MASTERPIECE 2020
MASTERPIECE 2020: VOLUME I LITTLE ROCK CHRISTIAN ACADEMY 19010 Cantrell Rd Little Rock, AR 72223 1
C R E AT E As the masterpiece of God’s creation, we were created to create. We create through people, create in places, and create with things. These three expressions uniquely categorize the pieces compiled in this literary magazine, each brilliantly created by the students at Little Rock Christian Academy. To bring out the best on every page, the staff of this year’s literary magazine used fonts, colors and design elements to cleverly and artistically infuse each written piece with complementary art, photography or illustration. Ultimately, the Bible tells us that we were intricately created by our Heavenly Father, our job to glorify Him in everything we do. Romans 12:6 says, “Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them…” As we are called to use our unique gifts, the samples in this magazine showcase the distinctive creations of our student body as writers, artists, composers, designers, and more. Our desire, as a staff and editorial team, is that each MASTERPIECE in this magazine would unequivocally point to our own Creator, the One to whom we give all glory and praise.
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C R E AT E T H R O U G H P E O P L E “ Mr. C l arke” Al l ie Parkin son “ More Than What Meets the E ye” Ben James “Judas” W il l iam Wood “ The Bread of Life” An n ie C arol Rypkema “ Human C l on in g” An n ie C arol Rypkema “ The Disparities of Life” Katherin e Beach “ The Human C horus” Wil l iam Wood “ We” Mairyn McGil vray “ S yn copation Nation ” Jol i Dobbin s
08 14 16 22 24 28 30 34 36
C R E AT E T H R O U G H P L A C E S “ S ettin g a Scen e” Katie Hen ry S u n sets Over the Natural State “ How the Butterfl y Got Its W in gs” Mairyn McGil vra y Capturin g Architecture N ature in Art “Can ’ t Make It Back Again ” Al l i Wood S u n set P hotography “ I Live the Dream” Ashton P rice Lan dscape P hotography
44 46 48 50 52 54 58 60 62
C R E AT E T H R O U G H T H I N G S “ ‘C razy Rich Asian s’ Movie Review ” Ken dal l C hrist ia n “ S ourdough Ban an a Bread Recipe” Bren n a Smith “ Breakin g Storm” Sophie McFarl an d “ S t eal in g E veryon e’s Heart” Al l ison Rickard Dow n to E arth “Appl e P ie Recipe” Rachel Maack Pops of Col or “A Whol e New Worl d of E motion ” Lyn n E l ise Hark ins “ Feel in g Poco Loco” Lyn n E l ise Harkin s Cr eatures “ Rhapsody” Aiden Ross
66 68 70 72 74 76 78 80 82 84 86
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CREATE THROUGH PEOPLE
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MR. CLARKE BY: ALLIE PARKINSON
Henry walked through the streets of his small town with his head down
in order to blend in. Everyone bustled in and out of small stores and restaurants that crowded the cramped cobblestone streets. The congestion gave a collective sense of suffocation for the pedestrians involved. Everyone wandered while keeping their noses buried, for they refused to give off the impression that they were relaxed.
He entered into a small building tucked in an alleyway and had to duck
his head in order to not hit it on the ceiling. The room smelled musty and the air felt heavy, but the people did not seem to notice or look up from their studies. After all, if they did Mr. Clarke would be angry with them. Their lives had to be constantly devoted to reading and analyzing his famous and profound writings that had encapsulated the entire town. Everyone knew that once one was called to join him in the great city far away, they would be rejected if they could not recite every line of his book word for word.
Letters came and went as predictably as the seasons, and no one ever
returned. Whether this was from shame or because they were allowed in one could not tell, but everyone knew that they were doomed to a life of constant stress and worrying about whether or not they were prepared enough to be able to enter the city. So, the townspeople walked with heads buried in books to and from their destinations to live out their dreary and depressing lives until their letter finally came.
The ceiling in the room was caving due to water damage and the walls
were becoming covered in mold. Henry felt a compulsion to try and fix up the place but he knew he could not. To place one’s effort in fixing up the town was vain and selfish, for how could one have the nerve to waste time away from the writings of Mr. Clarke in order to make their surroundings more comfortable? It was heresy. So the town slowly faded into the dreary horizon of the grey skies as the life inside of it slowly snuffed out.
Misery is devotion. That was what his friend, Rowel, had told him when
Henry had questioned the bleakness of their lifestyle. They always tell me that if I am comfortable I am not proving to Mr. Clarke that I love him. I am not so sure I believe such things though. As Henry sat in the dismal and depressing room where none of the people dared to look up at him or ask him about his day, he could not help but wonder if a man who wanted him to lack any happiness in life was truly worth following. Of course, if he voiced any of these opinions he would be exiled, for the writings called people to love and he would be going against that command if he did not love Mr. Clarke.
Henry recalled a man named Carleton who had claimed that these
teachings were false, and the people of the town had rushed to him like moths to a flame in a pitch black room. They dragged him from the streets and threw him into the wilderness, for Mr. Clarke had told them to be caring and this man was not caring about the beliefs of the people. After that all children with the name of Carleton were ordered to have their names changed, and the residency in which he lived was burned down and turned into a library.
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Henry, unlike Carleton, believed that the teachings of Mr. Clarke were
right, but he could not help but feel that the people of the town could not be living the life that he wanted for them. Mr. Clarke had written that following him would bring joy, but there was none to be found on the solemn faces of people. Their eyes were wide with bags that ran under them, and their skin was as pale as death from the lack of sunlight in the musty buildings, and it was greatly frowned upon to take a break to enjoy the few beautiful days that came through the town.
You know they say that Mr. Clarke controls the weather from his city. His
friend’s voice rang throughout his memory. Rowel had never been into studying or listening to the doctrine that the people of the town repeated like mindless drones. He had led Henry to a stream in the forest and had not brought a single book with them. It is a beautiful day and I feel like enjoying it, after all Mr. Clarke did send it here for us. He frowned a little and then repeated his favorite line of doctrine, Misery is devotion. He then began to laugh, But that is a load of nonsense, you know? The people here are crazy, and yet I am the outsider.
Henry looked up from his book that he had been blankly staring at. On
the bland, drab wall that stood in front of him there was a saying written in chipped paint. MISERY IS DEVOTION. It seemed to be staring back at Henry as if it were taunting him. It was the universal truth that everyone had accepted besides Rowel, and he had bought into it too until the day Rowel got his letter.
Mr. Clarke will not love Rowel. He will probably frown upon the boy and
tell him that he wasted most of his life playing in the woods. These were the words of Henry’s sister as they watched his friend make his journey to the city. The boy disappeared into the horizon, and Henry had never seen him since.
The hours passed like a bag of rocks being dragged across the desert,
but then it was finally time for him to go back home. He picked up his open book and left while still digesting the text. He felt the other bodies around him, nameless faces hurrying around him. Henry then decided to try something else, something that Rowel would have convinced him to do. He walked into a taller building with stairs that led to the roof. The air immediately felt less stuffy and damp, for a crisp wind blew across his face. It was the very first time Henry had ever looked up while in the town, and it was an odd feeling. He had been in the woods without his books and studies, but in the town he had never really noticed what it looked like all together.
