Our flame blew out without us even realizing It was getting shorter and weaker. In over two months from the moment I met you I became infatuated with you Over three years later I can’t stand you. Oh how I loved those emerald jewels that took the place of your eyes How they had sparks of gold flickering in every direction How they are the only commodity that hasn’t changed in 3 years How they play a movie of how we grew up together. You became a reminder of how I’m trapped In this suffocated box of lies every time I say I love you. Oh how I loved your hands that made me feel secure with one touch Your hands have now become a foreign concept on my body They’ve been detached from me for so long. I forgot how rough they gripped and laced my hands with yours Like you knew I wasn’t going to stay. Oh how I loved your lips I wish they would say the words you used to reel me in Now it’s just a simple hi and goodbye. Oh how I used to be in love with you Now I wish to be rid of you.
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Abigail Anderson | Photo
Rise of the Toddlers Zoe Trask
Mother came home late again…Mother always comes home late. The fact that the same daily routine dwelled on my sanity sickened me. How dare she abandon me? How dare she leave me to cope with a delinquent of a stepfather? How dare she speak the words, “I missed you pumpkin,” and expect me to play along? Confusion continued to thrash throughout my mind, but all I could utter is, “Mommy’s home.” I was unable to vocalize many words, due to my slow learning progression at day care. One day, I would speak those words, and I would speak them with experience. Until then, I would continue to ponder, until I worked up the strength to say more. Stereotypically, toddlers are defined as rambunctious, messy, friendly, and best of all, clueless. It is certainly a shame that not all of us fit that perfect picture, especially me. If only these witless adults could have understood my perspective on life, living would have been trouble-free. By end of the day, my thoughts overwhelmed me. I decided to emerge from the loveseat and TV to wish my guardians a goodnight. As I stumbled on the frigid wooden floor on all fours, I heard an immense thump ahead of me. Curious enough, I continued to keep moving down the hall. Yet again, another forceful thump sounded. A couple more crawls further, and I arrived at my guardian’s bedroom. Had my eyes deceived me? My heart began to pound as if it were a gong, discovering Mother lying on the floor oddly still. I failed to find an explanation. My stepfather was missing. I saw Mother’s stomach move up and down. I would comfort her, but unfortunately I lacked any emotion. Therefore, I proceeded to crawl out of their room and crawl to mine. These events were usually a part of the daily routine. The morning routine was not as bad as the night. Usually, it was a simple procedure. “Honey, where have you been all night? You know you shouldn’t leave me alone with all that medication!” Mother normally created small talk like this at the breakfast table. Right after breakfast, she dropped me off at the daycare, a place packed with idiotic adolescents with idiotic adults. Just like any other day, I walked in and socialized with the beings around me. My mingle tolerance limited to a one-eyed teddy bear and one other toddler. Together, we established plans. We established true-life ethics under our rule. We established total domination. How would it be done? Our plans would reign with baby steps, of course. Each day, we began to talk more and retain information online. Within a matter of a few days, I had managed to leave the house that tears my soul. Transportation, money, and shelter were no issue. Easily, we hijacked homes, vehicles; we even appeared on a most wanted list of the nation. The stupid adults could not capture us, for we were stealthy. Our plans soon came to play, when we participated in a government heist. Rest assured, we ended ruling not only the nation, but also the world. We signaled out all toddlers to put adults to death; they were irrelevant. With that, they were all put to death. Toddlers rose from the prison of listening and became the dictators of speaking.
