Lanier HS Literary Journal

Common Ground May/June 2014

Lanier High School Literary Journal

Volume 1, Issue 1

Le phénoméne de cirque Inside this issue:

Joy B. Le phénoméne de cirque Joy B.

1

We are All Broken Records Klara C.

2

Heart of Africa Aline M.

2

What is a Story?

Valerie G.

3

My Father Antonette F. and Quran T.

3

Moonlight Madness Anabelle V. This I Believe Rosemary L.

3

4

Snap Roger R.

4

Remembering You Dayana S.F.

4

Westside Story Mark T.

5

Say & Tell Madelene G.

5

Is it Over?

Leslie A.

6

Beautiful David P.

6

In the School that Has No Windows Alejandro V.

6

Couches Emery A.

7

Mess Jacob L.

7

The sounds of cheering and animals could be heard in the small tent. So could the sound of a woman. A bright light shined on the woman who was dressed in black shorts, high boots, a one buttoned leather jacket, and a top hat tilted to the side.

Her crimson red lips were pursed and her green eyes scanned the audience in front of her.

"Welcome, welcome," she said, "I'm your host for tonight. You can call me The A b n o r m al R in gm as t e r .

T o n i g h t w i l l be a n unforgettable experience."

The crowd roared loudly.

The ringmaster's green eyes filled with the darkness that lied inside her. Everyone could see it, but it's the circus. Here, nothing is as it seems.

"Hush now, hush. Our first performer is something of a freak. She can move objects...with her mind. Now I know you're thinking I'm lying, but just watch."

A bright light flashed behind her and a girl appeared.

Her face was split down the middle in two different colors. The left side was midnight black and the right side was as white as death. She was dressed in a tattered black dress and torn fishnets. In her small hands she held a sky blue plate.

The ringmaster flashed a

wicked smile before taking a stand in front of the girl.

she made her way back to the girl.

"Hello my darling. Are you ready?"

"You worthless brat! Show them your gift or you'll regret it," threatened the ringmaster in a voice of hate.

She ran a cold finger down the girl's cheek, but the girl didn‟t react. The ringmaster stepped away and looked at the audience.

"Prepare yourself for the shock of your life."

The ringmaster joined the crowd to watch. All eyes focused on the girl with a flame starting inside of her.

A fighter still lived in the shell of the girl.

"Perform sœur," said the ringmaster with a hint of frustration in her voice.

The girl stood still, holding the plate. She stared at the ringmaster with a flame growing in her eyes.

"Show the world your gift."

The girl did nothing. The ringmaster growled as she stared at the girl.

"Now!" she screamed.

The girl looked at the plate then at the ringmaster. A small smile tugged on the end of her lips. She let go of the plate and everyone watched as the plate fell to the ground. The sky blue plate shattered to pieces at the girl's feet. The girl looked at the broken plate, then her eyes met the ringmaster's.

The ringmaster's green eyes clouded over with hate as

The ringmaster reached for her whip to show the girl she wasn't kidding. 16 years of abuse sparked the fire in the shell of a girl everyone was watching. The ringmaster leaned close to the girl, gripping the whip.

"Perform, you freak."

The girl stared back at the ringmaster. The girl pulled out a knife that was tucked away in the folds of her dress and thrust the knife into the rin gm as ter's stomach.

The ringmaster stumbled back and touched the knife.

The girl pulled out the knife and tilted her head at the ringmaster. The ringmaster's pale stomach covered in a dark crimson liquid. She fell to the ground...dead.

The girl stared at the petrified audience then let go of the knife. Levitating in the air, it dripped blood. "As you wish, sister."

And the tent goes black.

Common Ground

Page 2

We Are All Broken Records Klara C. Bruises, scars, tattoos, and birthmarks are the only remains we have to prove the blank canvas that is our body has actually lived. Scratches, scrapes, and shattered pieces are the same marks to vinyl records as our bodily signatures are to us.

We are all broken records.

We all come out of the sleeve, brand new and no imperfections. Impatient to hear the first few notes of a new tune.

The accidental scratches and cracks never disappear. The

fingertips that handle these vinyl beauties are the people who touch our lives.

After the months, years, and decades of playing our melodies, the cracks and pieces seem to multiply on their own. We‟re fragile and need to be cared for. We need to be placed on a podium and be displayed for all to see, even if it means more imperfections within our grooves.

The grooves are our experiences, pre-recorded but awaiting to be played, waiting to permanently become a part of the record,

of the person, itself.

We all have fault lines that are deepened by pain and eventually break.