The people were like scurrying cockroaches with no care about the world
around them. They looked so odd from the top of the building, and the true depressing state of the town became evidently clear. There was a statue that Henry had never even noticed existed. Surprisingly, it was not of Mr. Clarke, but instead some other man who looked as if he was from a different time. No one probably remembered who he was or who built such a monument, but it had been there since Henry had been born and it seemed as if not even Rowel had ever noticed it.
At first he was too distracted by watching the people, but then Henry
noticed something that made him rub his eyes and look in disbelief. There was a man sitting atop the statue hanging his legs down and letting them swing, but he did not have the same solemn head that hung with a melancholy mood. No one noticed him and no one saw him. Henry rubbed his eyes one more time to make sure that he was not going mad, and as his vision focused he realized that what he was seeing was really there and not just a dream.
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It was Mr. Clarke who was sitting atop the statue looking down at the
people who were so devoted to him. Henry would have thought that he would be proud to see the townspeople being so scholarly, but he looked sad. It was as if he was waiting for someone to look up and say hi, but instead they rushed by him discussing how they would sell all their belongings and a kidney just to see him once. He was waiting. He was waiting for someone to walk him into a restaurant and sit down to have a discussion with him.
Then, when Henry got over looking at the man he had dreamed of seeing
from as far back as he could remember, he noticed someone was sitting beside him like an old friend would. Again, Henry could not believe what he was seeing and he felt as if he was about to faint. It was Rowel who was beside Mr. Clarke.
A P P A R E N T LY H E H A D M A D E I T I N T O T H E C I T Y AFTER ALL.
BOY PHOTO BY: B YJ O: L IJ O DS O B B I N S D OLB IB I N 13
More Than What Meets The Eye BY: BEN JAMES
The bright, pinkish sun was beginning to set on the dingy, grimy streets of Stockton,
Missouri. Scavenging for any morsels of food, a young man was preparing for a cold night ’s sleep on the cold, wet sidewalk he called home. By now, he was used to being ignored by every pedestrian that passed him. It had been a long six months since nineteen-year-old Dallas Reynolds had felt the warmth of a bed or had the pleasure of consuming clean food or water. As he began to rest his head on his ratty, worn out jacket, which he used as a makeshift pillow, Dallas began to think back on how he ended up in his present situation.
Six months ago Dallas was an average eighteen-year-old kid thinking about where he
would like to attend college. After school one day, Dallas went out to eat with his friends. One of his friends got him a cheddar cheese burger with fries. He could smell the fresh burger buns being baked. The salty french fries went perfectly with the juicy burger. He thanked his friends for the amazing meal and headed home. He arrived home at about eight o’clock and went straight to bed. Dallas had a test first thing in the morning and he was exhausted. At ten o’clock he heard his mother and father at the door. They had gone out partying, as they did every Wednesday night, and were considerably drunk. He heard his parents shuffling, half wittedly towards his room. In an instant, his door was abruptly and violently flung open with a slam. His parents came at him fiercely, punching and kicking their son. After what seemed like forever, they stopped and stumbled off to bed. Dallas felt like his ribs had caved in. His parents rarely paid attention to him, and when they did, it was usually in an abusive manner. He never understood why they did such horrible things to him. Dallas knew he worked hard and had several academic full ride scholarships to great colleges.
Around three o’clock in the morning Dallas had decided to leave his home. He was tired
of his parent ’s ignorance and constant torture. He gathered what little he had in his backpack and rushed out of the window quietly in order not to wake his mom and dad. He walked for miles and miles through Missouri. On his trek, he traveled from Marshfield to Stockton, Missouri. In the middle of his journey though, he was robbed and all of his possessions had been stolen. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. That ’s when he settled in the streets of Stockton. Even though no one paid him any attention, Dallas believed that God would help him persevere. He faded to sleep, ready to do it all again the next day.
ART BY: ANNA GRIFFIN 15
Judas from the eyes of Iscariot BY: WILLIAM WOOD
“If it were up to me I’d kill you right now and sell your organs to a pig farmer,” the guard
said, eliciting a nervous laugh from his less-than-intimidating partner. The speaker was a confident man, about four cubits high with broad shoulders and a high chest. His eyes were dark and intense, underneath furrowed bushy eyebrows. His features were hard and sharp- the ideal Roman soldier, while his partner looked no older than sixteen. The boy’s nervous smile and darting eyes were painted on a clean, round face, evidence of pampering in his youth and inexperience as a soldier. He likely was raised in a military family, perhaps with older brothers who were already commanders because of their father ’s reputation. Once the boy was old enough to wear armor, he was practicing stances and sitting at the men’s table during feasts. What a waste of effort and money, I thought to myself. Why invest in another child when you could use the money to increase your prosperity?
“But unfortunately,” the square-jawed guard continued, “I’ve been asked to deliver you
unharmed to the Pharisees.” As he said this, he stepped closer and planted his booted heel on my exposed sandaled foot, twisting to leave bruises and scratches that would make the average man cower. I hardly felt the pain. I looked at him evenly, waiting for him to step off. His face contorted in confused anger, then he backed off and shoved me past, already looking toward his next victim. I had that effect on people. I possessed a certain unwavering confidence that stemmed from my certainty that I was intellectually brighter than every man in the room. My father ’s words came back to me. “Never flinch,” he would say as he crushed my fingers in his grip or cut skin from my arms with his favorite shaving knife. “Never show weakness, always have a plan, and never do anything unless it is for money.” Ever since I was seven, he would impart this loving wisdom upon me every week on Sabbath. As a result, I could unblinkingly stare a man dead in the eyes like a statue of Emperor Tiberius. Now there was a man I could respect. Before he was emperor, he allegedly sold his two sisters and younger brother to bribe a Roman general into arresting a new competitor that had stolen a few customers. Yes, that was a man I could respect.
I walked down the hall and could not help but wonder at the cost of the buildings. The
pillars snaked up the walls like orchard vines. The marble underfoot was polished white and reflected the dancing candlelight from the sconces. Portraits and monuments to the Emperors of the past lined the walls, accompanied by the words of ancient prophets like Moses and Isaiah. These verses echoed themes of power and obedience. I paused for a moment to read one written by Moses in Deuteronomy: “ The man who acts presumptuously by not obeying the priest who stands to minister there before the Lord your God, or the judge, that man shall die.” Fools, I thought to myself. Here they are wasting money on marble inscriptions when they could be focusing their resources on expanding their power and influence.
The hall opened into a circular chamber with eleven thrones arranged in a semicircle. On
the thrones sat eleven Pharisees, all dressed in expensive garb and extravagant jewelry. Their feet were clean and manicured, their clothes washed and white. All but one had large grey beards that covered their round chins. They wore frontlets on their foreheads and left hands bearing the words of the prophet Moses. Their garments were purposefully fringed at the edges- another commandment of the Law. Some wore purple garments and silk girdles. The air was rancid with perfume, and I had to stifle a gagging sensation as I silently stood there.
