Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2012

Marian

Burn

Spring 2012

Contents

3&4 Emily Johanek ‘13 Nicole Wojtalewicz ‘12 Alexis Vinton ‘13

1&2

5&6

Michelle Tsatsoes ‘13 Haley Snyder ‘13 Samantha Gardner ‘14

Megan Woodruff ‘13 Liza Woltemath ‘13

Alayna Stokes ‘13

13 & 14

17 & 18

Shannon Smith ‘14 Shannon Smith ‘14 Emma Finken ‘14

Claire Sonderman ‘13 Gabrielle Maenner ‘13

Megan Woodruff ‘13

15 & 16 Hannah Knight ‘14 Araya Santo ‘14 Katherine Johnson ‘13

9 & 10

Emily Fisher ‘13 Lauren Tussey ‘13 Alexis Vinton ‘13

Samantha Gardner ‘14

11 & 12

7&8

Emily Fisher ‘13 MaryLouise Woltemath ‘12

Margaret McKeon ‘15 Margaret McKeon ‘15 Jordan Kuiper ‘14

Claire Andersen ‘13

“T burn

”

- Jack Kerouac

19 & 20

23 & 24

Michelle Tsatsos ‘13

Lisa Satpathy ‘13

Jessica Mizaur ‘13

Lisa Satpathy ‘13

21 & 22

Marisa Gambaiana ‘13 & Liza Woltemath ‘13 Emma Tuttle ‘1 MaryLouise Woltemath ‘12 Roni Perez ‘14

tight rope

“ellas” [ writing: Samantha Gardner and Alayna Stokes ]

The world is but a circus for our own amusement, With a tight rope divide.

Fall to the left to meet a fantasy, To the right, reality.

As I walk this rope I try to stay still, Because I don’t want to choose just yet.

And so I walk between the two merely observing, Insanity and broken minds, Closed minds and conformity.

I prefer to walk the line, Arms stretched wide to keep my balance, Teetering close to the edge One foot set in front of the other.

But I can’t do this forever, No one can.

For now I walk the line, As I wonder where to fall.

I stop and look and smile and think.

“The tight rope is my home but when I fall, …the left is where I’ll lean.”

I hear the cheering from one side, The insults from the other.

Some go so far as to call me crazy, I laugh…

Who said I ever wanted to be sane?

02

“reminisce”

01

I want to sleep but not have to wake up, I want to eat and eat but not gain any weight, I want to shop ‘till I drop but not go broke, I want to drive on and on but not waste gas,

I want to love you and never lose you.

I want to see the world but not be a “tourist”, I want to know what’s coming but not know my future, I want to go to college but not miss home, I want to jump but not fall, I want to love you and never lose you.

I want to love you and never lose you.

I want to dance forever but not get tired, I want to take a million pictures but not run out of film, I want to experiment but not be judged, I want to dance in the rain but not get wet,

None can happen, none can exist.

Until one does, No matter the consequence, Loving you will stay first on my list.

[ photography: Michelle Tsatsos and Haley Snyder ]

consequences of reality

++

“stairway to my dreams”

and that bothers no one We coexist Without having the faintest clue that the other one is alive.

And that bothers no one.

The man in the car is going to visit his wife.

The man in the car stops at the crosswalk, letting a

little girl ride by on her bike.

The little girl is on her way home from school, She left her friends, All of them parting ways.

A boy in her class walks home with his younger brother.

Their nanny is waiting for them as their mother works a ten hour day.

None of them know me.

And that bothers no one.

My thoughts are big But my voice is small.

I will remain unnoticed to you for my entire life.

Our paths will never stray toward one another, Separated for all eternity.

And that bothers no one.

They go about their lives, I go about mine.

We all continue to live our lives Regardless of the fact that you don’t know me And I don’t know you.

I am one small girl Standing on a small sidewalk In a small city In a country that doesn’t know I am here.

And that bothers no one.

“bright lights in the big city”

[ writing: alexis vinton ] [ photography: emily johanek ]

03

04

You are you, I am me.