The misshapen, pointed and usedto-be precious pieces now lay on the floor until they are swept up and discarded, each scrap never forgiven but entitled to forget.

When the song finally ends, some of us will be treasured classics and others will be forgotten indies.

Inevitably, when the needle lifts, the silence will fall.

We are all broken records.

The interrupted grooves that hang right on the edge just don‟t connect because an empty space separates them.

Those bad memories that we try to forget are cause-andeffects of others that we want to keep, but they just don‟t seem complete.

Heart of Africa Aline M. What do you see when you look at me? When you look in my eyes, do you see me as I see myself?

“I would pronounce words in different languages; I would say I love you, nakupenda, ndagukunda, je’taime, and te amo.”

-Aline M.

I know how you think of me when you see me walking down the hallways, I know what you think every time I open my mouth trying to speak, do you judge me by the way I look before you get to know me? Well, let me tell you something about myself.

I‟m an African Girl; I‟m an African girl that struggled to have a normal life like other teenagers. I‟m the African girl that you see walking in the hallways and you would think that I have it all. I‟m an African girl that speaks more than three languages.

Remembering back in the days when I first came here in the so-called “United States of America,” I would see other

kids run, playing and speaking the language that I couldn‟t understand. I would run to Mama crying, saying that “I wanna go back home,” „cause I felt like I didn‟t belong no matter what I tried.

I remember when my teacher would ask me to read out loud. I would sink under my desk, then start reading. I would mix English with Swahili, Swahili with French, French with Spanish, Spanish with French. Then I would start all over again; I would mix Swahili with English, English with Spanish, Spanish with French. I would feel my head spinning like a wheel that keeps on spinning without stopping. I would fight with books, dictionaries and textbooks, wondering if I‟m ever going to make it. I would pronounce words in different languages; I would say I love you, nakupenda, ndagukunda,

je’taime, and te amo.

Students would stare at me, but all I do is say, “Hey, I‟m fifth lingo!”

I was raised in a place where people speak more than a thousand languages, I was raised where kids play with no rules, I was raised where people have the right to speak their mind because I‟m African. I have the African blood in me, I carry the African pride on my shoulders „cause I‟m African, I carry Africa in my heart. You can see Africa when you look close in my eyes, you sense the African blood when you hear me speak, you can see my African pride when you see me walking. Africa is the land I call my home „cause I‟m African and proud to be!

Would you like to be published in Common Ground? Send us your work and you could be included in an upcoming issue!

Email your submissions to: lhslitjournal@gmail.com Be sure to include: your name and grade, your English teacher, the title of your piece, and your revised and edited submission in the body of the email (1,000 words maximum) The deadline for the September/October 2014 issue is September 19th

Volume 1, Issue 1

Page 3

What is a Story?

Valerie G. What is a story, and what makes a story worth reading?

I sometimes wonder what makes an author write what they have. One time, I thought about the stories we and others have read in the past.

For example, our Sleeping Beauty is much different from their Sleeping Beauty, or should I say Sun, Moon and Talia.

Sure, thanks to Disney, it‟s a family movie. But, what is the real story about this classic?

I‟m pretty sure if Disney made it the same way as its ancestor, no parent would

take their young child to watch something they are too young to understand. Even though there are crazy theories and other bad messages about the modern day version, this version is safer and more valuable than its creepy ancestor. The same rules apply to The Little Mermaid and Cinderella.

and Granny are saved, but there is one ending where Granny didn‟t make it, thus leaving Red and the wolf alone with no axe-man in sight. Depending on what story it is, Red either lives, dies, or does something awful and dies. The same thing applies to Goldilocks and maybe Thumbelina.

new story begin; that is what created this seed of thought.

When it first happened, it never occurred to me, but when I wanted to learn more about the character from the series, I found different versions of just one tale. This made me think of what authors write about, and why they write that they wrote.

But there are others where there are too many stories that it is hard to know what is the original telling. For example, Little Red Riding Hood: there is a good ending, yet there are also bad endings. There is one where the wolf gets caught and Red

There are plenty of fairy tales that differ from what we were read while young, but this flower of thought just appeared when the seed was created during a movie franchise run. The thought of having more than one fairy tale came together to make a

Honestly, reading more than one version of the same tale can be interesting, and what makes it interesting is the thought about what writers and authors put into their world. It gives an insight to w h a t t h e ir t i m e an d imagination is like.

My Father Antonette F. and Quran T. As I watch my father slowly slip away, I reminisce about our days. Reminiscing of when you were amazed by me and when I set your nerves ablaze.