The silence lasted for a few uncomfortable moments. They glared upon me with condemning
eyes. I stared back at them, slowly scanning my audience until I held each of their gazes. Finally, the middle Pharisee spoke -smoothly, eloquently. “Greetings Judas the Iscariot, son of Simon Iscariot of Kerioth. I am Caiaphas, High Priest of the people. Why have you come before us today?” He had the posture of an experienced judge, with a straight but relaxed spine and shoulders back. Caiaphas was a man well-accustomed to being in control. His baritone voice was rich and creamy, like steamy fish soup soaked in olive oil and consumed with expensive wine. I hated him immediately, but the business realm is no place for emotions. And business is what I was here for.
“I have come because of rumors in the streets,” I said. I knew I had their attention, and I
could feel them leaning forward ever so slightly.
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I drew a deep breath, then continued, “It is whispered that the chief priests and elders are plotting to arrest the Rabbi Jesus. Now, I am no expert politician or consul, but it is difficult to arrest someone whose whereabouts are unknown, is it not?” A few of the priests glanced at each other or fiddled with their bronze rings. I let the question hang suspended in the air until finally, Caiaphas responded. “ We have… resources. We will find him and remove him. Whether it be in the light of day or in the darkest night, there is nowhere he can hide.” The other priests nodded in agreement, their thick robes shaking up and down.
Always be willing to walk away, or at least act like it, I reminded myself. My father may have
had unusual methods, but his lessons stuck with me. “ Very well,” I said, “then you have no need for what I can offer.” I turned to leave, but the lone priest with the black beard exclaimed, “Of course, any assistance would be appreciated.” He paused, then added, “And rewarded handsomely.” With my back to them, I smiled. An evil smile, I have been told, that creeps on my face at the mention of money. How easily even the most powerful of men can be manipulated. Play your audience, my father said to me. I turned back around, still smiling, and said, “I knew men of your stature could be reasonable. Now, let us proceed.”
Peter led us to the house where the Passover would be that night. It was a humble home,
with low ceilings and cracked walls. It smelled of mild perfume and the few furnishings inside were clean. I took in my surroundings as we prepared to eat. Matthew was rambling about some new wine. John was by the Rabbi’s side, as usual, not saying anything but observing everything. Everyone was anticipating this feast, for Jesus had said it would be his last one with us. We received our Seder plates and began to eat. The Zeroah shankbone was small, but delicious nonetheless. The Beitzah egg was slightly over-cooked, but it was tolerable. I ate without speaking much, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Suddenly, the Rabbi rose and lay aside his outer garments. I watched him closely to see any sign of his knowledge of my betrayal. None. He tied a towel around his waist, poured water into a basin, and approached Simon Peter to wash his feet. “Lord, do you wash my feet?” Peter asked. Jesus answered him, “ What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand.”
“ You shall never wash my feet,” Peter said.
“If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.”
“Lord, not only my feet but also my hands and my head!”
Then Jesus said something that sent a chill down my spine. “ The one who has bathed
does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean, but not every one of you.” At this, he looked and scanned the disciples. When his eyes reached mine they seemed to linger for an eternity. The world froze around me. I stared back into his brown eyes, and for the first time since my youth I feared another man. Finally, Jesus looked back down and said, “Not all of you are clean.”
He continued cleaning our feet. One by one he approached each disciple until finally he
was before me. I was numb. The water was warm but it shocked my skin. I was paralyzed in fear of this man who was kneeling and washing my feet. The thirty pieces of silver in my pocket suddenly became an anchor pulling me down into the darkness of the sea. I flinched at his touch when he began to scrub my feet. He took special care of my right foot where the guard had stomped me. I watched him slowly wipe the scabs and dirt away, reminding me of a mother who cleans her child’s feet before Sabbath.
Then he looked up into my face. Our eyes locked. He knew. Time stood still. He and I
were the only people in the room. Brown met brown. His stare was piercing but soft, knowing but curious. And in those eyes I saw a hint of sadness. Not a sadness from losing a treasure or forgetting something significant. But the sadness of a mother who loses a loved child. His eyes reflected the pain a father feels when his son lies to him. The longing of a shepherd to find his lost sheep. But hidden behind this pain was an impenetrable peace. I saw a vexatious joy that danced through his iris. And instead of fearing this man, I found myself amazed by him. Here was a man who knew no greed, felt no shame, and did no evil. And yet, it was for these reasons that I knew he must be killed. It was unfair that I had toiled and suffered and lied and cheated to get where I am today, but this man had accomplished more without any of those actions. He claimed to be the Messiah, and perhaps he was, but he had not seen what I had seen about mankind. Mankind was evil and not worth saving. The only way to rise in life was to be more evil and mendacious than your neighbor. I had lived this way my entire life and knew no other truth. But this Rabbi came and defied all my expectations. He gave away wealth and turned away pride. He loved the most dishonorable sinners and blessed the weak. He taught love and compassion and performed miracles to validate his godliness. But even if he could raise a man from the dead, the Rabbi had not delivered his people from the oppressive hand of Rome. Jesus had not raised an 19
ART BY: GRACE HEARD
army or stirred rebellion. There was no kindling of fire in the hearts of men or passionate battle cries that made Roman blood curdle. He was no Messiah and his claim to be the Son of God was blasphemous. His arrest and punishment would be justified. I would be justified.
I looked away, unable to stare at this man any longer. He retrieved his clothes and began
to talk to the rest of the disciples. I could not think. The realization that he knew of my treachery speared my heart. The Rabbi was saying something to the group, but I was not listening. I felt once again the weight of the pouch in my pocket and noticed that Jesus was handing me a piece of dipped bread. I took it and saw the disciples astonished faces. Peter ’s face quickly turned deadly, and he began to rise when Jesus interrupted him with a wave of his hand. The Rabbi addressed me, “ What you are going to do, do quickly.” My head split with the impact of these words. He confirmed my suspicions and did not thwart my escape. I rose from my place on the cushions and made my way to the door. I felt His eyes on the back of my head. I could sense the disciples looking at each other in horror. When I reached the exit, I looked back one last time. There, surrounded by his disciples, was Jesus of Nazareth. The manifestation of everything good and hopeful in this world, and I, Judas Iscariot, was going to kill him. I turned back and hurriedly escaped the room, feeling nothing but hate for His perfection as I fled into the comforting darkness of the night.
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The bread of
life The Bread of Life fulfills my every need Providing Father, always there for me Meets every cry for Him to intercede I want to worship him, how great is He O hearing every cry, My faithful King True to His word in every single way His promises are faithful, to Him I cling He loves his sheep, though some have gone astray He offered himself like a lamb, behold Protector, Peaceful, my Providing Christ Still loving us even when hearts lie cold He sent His Son to be our sacrifice O we shall never hunger or have thirst When in our life, we put Messiah first BY: ANNIE CAROL RYPKEMA
P H O T O B Y : R YA N W H E E L E R
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H U MA N CLONING BY: ANNIE CAROL RYPKEMA
People are wrongly using the next generation’s stem cells to keep this genera-
tion alive (Kass). Is it acceptable to use the next generation’s stem cells? Is it disrespectful to use a woman’s womb for research, or to take away a child’s self-worth by making them only a clone of someone else (Kass)? God’s design is for a child to be born of a man and a woman, not a clone (Connor 2). If people have any respect for the next generation of children, they will allow children to have a natural birth, instead of being a part of the cloning process. Human cloning is disobedient to God and degrading to human life. Human cloning is unethical because it is morally wrong.
