bu r n [ v. 6 ] [ i. 1 ]
table of contents
2&3 - summer + engines [ natalie ashbrook ] + fourth of july [ elsie stormberg ] + tin & tile [ cassie heisey ] 4&5 - sonder [ ione enderez ] + 3042 [ brighid welchans ] + watch your step [ faith vinton ] 6&7 - tilt [ mckenna simpson ] - psalm of your hand [ megan doehner ] + the carousel never stops turning [ emma shoemaker ] + hands for the world [ emma nelson ] 8&9 - catharsis [ kathyrn baginski ] - paper girl [ gwendolyn johnson ] + home away from home [ lauren hart ] + fire escape [ maggie white ]
10 & 11 - all the things you are(nt) [ brighid welchans ] - storm [ elsie stormberg ] + summer sky [ kathyrn burbach ] + stay [ megan szwanek ] 12 & 13 + salad fingers [ rayna bartling ] 14 & 15 - a deadly disease [ diana elizalde ] - with the rain [ hannah johnson ] + tuk-tuk and himayan mountains manali, india [ carma draney ] + fields of somber [ laura shaw ] 16 & 17 - the survival of the human spirit [ brooke huerter ] + hundred year hinges [ megan keyser ] + suspension [ abi knapton ] 18 & 19 - moments [ brianna wessling ] - digression [ kathyrn baginski ] + 82 cecil road [ cassie heisey ]
20 & 21 - cufflinks [ mckenna simpson ] - fall [ susana pettis ] + at a glance [ emily evans ] + a waterfall of lights [ margaret mcgowan ] 22 & 23 - icarus [ amanda skalka ] - fairly better [ gwendolyn johnson ] + in the chinese lantern [ olivia leatherwood ] + all bottled up [ makayla sedlacek ] 24 & 25 - how [ susana pettis ] - the storm [ brianna wessling ] + wednesday hues [ brighid welchans ] + seaside saturation [ cassie heisey ] front cover + light traffic [ cierra farrens ] back cover + shadow people [ maggie white }
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...” ~ Jack Kerouac “walking along the tracks” [ kathryn burbach ]
[ - : writing
+ : photos/artwork ]
Burn @burnmag follow 23 following 670 followers 44 tweets
editorial policy
Marian presents Burn, a literary magazine that strives to showcase the original artwork, photography, and creative writing of our student body. Burn is published twice a year, once per semester and we accept submissions from all grade levels. Our submissions are judged anonymously and those that are selected are subject to minor grammatical or spelling corrections. Burn is a forum for creative student expression and our goal is to give students a place to publish their work and a place to have their peers appreciate their work. Burn is published by Automatic Printing Company. For the 2015-2016 school year, there will be 800 copies per semester. All titles of pieces and page numbers are set in FFF Tusj font. The text of the stories are set in GeoSans Light. The softwares used were Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Phototshop CS6. 7400 Military Ave. Omaha, NE 68134
@ christen (advisor)
@16whitem
Waiting for the day I can lip sync battle against Jimmy Fallon
My spirit animal is Steve Buscemi
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@16knaptona Revolving doors give me anxiety :D
@18gochenourk Ya goofed it. Ya just goofed it. #soulfulsophs
@16sedlacekr
@16ashbrookn
I laugh at my own jokes because no one else will
Sorry I’m late I saw a puppy and had to stop to pet it for 12 hours
You can buy my love with fluffy dogs
I’m kind of like Medusa, my hair is basically a pet
Saddle up
What.. What?! a tweet? No don’t write that down!!