You gave me life, so I owe my life to you. With you slowly slipping away, you‟re leaving me with nothing else to do. My eyes fixate on your scars; each sends an emotional bullet

to my heart. With the IVs running through your veins and the monitor beeps traveling to my brain, I begin to feel your pain. A pain so real only someone so close can feel. But, in the end you take your path either to Heaven‟s gate or to fit your family‟s heart with a case. Either way, I will wait.

Pick your fate.

Moonlight Madness Anabelle V. For the light that shines through the darkest night that leads me to the eternal paradise. For the guide whose fur shines like a thousand diamonds and eyes who glowed like an eternal flame.

But, to the moon whose light showed the way, the madness of the darkness shall continue to fight.

And I, as the angel of light and the demon of darkness, shall roam for all eternity, never to rest my wings under the light of the moonlight

madness. For, if I do, the cries of those who fell shall continue to linger within me. Their demons shall become my own and my angel shall become their hope, their guide, and their salvation to the endless madness and pain.

For if their guide shall lose his way, the single feather may have once been lost, but was never truly alone within the moonlight madness. For it is of this single feather that shines brightly within the madness of the darkness and guides those who have lost their way back to the eternal paradise.

“My eyes fixate on your scars; each sends an emotional bullet to my heart. With the IVs running through your veins and the monitor beeps traveling to my brain, I begin to feel your pain.”

-Antonette F. and Quran T.

Common Ground

Page 4

This I Believe Rosemary L. The beautiful smile I once knew is back; it projects my happiness in the hallways, and in the sun. I barely remember your name or your face. I can finally sit by myself and think.

I believe I found happiness when you left.

I no longer stay awake at night wondering how bad of a girlfriend I was. I stopped crying at night. My tears no longer hide in the back of my eyes. I don‟t have the need to cry. I finally feel beautiful. I believe you were the reason behind my sadness.

The girl my friends once knew is back. She laughs, hangs out, even smiles. That girl finally feels free to be herself again.

She no longer thinks about arguments she had with you in the hallway, she doesn‟t even cry thinking about the arguments. That girl is finally able to be happy. I believe you were holding her back from happiness.

That girl everyone once knew is smiling that beautiful seductive smile they all loved.

That girl finally started singing in the shower again. She went back to her old ways. She wears a ponytail and gets to school early. She no longer has to wake up early to fix her hair and make-up to impress you. That girl you once knew is gone. I believe she is finally free.

Or is she?

Behind all the smiles and giggling is still sadness. It‟s worse than ever. She doesn‟t cry at night, instead she cries in the shower as she sings to the song that y‟all met to.

She doesn‟t wear make-up or do her hair anymore because she wants you to fall back in love with the girl you fell in love with when you told her you liked her.

That beautiful smile people think is back is fake. She puts it on for show to make you think she‟s doing better without you.

She misses those long romantic walks around downtown. She cries because she needs your love and support that you once gave her. She longs for the sweet taste of your lips on hers when you tell her she‟s beautiful. She wants you to make her feel like she‟s in heaven again. Most of all, she prays to God every night you text her saying, “I love you,” because when she‟s not with you, she feels like her whole world is falling apart. I believe a smile can hide one‟s true feelings.

She doesn‟t stay awake at night because her sleep is the only thing that helps her escape her sadness in this world.

You think she‟s done crying over arguments, when in reality she urges for them, just like she urges for you to look at her.

Snap Roger R.

“Love is just two people holding a rubber band.”

-Roger R.

I fear...I fear love itself. How it can be so beautiful but be so painful. In the end, one person will be hurt the most.

Love is just two people holding a rubber band. The longer it is held, the more of the pain you feel. When that person you shared “forever and always” and “I love you” with lets go...the pain will be

unexpected, but will hit you hard. The pain will be unbearable.

Your heart will shatter since she was all that mattered to you...at the time. The pain will disappear. She isn‟t the only girl in the world. There are many other girls out there; you‟ll just have to find the right one.

Remembering You Dayana S.F. I hate that I try to get away from you, but then you come along again into my life.

Your name is stuck to my mind.

It doesn‟t want me to forget about you and your smile that looks like you are thinking about doing some trouble. It makes me melt every time I see it.

I try to go on with my life, but then one call, one message stops me every time. Then,

your mom—who is really nice and considers me her daughter just because of you—she talks about you every single time we are alone because she doesn‟t want me to get in trouble with my step dad.

Even though you try to make it up to me, there‟s something that stops us and makes me get away from you.