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THE HUMAN RACE IS LOSING THEIR MORALITY WHEN THEY PERMIT OR EVEN ENABLE CLONING.
The immorality of cloning distorts God’s design. In Italy, one woman gives birth to
only about 1.2 children per lifetime, because of the use of stem cells in cloning (Kass). Stem cells are being destroyed rapidly for the cause of research. In Genesis 1:28, humans are called in obedience to “be fruitful and multiply” (English Standard Version). Humans are disobeying God’s command to multiply life by selfishly destroying it instead. The use of stem cells in cloning and scientific studies is unethical because stem cells are a fragile form of life (Arnold). The human race is losing their morality when they permit or even enable cloning. It is dishonorable of humans to allow a mother and child to be put in a dangerous or unsafe situation for the purpose of research (Connor 2). Humans are risking others’ health and well being for the cause of research, which is very unethical. Biologist Kathrin Plath of the University of California at Los Angeles’s Broad Center of Regenerative Medicine and Stem Cell Research claims that many of the previously cloned mice endured physical deficiencies or death (Maugh II A1). She comments that this experiment should never have been performed since only one mouse of the many that were cloned grew to be an adult (Maugh II A1). 25
Is it morally appropriate for humans to
harm animals through research? If cloned animals had health issues and many died, why are people working towards the cloning of humans? Why are humans asking for malformations in the future? The chief scientific officer at Advanced Cell Technology Incorporated, Dr Robert Lanza, states, “‘...if you have a piece of skin from anybody-Albert Einstein, Marilyn Monroe, Michael Jackson-you could create a child’” (Maugh II A1). What would it be like if someone cloned a writer, an athlete, or even a President? The writer of Psalms 139 acknowledges that everyone is different and unique (English Standard Version, Psalms 139:14). Are people rejoicing in the differences and interests of humans if they are immorally wanting people to be cloned? Cloning will lead to other immoralities, like genetic engineering (Arnold). If cloning is viewed as permissible, what other immoral things will be considered acceptable in the future? Today’s culture is heading down a path of selfish corruption. The immorality of cloning is apparent, and everyone should be doing more to ART BY: VERONICA IVESTER
stop and prevent this rising issue.
Clearly, it is corrupt and dishonorable by moral and ethical standards to participate in
human cloning. Some might argue that cloning has many valuable health benefits for diseases like Parkinson’s or Type 1 Diabetes (Kass). While this is a seemingly valid argument, nothing is more important than the respect of God’s creation. The value and worth of human life is plummeting everytime cloning becomes more accepted in culture. Selfish and greedy notions obscure culture from the immoral aspects of cloning. Will human life ever get the respect it deserves if cloning continues to be permitted? Furthermore, what other wicked ideas will be brought into society? Genetic engineering and other ethnic issues could be not only tolerated, but welcomed and assimilated into the world. Soon, this culture could be walking down the path of immorality, allowing parents to design their child. If this issue is disregarded, the world will become vulnerable to its corrupt influence. Does cloning respect God and His design for humans? Moreover, when today’s researchers continue using the next generation’s stem cells, does this teach the values of integrity and righteousness, or does today’s culture continue to teach them self-centered and morally corrupt traits?
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The Disparities of Life BY: KATHERINE BEACH
1.9 billion callow fingerprints are scattered across the earth 57 million vernal brains grow without brimming knowledge 66 million miniscule stomachs live vacant and hollow We will never understand the disparities of life I wake up to the alarm grumbling at the thought of school From dawn till dusk she yearns to know how to write her own name I am frustrated when my brother chooses to eat lunch at a place that I despise A small child screams with rage when she can’t find a scrap of food for the day She will never understand the disparities of life I am excited to receive my driver ’s permit, eager for my freedom He is thrilled when he is taught how to wash and clean his hands I pat a peer on the back after an irrelevant fight with her parents He feels fierce sorrow for a sister who lost her mother far too early He will never understand the disparities of life I hide away safely under my bed covers after what I think is a long day A beaten family unravels faith when they take sanctuary in a refugee camp I am too busy contemplating on tomorrow that my cup is never empty In Tanzania a group of kids savor every last drop of their first orange soda They will never understand the disparities of life I sit in church pondering on what the pastor has to say on God’s word But she weeps with heavy tears when her puffy eyes meet a Bible for the first time We will never understand the disparities of life I will never understand the disparities of life
A R T B Y : M A I R Y N M C G I LV R AY
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The Human Chorus The Human Chorus The Human Chorus BY: WILLIAM WOOD
I finished the last sentence and gently closed the book. 12:30 am. In exactly six hours I
had to wake up to get ready for school. I should have been tired, but my mind was ablaze. My conscience screamed to sleep now, or I would suffer tomorrow in my classes. But its pleas were drowned out by the whirring of my mind. Never had I felt so convicted and connected to a fictional character. I reopened the book and turned to the last page of James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s Blues.”
Sonny’s fingers filled the air with life, his life. But that life contained so many others. And
Sonny went all the way back, he really began with the spare, flat statement of the opening phrase of the song. Then he began to make it his… I heard what he had gone through, and would continue to go through until he came to rest in the earth. He had made it his:
I paused my reading and glanced toward the door where my brothers were sleeping.
James Baldwin had captured the brotherly dynamic so masterfully that I instantly connected with the story’s narrator, Sonny’s older brother. I understood his familial obligation for his brother ’s welfare. I understood the anger that he felt when Sonny ignored his advice. I understood the sadness and guilt when he saw Sonny was arrested for substance abuse. Baldwin’s story of two African American brothers living in Harlem in 1945 deeply resonated with me, a white teenager in 2018. But how? Everything about us seemed so different - our skin color, where we grew up, our socioeconomic backgrounds. How could I possibly relate to what the narrator felt toward his brother?
But what if those differences did not matter? Perhaps, our connection would make sense.
We both grew up with brothers that needed and demanded more attention from our parents. We both stayed focused and succeeded academically. We both have a younger brother that ignores our advice,
but we still feel guilty when he falls short. Perhaps, those common experiences united us across half a century and half a country. We did not have prejudices against each other. We simply listened to the other as he poured out his story. Today’s society tends to place people in stereotypical categories, and all hell breaks loose if these boundaries are crossed. It restricts us. The boundaries are a product of our own doing. Can we not break them down? Can we let everyone’s voice be heard without a prejudiced filter? Of course, we can. We choose not to.
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CAN WE LET EVERYONE’S VOICE BE HEARD WITHOUT A PREJUDICED FILTER? OF COURSE, WE CAN. WE CHOOSE NOT TO. THEN, THE QUESTION BECOMES NOT CAN WE LISTEN, BUT HOW DO WE LISTEN?
of the narrator ’s final realization.
”
I continued reading the closing scene of “Sonny’s Blues,” and my eyes seized a section
I saw my mother ’s face again, and felt for the first time, how the stones of the road she
walked on must have bruised her feet. I saw the moon-lit road where my father ’s brother died... I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel’s tears again, and felt my own tears begin to rise. And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.