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Genesis
Keith Ayiku
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found Genesis, she’s 5’3, skin like caramel, sour scowl like she knows all too well She’s tempting, she’s the knowledge of the earth, she’s a paradise found She’s, 6 days because you’ll need at least one to rest, she’s an orchard of “I want this.” Unbound I think I’ve found my lover She exists as, the knowledge of good and evil but undercover Under her covers, under the bang she uses to cover Her sight spanning creation, one eye to pierce the earth Others be, forced to toil for her favor But I deem it mirth, To even neighbor The Garden I hear in her heartbeat Her, dastardly bliss so completely Inside the orbit of His holy creation To some place we can’t quite grasp If I could, place myself in her orchards, I’d be sure to grasp The fruit she hath bare, in plain sight Her sour scowl blazing, masks not its bite She did not invite Unbeknownst feet and questioning fingers The product of human sin still lingers, be it the result of one man’s folly Upon approaching, her orchard hath brambles, reached out my hand and watched it turn to shambles I am not a man jolly I only wanted thee, to abide in my palm, another man’s unjust actions But on Sunday’s when I can’t rid myself of your attractive I ask you, Genesis, what have I taught you? Shown you of man, my bloody hand is ripped of foreign demands
Jake Peirce | Photo
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138 The earth asks me to toil, I suffer pains in my labor I merely ask for one apple to bring erasure Do me a favor, teach me once more I’ll allow your message to embed its seed in my sight I simply wish to envision a world that hath your light I want you tonight, wrap my eyes and arms around you, pick your apples and view You speak absolutely nothing of what isn’t true It wouldn’t be like you to take calm from those you grace Your soul laced in black ink, the quiet affirmation in your face You know you deface he who can’t survive The Garden You burn bodies with blazing sword glares You send those east of Eden, and I’m sure somewhere Those who missed out think themselves lucky, they hath spared themselves your kiss The term ignorance is bliss isn’t hit or miss It’s a bullet laced bullseye for target practice crooked teeth It’s silence yourself, oh brazen mortal You have naught sullied these Orchards their potency Every tone be poetry Bed of holy grass you’ve woefully Said you couldn’t bless your skin with Was her grace just a tad too much? Genesis, I’m penning this, to let you know I trust The alacrity of your experience, I want to know everything you’ve seen I want to, show you that there be humans that mean To find heaven on the earthly plain of your embrace Forgo the ark of tears you’ve let escape your face I wish to replace Life submerged, subjected to wrath’s retribution I simply wish to taste your apple’s Profusion.
Author | Title | Photo
Jake Peirce | Photo
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Despair Regret builds until you cave under the weight of decisions you cannot fix. You have lost all control and surrender to the reality of your loss like a despairing angel who does not believe in redemption. You feel as if you can never go back...
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42 Wounds
Kristen Jolly He’s got wounds doctors can’t heal. Punctured by my gunshot words. This boy is bleeding on the inside. Internally harboring my silver encased bullets. He sits in his room, in the dark, trying to find band aids to patch them up, but they’re in the inside, and how can see? He’s blind. A victim of love. He subjects himself to this constant onslaught of the devil that’s draped in the dress of a goddess. He doesn’t seem to understand that just becomes someone may give off a white overcast of halo light, doesn’t mean that they’re the personification of purity. No, it’s deceit in the disguise of purity. Hiding in the shadows of my heart. You see, deceit gives me ammunition. It gives me hate, so I can shoot you. It gives me premonition of the next time I re-open dead wounds. He’s already dead. His soul is mine. The moment he said “I love you” , the moment he said “I want you,” is the exact moment he sold his soul to me. He continuously tries to bandage himself, I’m constantly withholding the items he so desperately needs. Because this love is a dictatorship, and I reign as the supreme leader that unmistakably allows this one thing. That one thing that continues to give him life is this false, shining entity of a two-sided love. It’s beaten and battered, but still glowing. It’s his clutch of hope, but it’s my clutch of fun because I tend to enjoy target practice. He’s got wounds.. He’s got more bullets lounged into his body as an effort by me to break him through that entity as I continue to take multiple shots. These wounds are slowly creeping towards his heart. Once that destination is reached. It will be the end for him. The end of us.
Heather Baycroft | Photo
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Rewind
Kyla Lightfoot I wanna rise from my grave. I wanna have my coffin open up and introduce me to the world. My whole life will flash before my eyes and I’ll be full of dirt. My bones will ache but the pain will slowly die down. I’ll be sitting across from a man that broke my heart when he stepped off of Earth before I did. I’ll look around and smile at pictures of the prettiest little girl that I haven’t had yet. I’ll start my last day at work and finish with my first day. I’ll be pregnant but I’ll lose the baby when I forget who the love of my life is. I’ll fall for the wrong people and forget what love is. My focus will be on papers due for college then for high school. I’ll hate my parents and then they’ll turn into my whole world. My brother will be my hero, and pretty soon I won’t know my own name. Pretty soon I won’t exist.
Abigail Anderson | Photo
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Seen as a Rope Kyla Lightfoot
Before long I was frayed like a rope carrying too much weight that finally snapped. You nailed my sympathy to the ceiling and wrapped my love around your neck. You gasped for death because you had mistaken it for life.
I want you to know that I tried.
I tried to loosen the knot that you tied too tight. I tried to unravel myself to fill your lungs with oxygen again. I tried not to be too rough but I still managed to leave a mark where you struggled to take back what you did.