Every time, you come running to me and make me fall for

you.

Six months have passed since the last time I saw you, texted or talked.

Now, you come as a call and tell me that you still love me, that soon you will be back home, that this time there will be nothing stopping you from getting with me. After that call from you, my heart starts beating fast every time I hear your name. Then, you show up in my dreams every day.

Is that a warning or a sign that this time will be different than the last one?

Volume 1, Issue 1

Page 5

Westside Story Mark T.

But with blood by my side

Coming out the Westside

Day by day

Here we go on a trip

No telling how far I go

Let you in on my secrets

Through my hustle

And how I see life

My stamina‟s getting faint

Deep inside my mind It‟s a story that‟ll be told

No telling how far I go

Coming out the Westside

Just when you let it go

Have you ever been through

Let you in on my secrets

Continue to be yourself

The path that I take?

And how I see life

When others, they seem to fold

Have you ever seen the struggle

These eyes, they see the lies

In this life that I face?

Competitive in my membrane

I don‟t believe what I am told

It‟s a complicated factor with decisions to make

So I watch for every strain

I take it to the old school Of San Antonio

I was raised up right

It‟s the countdown city Just in case ya‟ll didn‟t know

With morals and set goals From start to finish

The home of the Voks

I‟m incomparable

We never say die, just multiply

I got the love for the music, so I let it unfold

And then we roam

And let my culture know

Unwind with family And sometimes I feel alone

That I‟m in it to win it with all my heart and soul

So these rhymes I kick

My flows you can‟t contain

Here we go on a trip

Of this life that I‟m livin‟

Deep inside my mind

Just never seems to get old

It‟s a story that‟ll be told

Making your body go insane Till today I‟m here to stay

And no matter what it is

„Cause He can take me out the game

Decisions decide our fate

Any day He decides my fate

We start off with a clean slate And caught up by our mistake

Here we go on a trip

So I demonstrate routine

Deep inside my mind

How I was brought up every day

It‟s a story that‟ll be told

„Cuz my parents I portray And my lyrics are never fake

Are to let the story be told

Putting a strain up to your brain

My flow that I let go through my soul is on the page

Coming out the Westside Let you in on my secrets And how I see life

For so many years now I‟ve been feeling encaged

Say & Tell Madelene G. You tell me that you love me.

You say you adore me.

different things. You tell me one thing and say different things to others.

But yet, you don‟t prove it.

You say you‟re honest with everyone around you. You tell me you‟re just playing.

You say and tell things you feel toward me and yet threaten to tell my #1 biggest secret to the one person I don‟t want to know.

You‟re just confusing this poor girl who can‟t do anything but love you.

You say you trust me, but yet you tell your friends to watch me when you‟re not around.

You say and tell everyone

“Till today I‟m here to stay Competitive in my membrane So I watch for every strain „Cause He can take me out of the game Any day He decides my fate.”

-Mark T.

Common Ground

Page 6

Is it Over?

Leslie A. Growing up in the Lincoln Courts was not the best experience a little ten year old girl would want. It was not my choice, I actually didn‟t have the ability to choose where I would have lived.

I really didn‟t know anything.

The only thing I knew was I didn‟t want to be without my mom, I wanted to be with her.

Being in those courts on the Westside made me feel scared. Every night I would hear fighting going on between men and men, women and women, and men and women. Living in those courts when I was young was just embarrassing and ugly to talk about. I didn‟t know what to say about it.

I would go to sleep scared, wondering if there would be another drive by. Will those bullets go through my sister‟s window?

When I looked out my window, I saw a typical Westside neighborhood: stray dogs searching for water, their ribs showing so much you could tell they had not eaten in days; men and women beside the corner store asking for money, but I knew they‟re just going to do the wrong things with it.

Beautiful The only thing I enjoyed was walking to Family Dollar to buy fake nails and put them on, stopping the ice cream truck to get cucumbers with Lucas, but, most of all, Hot Cheetos with cheese. They were my favorite.

David P. Look through this mirror, and then you will see the beautiful person you were meant to be.

You‟re more than the stars, an d e v e n perfection.

m o re

t h an

You‟re the beauty everyone sees beyond this reflection.

You don‟t need to wish upon a shooting star to be the person you already are.

Nights I would hear screaming, I‟d look outside.

You‟re the princess in every fairy tale,

Once, someone had set a big fire inside the house in front of our house. I asked myself: is it over?

and the hero in every book.

You‟re the beauty seen by all, so, go on, take a look.