And that bothers no one.

[ pencil drawing: nicole wojtalewicz ]

The car zooms past.

It splashes me with mud.

I remain unnoticed.

And that bothers no one.

tyler’s world

“hopeful solitude” 06 [ photography: elizabeth woltemath ]

05

waiting for the right moment. A second elapses, and I finally push my arms forward. Splash. The water hits his face before he has time to react.

Momentarily bewildered, he blankly stares at me. It was so unexpected. Should I have done it? In this short pause I scrutinize my actions with utter cynicism. Maybe that was unnecessary. Perhaps I should have just allowed him to float in the pool by himself.

But in an instant my misgivings disappear.

A smile breaks across Tyler’s face, ending at deep dimples highlighted by a few freckles.

He lets out an animated giggle. His eyes find mine, and in them I see a spirit alive with wonder, with hope, with joy. I can’t help but return them with a genuine smile of my own.

No one else will ever be able to experience this world of ours, a world visible only to its two creators. It’s a world of simple bliss, culminating on the point of his unpredictable laughter.

In just a few moments, this world slowly disappears from his eyes. He stares at something in the distance, and I come to the realization that I will never know exactly what those brief moments mean to him.

My mind drifts to the heavy books sitting in my car, to my sociology project due next week, to my 7:15 a.m. meeting tomorrow morning. Leaving the paved parking lot of my high school just hours earlier, these things had seemed so imminent, so crucial. Yet now they are of another being entirely. Of another world. The only task left for me now is to make Tyler’s face light up once more. To help him return to our world.

“Five green and…”

Tyler says these words with a quiet determination. Despite the fact that he doesn’t finish his sentence, and that the syllables might not be understandable to most, I know what he’s asking for. At these few words of urging, I break into my most enthusiastic, slightly off-key rendition of “Five Green and Speckled Frogs.” I am fully aware that in another world it would be socially unacceptable to do anything of the sort.

Why can’t we all live in Tyler’s world?

When 5:30 comes and I drive home in my soccer-mom Honda Odyssey, it’s as though

[ writing: megan woodruff ]

As I enter the room, I am struck by the overpowering smell of heavy chlorine. I momentarily squint as my eyes adjust to the buzzing pool lights overhead. I exhale. Tyler isn’t ready yet. I can relax.

This is not a new scene for me. I’ve worked at camp for four months now, and I greet the thick air sticking to my face almost as an old friend. I sit down to rest my legs, sore from chasing Tyler down long hallways and around plastic playground equipment for an hour.

My reprieve is momentary. In seconds, Tyler storms out of the locker room, basket in hand and light-brown hair slightly tousled.

No one would be able to tell that Tyler has autism from his appearance. He is average height for a nine-year old boy and could outrun me with only the slightest head start.

Perhaps only his cherubim face makes him look a little young. Right now it’s creased with the determination to match that of an Olympic athlete. He has been waiting for this moment all day.

I try to slow him down, but at this point a stern warning is futile.

I half-follow-half-chase him into the abnormally warm swimming pool, vigilantly making sure he doesn’t sit on the pool ledge or jump the stairs.

When his legs finally meet the water, he knows he has reached his ultimate destination. A long day full of following directions and listening has finally paid off. Yet his excitement is not immediate.

There’s something missing, but I can’t decipher what. He’s content roaming around in the pool, but I know he could be more energized. I watch him tentatively at first, and then decide to make a move. Reaching into the clear water, I cup some of it in my hands. I lean forward,

I’m crossing into another dimension. Some might call it reality. A car behind me speeds into the neighboring lane and cuts me off. Oh yes. I’ve returned.

Here, a laugh is not an end, but a means. Here, the simplicity of joy is lost in the continuous drone of fast-food combo meals and one-day-only sales. In this place, people rarely display their true emotions, caught instead in a web of skewed realities. Often I wonder if I feel things here only because I’m supposed to.