Hayley Ligo | Photo
I tried.
But the more you kicked and moved, the tighter I seemed to get. When your life ended that’s when I snapped.
That’s when I broke. And that was the worst part because even though your heart had given out I was still wrapped around your neck, praying to God that someone heard how loud your goodbye was, because my ears are still ringing from it.
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Mistreatment Teyah Murillo
You like the way I painted my lips in vulnerability. You liked the way I pinned my hair up in relapse and wore a designer dress. You like the way I smoked a cigarette by the bar While everyone else was dancing underneath strobe lights. Life was tilted on its side, everything was a dark fuzzy haze. You wanted the most broken thing in the world, so you could fix it, but I’m sorry there was no fixing me. You tried to change the melody of the low desolate tune of misfits that I sang, You tried to add high notes and less vulgar lyrics. You played my game for a while but then you realized there was no winning to it. You bit your tongue while I yelled at you. You tried to calm me down while I was hysterical. And no matter how bad you wanted to shake my shoulders and tell me to snap out of it, You never did, because you had an odd unconditional real love for that no one ever had for me. Even though you were honest, loyal, kind-hearted, and true, I could never get myself to trust you. You knew that someone stole my heart and you tried to give me yours but I was used to not having one anymore that I didn’t know what to do with it. I tried to give it space. I tried to put it a freezer because I thought it was too warm. I thought the right guy for me was gone for good, but you were always there and I mistreated you.
Aleyam Maria | Photo
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Tide
Alissa Fisher I would rather swallow the entire ocean, than any more pills with poetic names, I was born as a universe with entire galaxies inside me, as well as a hand that would rather slice into the skin on my wrists, anger would rather boil in my blood, and resurrect a hurricane under my palms. When I remember the cracking sound of a mother’s breaking heart and the silence that follows a gunshot, I practice rubbing sweet sugar into my wounds instead of salt as I intend to summon sunshine that radiates through my skin and hair and forget the winter nights I spent hours in the shower rubbing my skin raw, in hopes to scrub away your touch and wash away the coldness of the night it resembles.
Abigail Anderson | Photo
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52 Greed
Treasure Treanor It isn’t about money It isn’t about lies It isn’t about gold It’s about eyes. I’m selfish about a memory of a person I once knew. I keep close to my heart At night under my pillow it rests So that we never part. Greed isn’t about success It isn’t about college It isn’t about selfishness It’s about when we were together. I’m selfish about our childhood Before he started decaying. I remember his auburn hair Blazing at the park. He was a brother to me, Forever a part of my heart. He dreamed and aspired And laughed and breathed; He was always right next to me. I’m greedy about his 8th birthday. I’m greedy for the tears his mother cried. I’m greedy about the prayers I screamed. I’m greedy for the graveyard.
Shane Grace | Cycle of Greed | Art
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Annie Harris | Photo
This Is the Defamation of My Father Adyson Carpenter-Little
To my father’s repetitive speech on money, and how he justifies himself with the action of never missing a child support bill: Here is to the phone calls that last a minute and thirty seconds with dry questions and bland responses. Here is to a man who loves his daughter but could not tell you her favorite color or how her lips form when she blows out birthday candles. Here is to the man who has never met the boy I brought home. You missed a consistent state. Here is to the man who I can see when I stand before a mirror and I laugh as I see my teeth because braces have fixed the identical crook that his gums present. Here is to a man that I know nothing about but am forced to wear his hands and eyes, and I think this is where the sadness stems. Because how does one form their own identity if someone else’s limbs are already attached? Here is to the man who said he would always protect me, but where was he when I was driving and the whole world was spinning. I was born and reached my hand out and pulled you from the lowest of lows, and as you kissed addiction on the cheek and waved goodbye you thanked me for awhile and then you blew me away like a dandelion pod, and I hit soil and now I am here. I’m just another weed to step on, and you let another girl live a stereotypical existence of her dad being absent. Here is to you letting another girl learn about feminism on her own. And as I breathe it in I exhale resentment towards you because I cannot get my point across without using the tongue you gave me. So here is to you, the man I glorified. Here is to being the first child you had, here is to being the experiment, Here is to gathering knowledge of how a real father memorizes his daughter’s mannerisms, while I memorized the way it looked as we drove to the airport melting into a stream of goodbyes.