In the School that Has No Windows Alejandro V.

“...those words and scenes that were done will be passed on, living in the hallways, rushing through doors, and being made inside classrooms.”

-Alejandro V.

In the school that has no windows, there are so many stories, even though it‟s only two floors. Stories about teachers whose 1st year of teaching had commenced.

Overwhelmed, yet over joyous, they teach with a full heart and good intentions.

Some, who never had any thought to become one, had become great teachers and great friends.

About a boy, scared of the world, who is taking a girl to prom. Accidentally, he asked but gave into the curiosity of what going to prom might feel like.

Now he just needs to ask her parents, pick up a tux, and see the lux that is of prom.

think are weird, yet we don‟t even realize we‟ll be like them in a couple of years.

The time the mayor dyed his hair blonde because the basketball team made it to the playoffs. They tried their best to the very end.

The girl who came midsemester to a new class, discovering she had a way with words with a touch of quirkiness.

The girl who has a child, but I smile because she and her boyfriend are lovingly raising their daughter.

We don‟t know when our stories will end, but each day a page has been written.

With ups and downs, lefts and rights, we soar as high as kites and delve as low as moles.

The boy who had a crush on a girl and for many months they only talked and now they are together, maybe forever and on.

And those times when pep rallies came, many groaned and complained, but gave into the screams and the chants.

Those crazy teachers who we

Our last period will come, but those words and scenes that were done will be passed on, living in hallways, rushing through doors, and being made inside classrooms.

In the school that has no windows.

Common Ground

Page 7

Couches Emery A. We start off on opposite ends, but you're a magnet and I always find myself drawn towards you. Soon enough I'm bending until we are nothing but a tangle of bodies, awkwardly twisting, folding, and overlapping in cheeky smiles and laughter. but your phone starts an earthquake in the little world we have created as it vibrates, snapping us back into reality.

You check the screen and see that it's her again. I sit and pretend to be busy. I try to make both of us believe that this isn't jealousy. It isn't, can't, shouldn't be. But we've both been doing things we shouldn't be for quite some time, and neither of us has an intention of stopping soon.

I have no one to blame, but I can't deny the monsoon of emotion you bring when you come around. Your presence takes everything I have with him and buries it in the ground. But it seems you

have an odd fascination with fixing broken things. So, while you work on your latest project, I sit rejected at my end of the couch. I listen as she professes her undying affection for you. I stifle a scoff with an awkward little cough type thing. I know she makes you happy or whatever, but the fact that she's trying to sever this blurred-lines friendship is frustrating, irritating even.

You always pick the girls with needy tendencies, and I always end up being all of your liabilities.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but it's just not entertaining watching them wear you down one Christianic lecture at a time.

The way they keep you a secret should be considered a crime. Hiding your beautifully sculpted soul, just because another born-again mother is in denial of her daughter‟s sexuality.

It is quite funny really, how you manage to weasel your way into the same situations over and over and over

Mess Jacob L.

Playing mind games,

I splatter brain matter with lyrical hollow tips. Straight to the dome like full Uzi clips.

Mad Hatter,

Doing drive bys on notebook pages, getting the whole media shook „cuz they ain‟t „bout that life.‟

Still knowledge hungry. Say, my mind‟s getting fatter.

Conscious overweight.

Drake verse, brake check first, break it apart and send it to Jupiter.

No gravity, but keep some sanity or hand sanitizer „cuz I made a mess like splattered brain matter.

Still swinging for the fences.

[Bo Jackson, great batter]

Throw me in a pool of sharks like chum bait.

Now learn to swim.

again. And overwhelmingly hilarious how I am still here, after three years. If the past is destined to repeat itself, then we are doomed to stay stuck in this in-between. You trying to save every damsel in distress with your shattered armor and me trying to convince the superhero that not everyone needs to be saved. It's an endless cycle, a loop in our broken romance.

But I think I'll always believe that I have a chance. She tells you she loves you one more time, and with a glance in my direction you return the sentiment. And though my heart turns to cement, I say nothing. My throat sewn shut with every broken promise you've ever fed me.

So, I stay silent. I give you a smile. I hold my secret. And I sit patiently at my end of the couch and wait for your body to bend mine towards you again...

Common Ground is a student-led, studentreviewed literary journal begun in 2014 with the mission of featuring and celebrating original student writing of all genres.

Editor-in-Chief: Antonette F.

Faculty Advisors: Kerri Ward Tiffany Jenkins

Common Ground Lanier High School Literary Journal lhslitjournal@gmail.com