But one must be a member of this world in order to survive. And we find ways to enjoy ourselves while we are here. Still, I find time to escape to my other world, to Tyler’s world, when I can. It’s not easy to get there, sometimes it is nearly impossible.

But if everyone could visit it, we might find this world more spirited, more alive, more of a reality than it is today.

listen

“bittersweet closure”

The mechanism between true friendship is slowly jeopardizing her sentimentality towards bliss as a whole. Her desire of being compassionate is gradually being drained away from her place of affection.

You see, society doesn’t comprehend the idea of solidarity. [ writing: jordan kuiper ]

What’s their motive for entertainment?

What’s wrong with being content with solely watching miracles sail the sea and water glistening?

Why can’t she be heard?

NO, why can’t she be understood?

08

There’s a perfect companion who appreciates the home of serenity, of peace.

[ photography: margaret mckeon ]

Why not vividly enjoy the smile in ghosts rather than a laughing face?

Sure, laughter brings you alive, some believe it is the TRUE meaning of life.

And the tenderness of a family’s love will always be alive, but what about the delicate heavens encircling us every second?

She feels hands near her soul- strong and soft.

07

Making her rise unbroken, sense flawless. Unscathed and protected, she smiles through the fall of her tears with the radio only on inside her own head.

But can you hear it, too?

“crystal blue persuasion”

quick silver

“aqueous speculation”

Emotions are fickle Malleable Changeable Shape-able Like clay they can be molded And modeled To fit someone And Emotions can be broken A depressing day Can be negated By a happy moment Anger fades Or at the very least turns to resentment And when you’re happy People can still manage to rain on your parade You can mess with emotions But love is different Not an emotion But a state of being Like time Or fate Death Or fear Even destiny While emotions are like clay Love is like a rock It can not be changed Or broken so easily You can not mold it within your hands And if you’re not careful Love will turn to quick silver It will stay in place within your hands flat But as you try to squeeze or mold it It scatters Do not try to mold love as some would mold emotions Love is strong enough to last without it And all though it’s not fickle Like emotions It’s not unbreakable If you try to hard to keep it Or to change it You will strangle it in your hands Or make it scatter Like mercury Like quick silver.

The light shines in my eyes.

It makes it difficult to see what’s right in front of me.

Light comes from everywhere.

Everyone is glowing, Everyone is on fire.

But seeing their light makes me realize that I have none.

I find myself getting burned Time and time again.

I’m thrown in a small room The door is shut.

The lock is turned.

The light from the world is gone.

Hesitating, I open the window.

It leads to the outside world, A place I have never been before The small flame in my hand grows.

It leads a path through the darkened night.

Looking up, I see tiny pricks of light Subconsciously I know that those pricks of light Are the flames of those just like me.

Those blinded in the day, Those who see best at night.

“opaque”

[ photography: emily fisher and lauren tussey ]

Realizing what I possess, I find a key, there on the floor.

It fits in the lock of the door, But it also fits into the lock of the small window right above my head.

09

But waitThere, cupped in my own hands, is a small flame.

The dark room is illuminated by me And only me.

[ writing: samantha gardner and alexis vinton ]

the bright side of darkness

perspective Carpe diem teachers tell me. But I’m stuck in this desk see, so how can we live while we still want to be?

Freedom calls my name, but I’m busy being the same as the girl that they tell me is me.

Just a boy headed my way, in uniform headed home for the holiday.

He looked right at me and he smiled.

Thinking bigger things like war but he had a mind to open the door for me.

It made me stop and thank God for a while.

Don’t look ahead when you’re feeling behind.

Don’t want to look back and wish you could rewind.

Each time that you pass by, pretend it’s your last time.

Then maybe we’ll all reconsider.

When you’re wanting and wishing, there’s so much that you’re missing.

Because nothing lasts for forever.

thoughts on potential from the potential-less A young girl enters violently. Vivian, is nineteen years old and is going through a rough patch in her life. She has just gotten a rejection letter from the third college she applied to and is working a minimum wage job at a gas station.