It was not until the narrator physically entered Sonny’s world that he truly understood
his pain. And in Sonny’s pain, the narrator saw his own. Their differences no longer kept them apart. For a brief moment, they were inexplicably connected. The answer to my how questions became apparent: casting aside prejudices and living through others experiences is the first step to understanding them. Everyone has a story and a unique voice, and none should be overlooked. 31
A R T B Y : M A I R Y N M C G I LV R AY
We need to step into the beauty of someone else’s world. I witnessed this revelation
firsthand when my brother was hospitalized. He spent three months on IVs and a strict diet of hospital food. And I was jealous! He got all the attention, and our entire family’s schedule revolved around him. He even got to watch whatever movie he wanted to all the time! But Baldwin’s narrator put aside previous judgments and stepped into his brother ’s shoes; I could do the same. My brother was kept away from his normal life and his family for months while constantly feeling sick and nauseous. He could not sleep in his own bed in the shared room with me, and he could not play outside and attempt the Parkour he was obsessed with. His life for the next three months had been reduced to pills, IVs, monitors, nurses, and powdered eggs. By looking at life from his perspective, I could feel nothing but regret for my jealousy and pity for my brother. I learned right then that every story has multiple perspectives, and I needed to consider all points of view before I made judgments.
As my eyes became droopy, one quote that I could not quite remember nagged at the
back of my mind. I opened the book one last time and skimmed the pages until I found what I was looking for. I had to get it verbatim, so as not to skew the true meaning.
And Creole let out the reins. The dry, low, black man said something awful on the drums,
Creole answered, and the drums talked back. Then the horn insisted, sweet and high, slightly detached perhaps, and Creole listened, commenting now and then, dry, and driving, beautiful and calm and odd. Then they all came together again, and Sonny was part of the family again. I could tell from his face. He seemed to have found, right there beneath his fingers, a damn brand-new piano… Listen, Creole seemed to be saying, listen. Now these are Sonny’s blues.
I reread it again. I was there in the bar that night sitting next to Baldwin’s narrator.
I observed how the musicians improvised the song and made their own voices heard in the music’s flow. I saw Sonny, tormented by drugs and jail time, loosen up and make his own voice heard. I felt Sonny’s pain. I felt the narrator ’s pain. I realized it was my pain as well. While everyone has a unique voice, we are all part of the music. Everyone’s perspective contributes to the mosaic. Our voices create a harmony that magnifies our individual beauty, but at the same time, we sing together in a larger human chorus.
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ART BY: HADLEY EZELL
WE For I am a bag of flesh and bone And all I want is to not be alone So open me up and you will see The roughest realest bits of me My darkest moments my biggest dreams Yes I am more that what I seem I am all this And so are you For You are merely human too We break we cry we laugh we mend We fight our moms we keep our friends We scream too loud music in cars late at night We hold onto the past with all our might All God’s creatures great and small Who meet their friends at shopping malls Who walk in rain Who see the sky Who hide their faces when they cry Now look up close and learn to see The multitudes contained in We
B Y : M A I R Y N M C G I LV R AY 35
SYNCOPATION NATION MUSIC BY: JOLI DOBBINS
Joli Dobbins
37
Joli Dobbins
Joli Dobbins 39
Joli Dobbins
Joli Dobbins 41
CREATE IN PLACES
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Setting a Scene BY: KATIE HENRY
Angular arches loomed in every corner of the crisp room, preaching the long gone legacy
of the house. One large, pristine window replaced the back wall, allowing glimpses of a sunset. The violent storm took an intermission to allow a dying sun to show off its explosive colors.
The sharp tap of elegant heels cut through the silence. She sat at the piano bench, hem
of her dress brushing chair legs, a faraway look on her face spoke of tragedies not yet known. Her slender fingers barely brushed the cold ivory as she played a long, melancholy song, a song she would never name. She played with an urgency, as though it was the last evening in the world. The performance was for no one but the extinguished sun, the taunting moon that took its place, and the thunder that resumed, louder, drowning out most of her music.
As she finished her grand finale, the front door opened downstairs, permitting gruff
voices to echo through the corridors. Quickly, she exited the room, sparing one last glance to ensure she didn’t leave any proof of her performance behind. It was dark now, the moon was completely hidden behind the clouds; perhaps it would keep her secret, perhaps her song would be lost with the storm.
MINECRAFT HOUSE BY: JONATHAN CHAMBLEE
45
SUNSETS OVER THE NATURAL STATE
P H O T O BY : PAU L D O U G L A S S
PHOTO BY: MADISON STOCKWELL
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HOW THE BUTTERFLY GOT ITS WINGS B Y : M A I R Y N M C G I LV R AY
Many years ago in a little village there lived a little girl who could hear all life’s spirits.
The willows would whisper her secrets and the birds sing her stories. She heard the cries of the wounded buffalo. The fish would gargle her wisdom. Her dogma was one of respect towards all creatures. As she grew, her gift became known throughout the land and she was given the name Kiwidinok, woman of the wind, because she knew why it blew.
One day Kiwidinok was walking through a meadow and as she set her foot upon the
ground she heard a screaming. Kiwidinok moved fast but it was too late; she had crushed a caterpillar. She knelt to the ground and gently cradled the creature in her hands. She felt its spirit fluttering and wept bitterly. Kiwidinok was overcome by her hypocrisy for she had taken a life. The wind heard her cries and decided to spare the little caterpillar from its fate. Kiwidinok shrieked with joy as the creature began to move. Although no harm was permanent, she dedicated herself to earning forgiveness for her mistake. She went to the river and the fish gave her their scales. She went to the forest and the trees gave her their thinnest branches. She looked up to the sky and the eagles gave her their feathers. With the gifts she had been given Kiwidinok fashioned two tiny wings, light as air and thinner than a blade of grass. She took her creation to the meadow where she cried out to caterpillar and caterpillar crawled to her. She took the creature into her hands and said, “I have crushed you under my feet but now you will fly above my head.” And the wind blew and the sky opened; the caterpillar was given its wings. As he flew away, Kiwidinok heard the earth singing in harmony; new life had come to the earth.
P H O T O B Y : R YA N W H E E L E R 49
CAPTURING ARCHITECTURE
PHOTO BY: RILEY ASHMORE
PHOTO BY: JORDAN DOLLAR
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NATURE IN ART
ART BY: ASHLEY LIGON
P H O T O B Y : R YA N W H E E L E R
PHOTO BY: JETT HERRINGTON 53
Can’t Make It Back Again BY: ALLI WOOD
On a planet known only for its misfortune there lived a boy everyone called Rose.
Rose was half Toge and half human. Fujin was the planet ’s name. It was named after the Japanese Kami of winds, Fujin, because in its most prosperous days people glided in ships across the skies for a chance at luck. Toge are humanoids best known for their two horns that poked from their head, and you know what humans are. Rose operated a machine known as the Roku-Kama, Kama for short. They were insect-like machines that harvested the rock for resources which had become less than abundant in recent memory. His company had not given thought to replace the same twenty year old models that his mother and father once piloted. To him and his colleagues, today was the same as every other day, the same day he had been forced to repeat for seven years.