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56 I’ll Call You Later Johnny Millar
We can’t count on much, but we can always count on your call. Busy or not we answer, counsel you through your insecurities, listen to daily play-by-plays. Hot potato the phone, each taking a turn, trying our best to sympathize. Watching the hours tick by, responsibilities threaten to consume us, deadlines leaving voicemails, never waiting for the beep. We try to support you, but you can’t meet us halfway. Hoping friends will drop on in, avoiding people at all costs; making time for your favorite characters, living vicariously through a screen. The next time you tell me about your day, I’ll listen and sound interested, a piece of me feeling pity, for the sadness on the line. When we say goodbye, your tone drops and sentences shorten, the need for company, overshadowed by an inability to let go. We can’t put our lives on standstill while you try to start yours.
Abigail Anderson | Photo
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Sean Chen | Art
Love Is Never Enough Ameenah McKnight
When I was 16, I felt the world tumble down around me, And destroy the 17 months of love I thought was true. As the kisses got shorter and the ‘I Love You’s’ less reassuring, the heart I used to hold in my sore palms, was stolen away under my blind eye by a prince I could no longer compete with. When I was 14, I started hating my body and the thoughts that took over my mind, So I tried to cut away at the surface of my skin and peel it all away. And even though my mother reassured me of all the unconditional love she had for me, I still couldn’t bear to let it all go and continued to stitch away at night, convincing myself I was alone. When I was 12, I watched my mom’s stolen love walk out the door and lock his second family away. I was too naive to understand that the seven years of playing house with our family would eventually get old And leave him to trap our three hearts in his Pandora Box of secrets. When I was 7, I sat stuffed between boxes that contained my life thus far. My mom, desperate to get on and escape the roads where the gunmen stole her youth away, my grandparents trying to block the path to this foreign road With hearts of fear we might not return. When I was 4, I stood at the edge of a lake waiting for my mom to deliver her news choking on her tears, she mumbled on about God, and better places trying to get her daughters to understand nothing on this Earth could have taken their father’s cancer away, not even all of the love from his mistresses and 5 kids. Love never seems to be enough.
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Hope Hope comes to those who endure. It comes to those who choose to fight until the bitter end because they know that somewhere, somehow, life will be better down the road. They may bleed from a few thorns along the way, but once they get to the top, a beautiful rose will be waiting for them. Hope is the glow inside that never fades. People may go through tough times, but that’s the only way for them to truly appreciate the goodness to come.
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62 The Four Seasons Kayla Benitez
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s I walked through the yellow and forgotten leaves I thought of you How you sucked the color out of me How you didn’t try catching me when I fell And you left me easily broken Every time I walk outside into the atmosphere I thought of you I thought of how cold your demeanor was when I brought up All your mistakes Like it was my fault you got bored easily Or went after things that weren’t yours As the year was ending so quickly I thought of you How quickly our love came It ended even quicker When spring came the water engulfed my broken heart Filling up all the cracks that you left Your braced face was replaced by his straight smile My favorite color became hazel His presence towered over me in a way that made me feel home Hospitality was his middle name When summer came I thought of you How the sun was searing a hole in my back Watching and waiting for me to mess up You were like the sizzling seat belt grazed my arm As it sat in the heat for hours just waiting for its next victim I would shudder at the slightest touch When fall came I thought of you How I fell for you the first time Free falling from a tree so high I was bound to break some bones Then winter came back And you didn’t cross my mind
Hayley Ligo | Photo
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Sunsets
Natalie Byrd I caressed the smoldering sunbeams The world was still, a pinprick in everlasting time The paint was peeling The flowers stretched their necks towards the slivers of light left between the cracks I gazed, breathing in the wet air, and the people dreamt, and the clouds parted with empty chests I had forgotten the texture of the earth, how the wind tasted The birds were endlessly chirping, and although their songs were incomprehensible, I could hear the confusion in their tone As if they were pondering the significance of their minuscule existence I do this daily I kick the grappling pavement Grow angry with the trees Constantly search for reason under the carpet I ask the Gods to swim along the veins of my body and discover that I am empty, Forever longing a purpose that can only be found among the stars My curling fingers scrape against the browning grass And I imagine that the roots are healing my heartbreakI arch my back, Close my eyes And soak it all in Until all that is left is the unquestionable feeling of oneness
Matthew Middlebrook | Photo
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Matthew Middlebrook | Photo
A Couloir
Jacob Munoz The canyon seems to swallow the horizon, deep slashes scar the earth lying in front of me, nature’s own isolated sculpture… A different air rushes out of the depths, the canyon stretches and winds across the rocky, uneven terrain, looking close to the edge, the ominous silence dissipated as the wind echoed throughout, these echoes told ancient stories, filling my mind with evocative imagery… The defiled valleys cried in despair, yearning for my presence to linger, but my gaze shifts, I take my feet away from the edge of certain death, and my eyes focus on the clouds across the fractured earth, which billow largely around the colossal chasm… I take everything in, finding it captivating how much my mind has to muscle up to comprehend all that I see, to verify this alien-like mass before me, a martian landscape I would not gaze upon forever but for eternity I can memorize and remember.