I

VIVIAN: Ugh! I hate them, all of them! “Try harder,” they say.

“You have so much potential,” they say. Pfft, yeah right. “Potential.” I know how much potential I have.

It’s about minimum wage and all I have to say is, “Would you like fries with that?” The world needs people like me, people who show others just how lucky they are. Not everyone can have good grades or a nice job. Some people need to realize there ain’t more out there.

(Beat) Used to believe in more, ya know? I thought that...

I don’t know what I thought, I just knew I wanted better.

I thought, if I worked hard enough, anything could happen. But then I grew up. I realized that it didn’t matter how hard I worked, someone else worked harder.

It didn’t matter how much I wanted something, someone else wanted it more. It didn’t matter how good I was, everyone else was better. I just got so sick of it!

So...I gave up on trying.

(Beat)

11

I don’t dream anymore. Dreams are meant for people with a future, not for people like me.

[ writing: marylouise woltemath and claire andersen ]

12 [ self portrait: emily fisher ]

“effortless youth”

I feel a humming in my bones, A buzzing that won’t stop.

A nervous excitement for the future, A strange, restless feeling.

This feeling settles into my bloodstream, And flows throughout my body.

Everything it touches quivers, And my fingers start a relentless tapping.

I’m scared—I don’t know what comes next, What do they expect of me?

“Great things” my parents say, “Great things” echo the walls.

Great things? I ask myself, But I am only one girl.

I am lost, confused, unsure, I can’t do anything important.

But the buzzing in my bones, Whispers something different, It grows louder, louder, louder, Until it’s ringing in my ears.

13

It pounds in my head—I MATTER, I can do something worthwhile, If I choose to, if I want it bad enough.

I will matter, I promise myself.

And this truth calms my fears, My fingers stop their tapping.

I will make a difference.

I will dream, I will strive, I will achieve.

bones

14

“obsolete”

[ writing: emma finken and megan woodruff ]

you are special

[ photography: shannon smith ]

It’s waking up to find my name written in smooth black sharpie on a new box of crayons. It gives me an identity before I am conscious of it.

I can do anything. So I must do everything. There’s no escaping this vacuum of senseless worry and overemphasized self-denial.

And here I remain. A puppet.

Always moving, never thinking.

I play the part to perfection.

I respond to their fantasies, until the chill and the grind and the fury and the push all become too much and in a sense of panic I scream, ENOUGH. I sit in trepidation, waiting for the response.

Silence.

Prematurely, I think I have finally conquered their desires, finally emerged victorious.

Then I realize that what I spoke was but a whisper, then doubt whether it was said at all.

More time passes, and the dubious nature of that faded memory invariably pulls me back into the nauseating pattern of before.

Here there’s no time for my own sense of being.

No room for the ephemeral.

Don’t think. Just act.

Don’t feel. Just do.

A young girl sucks a grape-flavored popsicle as purple syrup slowly drips down her arm.

In its present form, In the heat, it will not be sustained Drip. Drip. Drip.

Gone.

Like the fleetingness of a warm wind or the spontaneous smile of a friend.

How those things can disappear right as I begin to cherish them.

How special is it really?

When there’s no one congratulating you.

When the audience leaves before the final curtain.

When your opponents refuse to finish the race.

We are hopelessly dependent on others for the things we hold closest and claim as our own.

All is relative. Shouts of joy, expressions of creativity.

Even life itself.

I am only special as everyone makes me.

Thus, I am not at all.

bliss?

Every morning, they rise to tell.

Not to tell I warn.

They know.

Do you ever wonder why?

Why everyday they scream so loud?

Trying to tell what we need to know.

We all hear, but do we listen?

Listen.

Every morning they rise to warn.

They knew, that what they know, we should

Oblivious to the message,

Going through all the days ignorant.

When what they know comes,

We will have wished we listened.

15

“old western in modern times�

i promise [ writing: araya santo and katherine johnson ]

16 [ photography: hannah knight ]

I promise you—I am sorry.

For all the pain I’ve caused, What I am causing, And for what I have yet to cause.