He boarded an elevator, a ratchety old machine that screamed and quaked for hours on end.
He wore a hat above his horns, resting on a mess of fuzzy black hair that curled around pointed stone grey ears. The doors had been so heavily beaten and rusted that opening it was considered a job with a paycheck. As it took him deep below ground, the same doubts danced around his mind. He countered them with success, but each time they reincarnated with a greater fighting spirit.
“
“
HE COUNTERED THEM WITH SUCCESS, BUT EACH TIME THEY REINCARNATED WITH A GREATER FIGHTING SPIRIT.
As a child, even today as a semi-sturdy nineteen-year-old, the mines were the same as
the oceans. He could never see the bottom, and if he could, he would lose all his breath and be forgotten. This was not to gloss over the hundreds of strange monsters which lurk in those hidden depths. He swore he felt an odd skin-crawling sensation at the thought of what could potentially meet him there at the bottom.
The elevator came to a stop after an hour, followed by many other elevators from
other sections. He took a hold of his supplies, some issued by the company, others he was recommended. Every worker spilled out and made way for their place of work with only the thought of money holding them there. Each Kama was lined up, side by side with no distinguishing factors besides a few missing parts and a splotch of dirt. The only way to tell which Kama apart was by looking at a small number on its hind legs. He found his: number oneeight-seventeen. It took ten minutes at most for everyone to board their Kama, so Rose gave his a quick check-up. A friend of his had educated Rose on modifications, as his mother had done for the friend. “Don’t screw anything up this time, Rose-Chan!” shouted another pilot mockingly. Rose acted like he ignored the comment, but clearly consumed it. “Did you hear me?!” cawed the pilot. “ Y-yeah…” said Rose, trying to open his Kama’s door. “Do that, and nobody’ll die this time!” He forced up a chuckle, “I’ll try,” He was quick to shut the door.
It was unique inside; modifications had to be made to ensure decent efficiency and
accommodate the style of the pilot. The interior of his Kama was politely referred to as “rustic”, as it ’s evident decay alluded to southern attributes. The cushioning of the front seat had a large rip down its middle as if it were begging to no longer be sat on, and when Rose adjusted its positioning to his preferences, it let out an obnoxious moan like an elderly man living his last years. A little plush character of a small anthropomorphic cat dangled above, he felt it lit up the palate and supplied more than the usual.
The Kama were carefully lifted by a large grouping of cable wires into the darkened
depths. A voice played over, reminding pilots to buckle themselves in and make certain adjustments. He spread his fingers over the interface and flicked over several switches accordingly.
The moment the descent concluded and released his vehicle he began working his way
through a stolid wall of rock. Steam poured from a vent in the back as the machine moved its sturdy, stubby legs through. The exterior of a Kama is tough enough so that no matter how many scratches it obtained, it would be impossible to break. On the outside was where all the action was, with scythe-like blades penetrating through, repeatedly bashing, slashing, chipping away at the once solid mass. But one has to question how much one could endure on the inside, insulated from the chaos so near. 55
Any pilot would tell you jokingly, “It took more to live through the boredom than being crushed by thousands of rocks!” There was some truth to that statement.
The sector of land in which Rose struck at was only a few kilometers from his apartment in
Mawari City, the city that revolves around the mines. It was never a place of solace, and despite a warm-looking fireplace, he could never start a fire. His father was there now, lounging on the couch, making up for the lack of a kotatsu with a superfluous number of blankets as he hazily watched the baseball game. It wasn’t a matter of “will they win or will they not?” —for the failure of the team was predetermined—it was a matter of if they were willing to hold up against the odds. Though the wrong bet was always made, it seemed unjust for him to give up anyway.
Just when Rose began to slack off on his work, the Kama struck hard and the entire wall
collapsed into a great system of caves. Unaware of his discovery, he was too late to pull the machine back, and it fell for an eternity. …
He could feel a calling, a light. He could feel his mother, ancestors he had never known. He
hadn’t died yet. Opening his eyes, he was struck by a brilliant ball of scintillating white light. He screamed agonizingly. The light quickly dimmed. <am I dead?! What sort of place is this?!>
His eyes scattered about the room, until they caught a reflective surface which glistened
from the light. It was the carcass of his Kama, damaged beyond repair.
He cuffed his hands to his mouth, “No no no no no no…”
But then his worry came off the mind like an eraser was taken to them. What was causing
the light in these depths? He had never known such a presence in all his life as the one that emanated from this light source. His injuries, his misfortune, likelihood of death, of being forgotten; everything was nothing for a moment. He reached for it without knowing he was taking action. One moment heaped up on top of the other as time seemed to slow. There was something he needed, and at this moment it could only be quenched by the source. He was crying, laughing all over, shaking, frowning. The tip of his fingernail came to this object, and soon enough his hand. For only a second he could recount his life from birth to present.
EVERYTHING AFTER WENT BLACK.
ART BY: ALLI WOOD 57
sunsetS sunsetS sunsetS
PHOTO BY: KEATON RYPKEMA
PHOTO BY: ANNA MAACK
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I LIVE THE DREAM BY: ASHTON PRICE Martin Luther King Jr.’s words, “I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood,” ring true in the laughter that takes place in the living room of 11425 Jamestown Drive. I sometimes wonder how those four thin walls can possibly contain the immense joy, intense sorrow, and unfathomable love I have personally experienced in that small cozy room. I think back to the first time we gathered in that house after it was first purchased. The buying of that home marked a new season for us all. In the house, I remember celebrating when Danketta graduated from nursing school, and when Fred completed his police training. My heart breaks all over again as I reflect on the loss of Granny who was near and dear to us all and my heart sinks to think about the bullying Aidan received from his fifth grade teacher. Through the good times and the bad, we have spurred each other on in love. Even still, this love has multiplied more than twenty fold on any given weekend as nine different families representing three different ethnic backgrounds gather to fellowship and learn from one another. Although I do not live in that house at 11425 Jamestown, I cannot help but feel at home there. Together, we snicker at the little old white lady across the street who takes every opportunity to peer into open windows and doors. She seems to live in fear of her white neighborhood, being tainted by the influx of multicultural neighbors. She hopes to confirm we are the stereotypical troublemakers she suspects us to be, yet all she can see is one big, harmonious family enjoying one another ’s company unashamed of what others think. As the adults catch each other up on the happenings and events from the week, Dariane, the youngest of the adults and the oldest of the children, assembles all of the kids, almost instinctively, to play a game. All ten of us kids sit around the dining room table preparing for a competitive game of Monopoly. None of us are concerned about what we look like or even about the color of our skin. Instead, our only concern is our own strategies for winning, and our only criteria for one another is fair play. Martin Luther King Jr. alluded to this type of euphoric reality when he stood before a crowd of thousands hoping “his four little children [would] one day live in a nation where they [would] not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character ” (King). MLK had a dream, and I live the dream. Meanwhile, our mothers leave the men to watch Sunday night football while they work together in the kitchen to finish cooking our evening meal . After sometime, the smell of fried chicken and mashed potatoes fills the house and draws everyone around the kitchen counter. In our family, we pray together before every home-cooked meal. MLK dreamed of a generation of little black boys and girls holding hands with little white boys and girls as brothers and sisters. When we pray, we join hands as brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, and sons and daughters. We live the dream. At the close of our meal, our family returns to the living room to gather on couches and carpet. We spend this time in Bible study, and in life-giving conversations of mutual encouragement, compassion, and conviction. Not concerned with past events or political differences, we rally together with the common goal of growing in our relationship with God and learning from each other. This is the dream. It is a dream founded on faith in the future, and our family is a fulfillment of that dream. This dream is one that we cannot keep to ourselves. Nearly every weekend a new family is added to our family that feels so exclusive, but is all so inviting.