@17merfeldl
I was the first fallen victim to Marian Moms my freshman year and that pretty much sums up my life
@18sedlacekm
The worst part of the zombie apocalypse would be having to live without chicken nuggets
@17huerterb
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@16stormberge
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@17pettiss
@17wesslingb
@16slezaka
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@16welchansb
I’ve got not only the softest heart, but also the softest face in town Hello my name is Elsie and I technically don’t like cats #theyhatemetoo I could entertain myself for a week straight with dubble bubble alone I love people almost as much as I love dogs and books
Sometimes you just have to eat a handful of Cheerios and move on
@16schinckec
I can’t survive without at least 5 cups of coffee a day
17 years young. Dreamer. Believer. Young Wild and Free. ~ tamed heart ~ chocolate is my kryptonite ~
Never too old for Disney World
Just another caniac trying to make it in this world
I’ve only been tardy to three classes today and that’s an accomplishment
All I need in life is a cup of tea, my dog, and a sketchbook
01
summer + engines
[ writing by natalie ashbrook ] I am from jade and metal--from amethyst and 80s hair bands from danny california and tecumseh from a woman who was born of the feminists of the sixties and a man who was created out of motor oil and drum kits of feminists and sixties and motor oil and drum kits came me wind and winter, the gold that wraps itself around every strand of my recessive gene hair and dying out green eyes the white of my teeth compared to the crookedness of my father’s smile and the pointed nose that matches my mother’s seeing people who look like their parents makes me confused because I look nothing like my own but sometimes I can smell motor oil on my own hair and think I hear the yells from outdoor theatre over my music and sometimes I have the urge to bang on something to go along with the beat of a song and I can finally say I made my mom proud by fighting back and I can almost hear my dad’s smile my mother is a woman of summer, someone who was born on the beach and lived through sunshine year round and has hair that naturally billows like she came with the breeze attached to her back my father is a man of engines, running through car lots as a kid and knowing how to fix an engine before he could write his own name someone who’s hands are always dirty because he can’t not fix things I am from sand and grease I am from cigarettes and ripped jeans and from me--what will come from me is a mystery
“fourth of july” [ photo by elsie stormberg ]
03
“tin and tile” [ photo by cassie heisy ]
02
“3042” [ photo by brighid welchans ]
05
sonder
[writing by ione enderez] Every person that you’ve Passed on the streets, Met eyes with at a stoplight,
Look at a photograph. Those people in the background, Perhaps a blur of movement pushing a baby stroller, They all have lives. The lady from the produce aisle Is making a fruit salad To impress her boss because she wants that raise. [ photo by faith vinton ]
“watch your step”
They are all the main characters in their own story.
04
The guy at the checkout line Bought a pack of cookies Because his son finally got 100% on his spelling test. The cashier Really needs his paycheck To take his girlfriend somewhere else besides McDonald’s. Those people are the background noise in your life, But have you ever realized That you’re just an unnamed face In someone else’s family vacation pictures?
psalm of your hand [ writing by megan doehner ]
Maybe, for a moment, it stopped The music stopped
In every hand there is a psalm No, not a palm I’m talking p-s-a-l-m The “pss” of a secret and “alm” for the poor noun: a sacred song or hymn
The psalm might have been finished But wounds heal And scars are formed Hands move on
A gift given to those chosen to listen close enough A hand is an instrument Fingers: the strings Carefully plucked and pulsed Creating harmonious melodies But also dissonant screams When I look at my grandfather’s hand I try to see past the leathering skin Wrinkling at the fingers’ creases And cracking around the nails
Hands don’t hesitate I can imagine his hands No longer pure and unscathed But still smooth and supple Cupping my father’s head His first child A miracle So much pride in that baby that he decided to name it after himself Hands to hold four more sons’ heads Sacred contact only musicians understand
I see his hands when he was young Smooth and strong and willing Still soft enough to glide over skin without getting caught Their innocence glowing and dancing on the lines of his palms When was the first time he cut them? Maybe on a sharp tree branch Or a broken bottle His skin split Stinging in the open air Those hands weren’t innocent anymore They knew pain And they thought they could handle it again They sang a song of sorrow Fingers curling together Tightening Refusing to let the stinging reach further than the surface
06
Those hands They grew And they aged And now they don’t work as well anymore Sure, they can hold a golf club and make a sandwich But can they still caress my grandmother’s face the same way? Do they even remember how? Has the psalm taken a pause A breath that was needed For the grande finale? Or is it just an interlude A moment of silence to reflect on the past verses
“hands for the world” [ photo by emma nelson ]
But once his psalm is finished Who will carry it on?