I apologize for the tears that have been shed, For the jabs of pain, The stabs of depression, The suffocation of despair, That anyone has suffered, Is suffering, And will suffer.

I feel your loss.

And I promise I suffer with you.

Through all the darkness, The murky past, And foggy future, Always remember that even if you are in a crowd of thousands or completely alone, I promise I will be there for you.

I promise, even if I don’t know you.

I will be your shoulder to cry on, Your teddy bear to hug, Your therapist to talk to, Your anchor to be steadfast, Your advisor to help you.

Your partner in crime, Your confidant, Your comrade, Freundin,Amiga, Amie, Amica, Amicus, I promise to be your friend.

And now I promise you one more thing.

I promise to: Do all I can, Be all I am, Be the brightest flame I can be, Smile the biggest grin you’ll ever see, To appreciate the future as it meets me; To sing sweetly, Dance gracefully, Laugh joyously, Run swiftly, Draw creatively, Love passionately, To lead wisely, Give generously, Defend fiercely Support loyally, To live the life I love, and love the life I live.

This I promise.

17

what i now know I know that you love her with all your heart.

I know that she loved you too.

You told her she was beautiful and she told you she was strong.

You balanced out each other’s perfections with the other’s flaws.

She made you happier than you ever thought you could be.

And I know that she watches over you and smiles everyday.

“slave of secrets”

[ pencil drawing: claire sonderman ]

I know you believe too.

08

I’ve learned that through all your grieving there is a light.

If I can one day love the way you love her, I will always be happy.

If I can fulfill what you have taught me about what it means to be a family, I will never be alone.

You give me hope every time I see you smile because deep down I know you’re still sad.

I believe she’s in a better place now.

And I feel closer to her everyday because

[ writing: gabrielle maenner ]

I know that you miss her.

I know that nothing that you do will ever be the same without her.

Without her you seem much quieter and forgetful.

Without her eating doesn’t even seem easy; because she always cooked, and who wants to eat alone anyway?

She meant the world to you and everything you ever did, you did for her.

elsewhere

If you were to ask me where I am, location would not be the first answer to come to mind. I suppose I could tell you about the city I live in, about the color of my bedroom walls, about the view from my favorite park bench, about the atmosphere of the local coffee shop I frequent a little bit too often. But when I think of these places, is their physicality what matters to me most? No, of course not. I think of the excitement my best friend and I shared when my mother finally agreed to let us paint those walls ourselves, about the summer I spent half of my days sitting with the first boy I ever loved on that park bench, about the books and afternoons given to the quiet booth by the window.

I wake up each morning in my bed, but it’s never really mine. Home is a concept I have always struggled with, even when I was young. I spent the early years of my childhood living in a foreign country, and despite my age, I was always very aware that I did not quite fit in. Fast forward to the seventeenth chapter of my life, and here I am in the old bedroom of a friend’s older sister because my “home” is not a suitable place for me to stay at the moment. I have never really grasped the feeling of home, even if I technically do have one. Yes, hospitality always seems to find me, but my better judgement always makes sure I never stay too long.

I have learned over the years not to become attached to location; location is always temporary and in my experience, attachment has never lead to any good. Instead I attach meanings to memories and memories to places. It makes the world a fascinating place at times. Everything is much more valuable when viewed as a piece of a memory and not just as an object. Even when I sit in a bus seat, I can’t help but let my mind wander off into what type of thoughts the last person in this seat must have been thinking. I wonder if they were thinking about me, wondering if I’d be thinking about them.

If I were to paint a picture of my world with words, I could not do it with descriptions of places because places just don’t hold much significance to me. My world exists in a metaphysical collage of sense, perception, memories, thoughts, and dreams. My location isn’t anything but a landmark, a mental place holder for all of the intangibles I am entertaining at the time. I take fragments of all of the places I have been and piece them together into what I hope will one day be whole. I am still working on discovering my own concept of the feeling of home. For now I am content with where I am.