We welcome and embrace new families of all backgrounds in all phases of life, who need people to call family and a place to call home. I recall many times where we meet someone one morning and that evening they join us at the house. This is my family. This is the dream. With this family, we are “able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” With this family, we are “able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.” With this family, we are “able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we [live] free”(King). Still, freedom is not always dreamy. Sometimes, we leave the house. Sometimes, we encounter individuals who have not experienced the same freedom we have found in relationship with one another. They mock our differences and poke fun at our diversity, but in the midst of adversity, we dream together. Although the house can contain the immense joy, intense sorrow, and unfathomable love of nine different families representing three different ethnic backgrounds, it cannot fully contain the implications of a dream by a single man for the improvement of the entire world through multicultural relationships and unity.
PHOTO BY: ANNIE CARTER
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LANDSCAPE
PHOTO BY: JETT HERRINGTON
PHOTOGRAPHY
P H O T O B Y : D AV I D ORTEGA 63
CREATE WITH THINGS
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“CRAZY RICH ASIANS” MOVIE REVIEW
BY: KENDALL CHRISTIAN
Are you looking for a good movie to watch with your family, friends, or significant other?
Look no further because “Crazy Rich Asians” is right for you. The film was nominated in 2019 for over 25 awards and won 7 of them, including the Costume Designers Guild Award and the Critics Choice Movie Awards for Best Comedy.
“Crazy Rich Asians” is a 2018 American romantic comedy film directed by Jon M. Chu, from
a screenplay by Peter Chiarelli and Adele Lim, based on the 2013 novel by Kevin Kwan. It is a story about the fictional characters Nick Young and his girlfriend Rachel Chu. They travel together to Singapore for Nick’s best friend’s wedding, and Rachel soon finds out that she does not know everything she thought she did about Nick. The Young family is an extremely wealthy family and they are members of high society. Nick’s mother does not approve of Rachel, which leads to many problems in their relationship. This movie will take you on an emotional rollercoaster.
I would 10/10 recommend this movie to anyone who enjoys a sweet movie that will make
you laugh. One of the things that makes the movie so good is all of the stress and the ups and downs of Rachel and Nick’s relationship. I won’t give too much of it away because I want you to be able to experience the same thrilling ride I did, but it was an amazing movie that you should definitely watch.
PHOTO BY: RILEY ASHMORE 67
PHOTO BY: ISABEL MOSLEY
Sourdough Banana Bread Recipe BY: BRENNA SMITH
I N G R E D I E N TS : One cup sugar One tablespoon salt One tablespoon vanilla One and a half cup sourdough starter One-third cup shortening One egg, slightly beaten One cup flour One cup mashed banana Three-fourths cup chopped nuts
DIRECTIONS: Add sugar, salt, and vanilla to your starter. Melt shortening, add to batter. Add egg, flour, bananas, and nuts to batter, stirring until well blended. Pour into a greased loaf pan. Allow to sit in a warm place for twenty minutes. Bake at three hundred fifty degrees for fifty-five to sixty minutes. Take out to let cool for ten to fifteen minutes before removing from the pan.
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Breaking Storm BY: SOPHIA MCFARLAND
PHOTO BY: EMMA HODNETT
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STEALING EVERYONE’S HEART BY: ALLISON RICKARD “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” stole away the show! Watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” for the first time I fell in love with it! It was so worth it. I know for sure that this movie will get you into the Christmas spirit. Jim Carrey takes the show away playing the Grinch, a Dr. Seuss story come to life. I was greatly pleased with the outcome of the movie with stunning costumes and set, which was awarded Academy Awards for outstanding hair and makeup and Kids’ Choice Award for favorite movies. This movie is not a mistake. Every detail was on point, from the very small makeup to the Grinch’s costume to the spectacular set designs. All I am saying is that this film is definitely worth watching on your screen.
P H O T O S BY : PAU L D O U G L A S S
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DOWN TO EARTH PHOTOS & ART BY: PAU L D O U G L A S S , S Y D N E Y SCHMITT, JONATHAN CHAMBLEE AND ANNIE CARTER
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PHOTO & RECIPE BY: RACHEL MAACK
apple pie recipe I n g r e d i e n ts
Instructions
6 apples
Heat the oven to 425 degrees. Take your
1 tablespoon lemon juice
apples and peel the skin then cut them into
1 cup of sugar
thin slices. Gently hand-toss your apple
2 teaspoons of cinnamon
slices with 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, 1/2
4 tablespoons of butter
cup of sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon
2 tablespoons of milk
and set aside. In a small pot add your butter,
2 pie crusts
1/2 cup of sugar, 2 tablespoons of milk, and a teaspoon of cinnamon. Once melted, let cool and pour mixture onto apples. Toss and set aside. Take a pie pan and line with 1 pie crust. Add the apple mixture into the pie pan and add your second pie crust over the top (decorate/cut if desired). Thinly spread melted butter over the top and place in the oven for 30-40 minutes or until the pie crust is golden brown. If desired spread butter and cinnamon on top before serving, let cool and enjoy. 77
POPS OF COLOR
PHOTO BY: ANNA MAACK
PHOTO BY: PARKER KING
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Disney’s Live Action “Aladdin”: A NEW WORLD OF EMOTION B Y : LY N N E L I S E H A R K I N S
Walking into the theaters to watch Aladdin, I was excited and scared to see the
outcome. However, this movie exceeded all expectations. I walked out of the theater with a feeling of nostalgia and pure bliss. This movie gave me a part of my childhood back. I can still remember seeing Aladdin for the first time while on my couch, excited by all the music and characters. I was delighted to recreate a similar experience while watching the live action Aladdin.
The music and visuals excite your eyes and ears in every moment to ensure
maximum entertainment. I didn’t expect the film to live up to the old movie, but somehow the moderness and classic Disney feel mix together to create a brilliant spectacle. The music from the old film was revamped to create a more hip soundtrack suitable for the new generation. I don’t think one person left the theater without singing or dancing to the tunes. The modern remake to certain songs helped the contemporary audience connect to the movie. The new and exciting angles also create a visual display that improves the overall cinematography. I believe this film should make it to your screen at some point in time.