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68 Mother
Jade Hollins
The light of my world, the delicate flower in my life. Your face, the most
beautiful I’ve seen. From your dark, freckled spots that lay on your face, to your warm, soft skin when you embrace me.
You embrace me like a mother bear embraces her cub, like you embraced
me the first day you laid eyes on me.
You have a voice that booms when angered, but can revert to soft and
stern when you’re calm. How is it that I can depict your mood based on the tone of your voice? I can tell you’ve had a rough day just by how my name flows from your mouth. By the way you release a long needed sigh when you walk through the door after work. That means to give you your space.
You never notice but I sometimes observe you on those rough days. I
watch you in your own little world, book in hand, blocking out the surroundings capable of disturbing your temporary peace. Sort of like the world when the sun rises early morning. I just wish and wish you could remain that way forever. Away from your stress and worries that cloud your head to the point where you have no other choice but to try and juggle them.
I know at times life becomes too much for you, but your strong
independent mind will never let anyone see how much it affects you. But that has always been something I admire so much, how strong and humble you remain no matter what life throws at you. I admire how hard you make it your job to give me the world.
But in reality you’re my world. You’re my rock, my motivation, my back
bone. You’re the reason I keep my head straight, away from the dangerous temptations of this hectic world. For you I will continue to fight, fight to make something out of the life you’ve so graciously given me. I promise to do my best and keep you smiling and full joy.
As long as you promise me something too. Promise to keep loving,
embracing, and being there for me like you have been for all 16 years of my life.
Hayley Ligo | Photo
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Gianna Crociata The deep bruised blue swimming above me
But, what about her?
No definite lines as to where she begins or ends.
Why does she exist?
She remains constant,
Is she a leisurely activity for the Almighty God
Changing but unmoving.
to roam in and appreciate?
I am submerged in her vastness,
I think she may exist to remind us of God’s
Compacted and fragile,
power; his artful mastery and his grace.
Impaired and extravagantly unnoticed,
He may have created the Heavens and the
But still here.
Cosmos and her as an example to his children
What lay beyond?
that He can do many great things.
Do I live to find out?
She is here.
Or will some other brave, curious being such as
She exists,
myself venture into her treasures and discover
out of my reach,
what I can only imagine?
Out of my limits.
I yearn for days when I may be able to venture
But oh how I wish I could conform to bear her,
into a bubble and float aimlessly into her and
To experience her.
discover what she has to show me.
Whether this is sinful I do not know,
These days may not come, but I dream of them
But I know one thing.
nonetheless.
God has created a thing we cannot
I envy those who may be around to do this
comprehend.
when I may not.
We wonder,
I will look down from heaven,
We search,
But will God grant me the ability to see what he
We learn,
has created?
But we cannot comprehend the deep bruised
Will I comprehend it?
blue swimming above us.
Aleyam Maria | Composition
Cosmos
Am I capable of such a thing? My existence is definite and I serve a purpose, this I know.
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Dance If you dance until your heart’s out, what do you do when you’re dead?