And where am I? Well, I’m here, sitting at this desk, but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is always elsewhere. One day I’ll be elsewhere too, wherever that may be.

19

[ writing: jessica mizaur ]

08

[ photography: michelle tsatsos ]

“come sail away�

through my EYErony

“bound”

Falling in the depths of time Where Precision is the Key, I strive just for an opening Within I try to squeeze Fluid as the wind That picks up all the leaves, The struggle to pick up all debris Where Precision is the Key Waiting for the sun to set, From snow to summer breeze Mood to self, a puzzle piece Where Precision is the Key Love is numbers, a duet so close Containing two at least, Wielding a medal and silver bells Where Precision is the Key

A child like mine whom I’ve come to love, Upon a mirror, just like me Nutrients from life to life Where Precision is the Key

precision is the key

21

Upon the crepes of many men To whom I cannot see Countdown the time, reset the clock, Because Precision was the Key

“soul sublimination”

but that’s no excuse not to try and find a way to win when the odds say you’ll lose.

Defeating’s not always winning, fighting’s refusing.

So unless you give up, you’re not really losing.

Fighting over the chicken or the egg and which came first, who cares either way, we should send more to people who have it worse.

Maybe in feeding the world we could find the answer someday.

Love your enemies, but from a safe distance.

If you straight up hugged them, bet you’d get more than resistance.

If you speak up, you might get yelled at to be quiet.

As long as you’re determined though, you might as well try it.

Follow your dreams, but apparently not to far.

They don’t really mean it when they say reach for the stars because “Get your head out of the clouds” is running through my mind.

Nothing lasts for forever, but I’ve got my own definition of time.

[ pencil drawing: marisa gambaiana and liza woltemath] [photography: emma tuttle]

22 [ writing: roni perez

e

Eyes are the key to the human heart, but there’s got to be another way I can’t see yours when it’s dark and you’ve got shades on during the day.

Show me what to do and I’ll just close my eyes, because I guarantee it only collides with what I see is right.

Saying the sky’s the limit is just handing out limitations.

Equality for all unless you don’t fit someone’s expectations.

“Mi casa es su casa” probably has a copyright, but I don’t know. Just to be sure, I think I’ll just write my own stuff and forget what I hear.

“Beware the Ides of March” doesn’t sound so inviting and I wouldn’t worry about just a day of the year.

Or maybe I should since it’s Shakespeare.

Hard work pays off, but I know people getting paid for hardly working at all.

I guess the difference is the prior are tough, and the latter more comfortable.

Rome wasn’t built in a day,

and mary louise woltemath]

i wish i wish the world didn’t judge and the sky lived without limits and we could just float up up and away into space. i’d kiss the moon goodnight and not worry about tomorrow or love or the words that i’ve left unsaid, i wouldn’t worry about the novel with its seven layer complexity and the beauty of trying again and again to be another race beautiful. why not just stay here and shiver in the daylight, naked in the eyes of other and vulnerable as i unmask myself with words. you can see my sufferings when the ink bleeds onto the page and i let it run its course slow and meaningful, honor and prosperity dragging at a dreary pace of the paintbrush of my words, the words laugh with me soft and slow as we comfort one another and laugh in our sorrows passion; keeps us together and living

23

“M & M Explosion”

[ writing: lisa satpathy ]

24

Marian proudly presents Burn, a creative writing magazine which features written work, photography, and

artwork done by current students. The editors reserve the right to make minor grammatical or spelling corrections and modify submitted pieces to fit design concepts. Pieces are judged blindly by the staff and are selected based on creative talent and on the uniqueness of the individual submission.

Burn is published twice a year by the students at Marian, Nebraska’s only Class A, Catholic, North Central Accredited college preparatory school for girls. Burn is a member of the National Scholastic Press Association. It is our goal to encourage young artists and writers to express themselves creativitely.

Printed by Automatic Printing Company Burn Magazine Marian High School 7400 Military Avenue Omaha, NE 68134 burn@omahamarian.org

[ photography: lisa satpathy ]

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