ART BY: ANNA MAACK
81
ART BY: ALLI WOOD
Disney’s “Coco”:
Feeling Coco Loco
Watching this movie I was expecting a plot that was quite predictable. I was suprised when this movie didn’t fall into the exceedigly cheesy catagory. Yes, this movie was a bit cheesy, but it was very fun to watch. I actually enjoyed the songs most of all. They didn’t sound like the normal catchy songs that Disney tends to annoy you with. They were heartfelt and pleasingly catchy. The graphics of this movie were also very pleasing to the eye with the vibrant colors. I watched this movie more than once, and I was not dissapointed any time I watched it. I would definitly recommend watching this movie before watching any other new Disney movie.
B Y : LY N N E L I S E H A R K I N S
83
creatures ART BY: KYLIE ROBINSON
85
AN EXCERPT FROM
Rhapsody BY: AIDAN ROSS
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ma st e r p i e c e STA F F
ANNA MAACK chief editor
KATHERINE BEACH submissions editor
JOLI DOBBINS literature director
RILEY ASHMORE art director
KEATON RYPKEMA staff
RACHEL MAACK staff
STAFF NOT PICTURED: JORDAN DOLLAR, CAMERAN NEIGHBORS, BRENNA SMITH
ANNIE CARTER design editor
LY N N E L I S E H A R K I N S page editor
K A R E N RU S H art director
KENDALL CHRISTIAN staff
ALLISON RICKARD staff
JUNE HENDREN adviser
LITMAG@LITTLEROCKCHRISTIAN.COM // 19010 CANTRELL ROAD, LITTLE ROCK, AR 72223
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C O N T E N T
INDEX Ash more , Rile y.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .............................................................. 50, 67, 88 B each, Ka the rine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............................................................... .....28, 88 Car te r, Annie ..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............................................................... 61, 75, 89 Ch amble e , J ona t h an. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ................................................................ .....45, 75 Ch r i stia n, Ke nda ll. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............................................................... .....66, 89 Do b bins, Joli..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .............................................................13, 36, 88 Do llar, J ordan... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .........................................................................51 Do u glass, Paul... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..............................................................46, 73, 75 E zell, Hadle y..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .........................................................................34 G r i ffin, Anna..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..........................................................................15 H ar kins, Lynn El is e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..............................................................80, 83, 89 H eard, Grac e ..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............................................................... ...........20 H en dre n, June .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ............................................................... ..........89
H en r y, Ka t i e . . . ..................................................................................................................4 4 H er r i n g t o n , J e tt..........................................................................................................5 3 , 6 2 H o d n e tt , Em m a..................................................................................................... ............7 0 I v es t e r, Ve ro n i c a................................................................................................... ............2 6 Ja m e s , B e n . . . . . .................................................................................................................1 4 K i n g , Pa r ke r. . . ...................................................................................................... ............7 9 L i g o n , A s h l e y. . .................................................................................................................5 2 M aa c k , A n n a . . . .................................................................................................59, 7 8 , 8 1 , 8 8 M aa c k , Ra c h e l . ............................................................................................................7 6 , 8 8 M cFa r l a n d , S o phi e .............................................................................................................7 1 M cG i l v ra y, M a i ryn............................................................................................29, 3 2 , 3 4 , 4 8 M os l e y, Is a b e l ..................................................................................................................6 8 Or t e g a, Da v i d . . ..................................................................................................................6 3 Pa r k i n s o n , A l l i e ..................................................................................................................8 Pr ic e , A s h t o n . . ..................................................................................................................6 0 Ri cka rd , A l l i s o n..........................................................................................................7 2 , 8 9 Rob i n s o n , Ky l i e.................................................................................................................8 4 91
Ro ss , A i d a n . . . . . . . . ..................................................................................................................8 6 Rush, Karen..........................................................................................................................89 Ry p ke m a , A n n i e Carol ............................................................................................... ......2 2 , 2 4 Ry p ke m a , Kea t o n ...................................................................................................... ......5 8 , 8 8 Schmitt, Sydney....................................................................................................................75 S mit h , B re n n a . . . . ...................................................................................................... ............6 9 Stockwell, Madison................................................................................................................47 W h eel e r, Ry a n . . . . ...................................................................................................... .2 3 , 4 9 , 5 3 Woo d , A l l i . . . . . . . . . . ......................................................................................................5 4 , 5 7 , 8 2 Woo d , Wi l l i a m . . . ...................................................................................................... ......1 6 , 3 0
D E S I G N
INDEX A s h mo re , R i l e y. . . ...................................................................................................... ......5 0 , 5 2 Ca r ter, A n n i e . . . . . . .....................................................................................................5 , 7 , 4 3 , 6 5 C h r i s t i a n , Ke n d a l l...........................................................................................................6 0 , 7 6 D o b b i n s , J o l i . . . . . . ..................................................................................................... .......3 6 , 5 4 D o l l a r, J o rd a n . . . . ............................................................................................................5 2 , 6 8 H a r k i n s , Ly n n El i se .........................................................................................22, 30, 5 8 , 8 2 , 8 6 M a a ck, A n n a . . . . . . ..................................................................................36, 46, 48, 50, 6 6 , 6 8 , 7 4 M a a ck, Ra c h e l . . . . ...................................................................................................... ......2 4 , 2 8 N e i g h b o r s , Ca m e ran........................................................................................................4 6 , 7 2 Ri cka rd , A l l i s o n . . ............................................................................................14, 16, 3 4 , 6 2 , 8 4 Ru s h , Ka re n . . . . . . . ...................................................................................................... .4 8 , 7 0 , 7 8 Ry p ke m a , Kea t o n ...................................................................................................... ........8 , 4 4 S mit h , B re n n a . . . . ............................................................................................................6 6 , 8 0 93
COLOPHON Masterpiece 2020 was created by the Literary Magazine staff during the fall semester in the
Warrior Hall Mac Lab, then completed by the editorial team during the spring semester. The
94 pages of “Create” were printed by TCPrint in North Little Rock, Arkansas on 80# gloss cover
and 70# gloss text. The primary colors used to create the magazine were #939FA0 (light blue), #9B5534 (burnt orange), #293745 (navy), and #DDB192 (light yellow), combined with fonts
Ostrich Sans, Marion, and Avenir Next Condensed. Every piece in Masterpiece was submitted by students of Little Rock Christian Academy.
T H A N K Y O U T O. . .
J E N N I F E R BY R D, E L I Z A B E T H H I L L L O R E N RU G E N , T E R E S A WA L K E R LY N N B E A R D S L E Y, T R A C Y K E L L E Y & KIM SMITH
We also want to thank all of the students who submitted pieces for consideration in
Masterpiece 2020. Your works of art, written pieces, photos, recipes, music compositions and more made this year ’s magazine unique and beautiful, fully embodying this year ’s theme of “Create.”
MASTERPIECE: A L I T T L E R O C K C H R I ST I A N P U B L I C AT I O N The 2019-2020 school year brought about a great deal of change, i n c l u d i n g t h e r e s u r r e c t i o n o f t h e s c h o o l â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s N a t i o n a l C o u n c i l f o r Te a c h e r s of English (NCTE) literary magazine. A new teacher and a new structure led to the selection of a new name for the magazine: Masterpiece. This name was chosen to embody not only the masterpieces created by Little Rock Christian Academy students that will inhabit the pages of this magazine but also to demonstrate that we are masterpieces ourselves: masterpieces of our Creator.
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