-Kate Pepper
Kelli Avant | Rock and Roll | Art
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Kelli Avant | Leo | Art
Kelli Avant | Leah | Art
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Kelli Avant | Castiel | Art
Kelli Avant | Call of the Wild | Art
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78 Pair of Eyes
Jack Brightman There was this moment, that kept me from opening my mouth to breathe the air of serene tranquility within the morning of excellent gentility. My eyes widened, my spine became straight, my cheeks went red, and my throat went shot. Green in color with a story to be told. Her eyes caught mine with a beckoning clasp that held my body still. Some people say that staring at a pretty girl for more than a couple seconds is a little bit creepy. The last thing I want her to think is that I’m some creepy guy who’s been staring at her for longer than the comfortable limit. So I looked away. Two seconds later, my head turned back, our eyes locked, our cheeks turned red, our lips curved into smiles, and my eyes could not move. I could see the green fields where she grew up. I could hear the sounds of horses and a little girl laughing with joy. I could see the starry nights Inside the moons of her eyes. I could understand the love she had for life, when it all seemed so dark. I could feel the hurt through the painful tears after the final goodbye. I learned to love her through her thoughts. But believe me, that is not why I loved her. I loved her because of the faults in her stars, not because that’s her favorite love story
but because she’s a burning star with beautiful flares that screams out “I’m alive!” I love her because she was the only girl that has ever made me walk head on into a tree while texting her. I love her because she not only smiles with her lips but smiles with her eyes and with her voice. I love her because she’s the only person I know that can beat me at a burping contest. I love her because every time I looked at her my heart skipped a beat, then raced to catch up. I love her because no matter how many times I said it it’s meaning just got stronger. I love her because she makes me believe that I am never alone, that she was always there for me. I love her because she’s my glimpse of heaven that I thought was just faith. I love her because when I think about my future with her. It’s the only future that makes sense. I love her because every time I told her how much I love her all she did was sit and listen as I would rant on and on and on and on and on and on, until I can’t breathe anymore and then she would kiss me to stop by breathing the air back into my lungs. It happens every single time. I knew I was in love, because when she laughed, my heart always danced to its sound. If you told me that I would fall in love because of a pair of green eyes, I would’ve believed you. But I never guessed it would be you. Now, as you learn to love someone else. I pray that they look at you the way I did. And as we learn to live on, I only pray that you never forget the pair of green eyes that fell in love with you first.
Carennia Go | Photo
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Jake Pierce | Photo
Ileana
Kirsten Reese Ileana is tiny. She stands 4’11 and is naturally thin, but not too thin. She is the girl with catty eyelashes and tight-fit jeans. Her chestnut brown hair is sideswept and frames her face. She looks like the art she paints with a steady hand and fuels herself with lattes and laughter. Her looks are sharp and pretty. The kind of pretty that you could stare at forever. Her mother keeps her in the house because she thinks that her friends are trouble. She has far too many rules. All Ileana wants is to leave. You see, her mother thinks her friends are trouble because Ileana likes girls. So her friends are bad people for accepting her and encouraging her to accept herself. Ileana has to stay home and her mother takes her phone. Ileana, who taught you to be beautiful? If I drink lattes and wear my makeup like yours will I be beautiful too? Maybe, just maybe, if I keep working out at the gym I’ll be thin like you. Do you remember the girl that was mean to you? That church you went to where they did bad things and took away your freedom? You got away from that years ago now and are still recovering. At home you feel lonely and captive. You want to scream but only the cats would hear you. I can feel your heartache and sorrow when I look out the window. When your father passed away and you finally shattered. You are putting the pieces back together with more colors this time like stained glass. I was there for you when you wanted to die, and then the cops came and your mother didn’t understand. When you had to go to the hospital and lie to those doctors and tell them you were just fine. Just fine and you didn’t need their help. You got angry when your doctor cried and looked at your scars because how dare he feel sorry for you. As you draw black wings on your eyes in the morning and sip your coffee, you think about how all you do anymore is sleep all the time, and wish you had real, delicate, black wings so you could fly away from your house and the cats to see the sky. To soar, and drift gently down to visit your love as she waits every day. Your princess who waits for you while you are locked in your tower. To drift gently down to come visit your fairy godmother, who has been sending you dreams and hope for years waiting for the 18th birthday to come when you will be free. When no one can keep you from your princess because all you want to do is love. To love, and feel loved, and make mistakes. You wait for bliss and art, you wait for the day you can walk down the aisle in that long, white, symbol of beauty to trail behind your wings and catty eyelashes. I will walk you down the aisle to finally be bound to your princess, every fairy godmother’s dream. She will look at you with tears in her eyes and you will get the “Ever After” you deserve. But until then, you fight your demons in that house. Trust me sweetheart, your day is coming.
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Rebecca Landrum | Art
The Weapon of Knowledge Shelby Stuebner
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T
ristan grimly faced the cave before him. His palms were gripped firmly around the hilt of his longsword. With great caution, Tristan placed his boots along the well-worn dirt path leading to the cave’s entrance. He knew what lay within, and felt his muscles tense as he entered into the shadows. The darkness quickly consumed him, until the only light remaining emanated from the polished blade. Tristan moved with his shoulders brushing against the walls, and crouched at the eruption of a deep throaty laugh that sent a shiver of ice through his bones. “Ah, yes, I thought I recognized the smell of fool. They always come hoping to kill Salestar; whether they be knights seeking glory, desperate peasants desiring the cure of my blood or nobles demanding vengeance for some scorched king or other. So tell me fool, what is it that you have come to kill me for?” Tristan felt a brush of warmth against his cheek and boldly sliced his sword, biting nothing but air. He then slowed his swings to long arcs, trying to judge and place his surroundings. “You are a dragon. I am duty bound to destroy your kind who take so much pleasure in killing.” The dragon was silent for a second. “Tell me then, if you know so much of monsters, do I match the description you seek?” the dragon asked. Candles flickered to life, and Tristan found himself not surrounded by mounds of gold, but by neatly stacked piles of books. They were arranged haphazardly throughout the cave, with the exception of an array of spines and pages steadily built in a grand mound at its center. Tristan inclined his head to meet its precipice, where he locked his gaze upon the dragon. His sword clattered to the stone, and Tristan backed away, hardly believing his eyes. The dragon casually adjusted a pair of spectacles to his snout and proudly rose to full height of two feet. His scales shone a dull chocolate brown against the candlelight as he caressed the pages of a book absentmindedly, piercing Tristan with a fierce, intelligent glaze. “Now, fool, do you see that I am no bloodthirsty monster? I could hardly kill a menacing bunny, much less scorch a kingdom full of bloodthirsty and wool-headed idiots like yourself!” A puff of smoke snorted from the dragon and settled like a cloud over the pages that held. “Now look what you’ve done, fool.” The dragon shook his head in irritation, causing even more smoke to mar the book’s pages. “You have just ruined my place probably through the next century, until I can find some fairies to restore it, if they even still exist.” Tristan stood frozen as the dragon searched him. “If you are still keen on killing me, I must tell you that I hold the sharpest pages in the land. I assure you, death by
Rebecca Landrum | Art
papercut isn’t a pleasant end.” As if shaken from a dream, Tristan cleared his throat and swept up his longsword into the cold firmness of his palms. “Killing you is not the true purpose for why I’m here. My daughter is dying from a sickness that is said to be incurable. Please, is it true that the blood of a dragon has the ability to make her well?” Zalestar considered for a moment, then laid down the ashen book and solemnly nodded his head. “Yes, young fool. You will meet no resistance from me, as I see that greed holds no place in your heart and in this instance I am duty bound to accept. Place your sword true, and have it done.” With a heavy heart, Tristan began to climb the pyramidal staircase of books. He had only taken two steps atop their covers, when Zalestar grumbled, “Don’t you dare take another step. While I still hold breath on this Earth, I will not allow your dirt-sodden boots to trample all over my books. Oh no, not in my lifetime.” The dragon wrinkled his snout and waved emphatically with his claws, “Get off, GET OFF! I will come down to you.” Tristan scrambled to the side as the small dragon flew down, and the whoosh of air from his wings drove him further away from his treasures. Zalestar lowered his head gracefully and clenched his claws tightly around the binding of a leather-bound book. Tristan’s hold on the longsword trembled and in desperation he cried, “Is there no other way? Of all these books, is there none that have any mention of a cure?” The dragon froze and craned his neck slowly to implant his wide eyed glare firmly on the knight. “You dare challenge the knowledge of a...You bloody fool, why did you not remind me earlier! I could’ve died!” The dragon carefully lifted each book at the base of his mound, then flipped through their pages. Though Tristan soon began to realize that he was not looking so much at the words, but more so at the presence of pages within the binding. After what seemed like hours, he pulled out a book bound in blank leather, and peered within and sighed in satisfaction at the hollowness of their pages. “It is not in books that the knowledge you seek lies. It is in the voice of the fae, who have bestowed their knowledge to my keeping.” Zalestar turned to face Tristan and as he opened the binding, a crystalline voice whispered, “One who gains favor over phantom’s queen, shall have all that desires to be seen.” Then with a hard finality, the binding thudded closed. Zalestar, head cocked to one side, waited impatiently for Tristan to speak. “Well fool, what did it say?” Tristan blinked in surprise, “You didn’t hear the voice?” Zalestar huffed and returned the book to its place, where it seemed to blend in with the others as if it were just another ordinary tool of knowledge. “No. The fae only
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Rebecca Landrum | Art
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Paradox Complex Austin Reyes
Moving along this path of uncertainty. Lost in my own thoughts of continuity thinking this is how it’s should be, but trying so hard change my reality. The gravity of my situation is set in stone although I’m trying to pull out the sword to become my own king. Driving along the path that I’ve accepted as my destiny, and yet I’m trying to change lanes and break this uncertainty in my heart Accepting this is my reality and accepting that I want to change it. Being perfectly fine with the way things are, but trying to change how things are. Believing in both idea equally as they are truth yet they are two conflicting ideas in me. I’ve accept who I am, but I want to change what I’ve become. Looking at both sides of the spectrum accepting both points of view as true, so I’m unable to reach a final conclusion because of this delusion I have in my heart. Both the right and wrong are right and wrong it just depends on the point you stand on. Although accepting both leaves you on an unknown middle ground that distorts everything around you. Being crushed by the weight of you having to choose, but it’s okay not to. It’s okay to accept the reality and the change. You can pull the sword out but don’t have to do it right away. Change the lane but only when it fits you. You can look at the spectrum and accept both sides because all that means it that you have an open mind.
Carennia Go | Photo
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Sam Westgarth | Art
Isabel Galvan | Art
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Silver Lining Teyah Murillo
Morning dew sprinkled over freshly cut grass. My feet seemed to drag slower
than usual and the monkey on my back seemed to gain fifty pounds. I wanted more than this. I wanted more out of my life. I wanted my life to be more than seven-thirty mornings, walking to the bus stop. I didn’t want my life to become an endless routine.
Maybe I was being overdramatic, just singing the bittersweet tune of a
desolate preteen trying to be understood. But see, that was my problem, I could never understand what it felt like to be understood, so when my parents started understanding, I...I...felt confused. I had left my house earlier that morning, so with extra time on my hands,
Clayton Dishner | Photo
I took the longer way. My mind flooded with thoughts: how my grades were awful, my sister was out to get me, and my friends weren’t true friends. But on the corner of Brittany and Cadide Lane, that very morning, my eyes beheld the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. A marvelous collision of colors painted the sky with rays of lights peaking out of the clouds, and as I stood staring at the sky, I became filled with serenity.
Everything was zen, and in that moment, I knew that everything was going
to be okay. In that moment, my problems hatched out of their cocoon and became butterflies and drifted away, my problems becoming something beautiful.
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Noah Hernandez | Photo
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Mirrored Hearts Shelby Stuebner
Hooves pound to the sound of my heartbeat My fingers entwine in its silky mane And listen as our hearts meet Running timelessly beyond moon’s reign. We ride as one, With the forests chasing us behind Branches reaching with the rising sun Yet the power of our blood is not for them to find. We search for a horizon yet to be found A fire to match that in our hearts Morning dew shining mirrors on the ground Of our souls bound as no flame parts Where in time we ride forever more Never to be broken, the spirits that soar.
Abigail Anderson | Photo
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Clayton Dishner | Photo
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Dedication This edition of The Lost Art is dedicated to not only our readers, to those who almost weren’t able to find the light at the end of the tunnel, and to those who continue to find the hope to see tomorrow. Thank you for what you do, thank you for who you are. Words hurt. They shouldn’t, but they always find a way, so why coudn’t they also heal? Even now, we are just words, and all you will ever know us as are words, so that’s why we dedicate this volume to you: to show you that some words can be that final nudge you need to get up in the morning, and to show that words will never change. These words will never change and whenever you open this magazine, they will always be for you. We will always be there for you. So to all you misfits, outcasts, accidents, failures, and rejects, we thank you. -The Lost Art Staff
Acknowledgments The English Students, for writing about what hurts and showing the true emotions that a person goes through - the good, and the bad. The Art and Photography Students, for creating and capturing pieces that visually show the beauty in the world. Ms. Allen and Mr. Braddy, for inspiring and guiding us through the creation of The Lost Art. We could not have done this without you.
Colophon The Lost Art was produced using Adobe InDesign CC, Adobe Photoshop CC and Adobe Illustrator CC. We chose Minion Pro for our body font (12 pt.), as well as the names of the authors, poets, and artists (12 pt.). For our titles, we used Myriad Pro (17 pt.). For section headings as well as the cover title, we used Snell Roundhand (100pt.).