“the carousel nevers stops” [ photo by emma shoemaker ]
I don’t tilt I collapse Into a crumble A spiderweb shattered into my rear view mirror looking back at what I wish I had said glancing forward at what I will soon regret I can’t slouch over words splintering from my mouth I can’t feel the heaviness in conversation slumping into placed silence Blank stares and empty ended promises scorch in my throat when I tell myself that it’s okay to be this way It’s okay to be alive I don’t tilt I sway between what I want to tell you and how I need them to see me [ writing by mckenna simpson ]
tilt
07
I used to cry myself to sleep Because I couldn’t cry in front of anyone else. My emotions were my enemy, But I let them take over everything about me. I was led into some bad habits. They were very hard to break. And once they were gone, I couldn’t move on. There was nothing to fill the void. Well, one day I was feeling down And a frown wouldn’t leave my face. Then I remembered that I had one thing, One more ace up my sleeve. So I picked up my little, yellow ukulele And the moment I strummed, I couldn’t believe it. My tears dissolved, And I firmly resolved That a happy-sounding song was the answer.
“fire escape” [ photo by maggie white ]
My voice was off-key And the strings weren’t tuned But the music flowed through my veins, A song in a moment that would never happen again. But it was a start. It was like something clicked in my heart. It was therapy and relief, A distraction from worry. It was whatever I needed it to be. Now, I don’t cry myself to sleep as much. My frowns don’t last as long. My emotions no longer wear the crown, And I find myself more up than down. But when that darkness threatens To cover the skies And I feel I don’t belong. [ writing by kathryn baginski ] I just pick up my little, yellow ukulele, And play a happy-sounding song.
catharsis
09
paper girl [ writing by gwendolyn johnson ] I never wanted to be real. I wanted to be a one dimensional character. Pressed between book covers only to be worshipped by the random kids who stumbled upon me. I wanted to be an idea. Something stuck in a person’s head for days at a time, only to be mulled over right before they fall asleep. I wanted to be heard and rarely seen. Hearing stories of what I did, and questions of what I’ll do next. I wanted to be a legend. One that worried parents whisper about to each other when their kids are asleep. The idea of having to answer to everyone and for everything, living with consequences was never something I desired. I wanted to be a paper girl. Living in one dimension where the only thing that mattered was the person who decided to release my story from the book covers.
“home away from home”
[ photo by lauren hart ]
08
“salad fingers� [ photo by rayna bartling ]
12
13
[ photo by laura shaw ]
“fields of somber”
My mind has begun to explode. My thoughts, Words, Dreams, Have all exploded into nothingness. The deadly virus infects me. It flows slowly through my blood, Through all my veins, taking its time caress and penetrate my entire body. I lose sense of what I should do, of who I am. The virus has engulfed my brain, silently impairing my ability to think, to know, to have fun. This disease has affected many of us, leaving dead people in our place. We become almost robot-like, Just going through the motions with no spark to continue, allowing this virus to conquer us completely, Obstructing us from ever living fully again
14
Despite all the medicine and treatments Unless it creates a sickness among we take ourselves, Or the therapies we attend, we try to dismiss it. It still finds its way to us, But stress will always be that virus, Like a parasite who attaches itself to a a bacteria, host, Something you acquire that never sucking out the melodies our hearts once really goes away. played. Stress is like a head cold that lasts for It begins to expand. weeks upon weeks, To spread to the entire world, Stress is the ever flowing stream of Contagious only by being occupied, anxieties and worries, No one knows how to stop it, all swirling in unison. Or how to become immune to it. Stress was only confined to adults, but We’ve just learned how to deal with it in in today’s world our daily lives, Teens, School. Kids, have all experienced stress Homework. already. Work. We’re suffering too. Family. It has swallowed our hope for the Friends. future, It seeps through all the crevices available Our enthusiasm to work, study, and and makes sure no one, even play. Absolutely no one, escapes its wrath. We have lost the bright colors to our And other diseases have been beautiful canvas. discovered then named, Stress has become a part of us, this particular disease was named and An identity. then discovered. Stress has become us, Stress. and we have become stress. A word we don’t often associate with disease, [ writing by diana elizalde ]
a deadly disease
[ writing by hannah johnson ] I do not see what you see Through the glass one does not speak In the empty window pains My words will fall with the rain You wish to understand my sorrow But you never will One cannot borrow The feelings that we keep inside Will remain with us for all of time
“tuk-tuk and himalayan mountains manali, india�
[ photo by carma draney ]
with the rain
15
toxicity
[ amber bridgeford ]
[ evelyn ] it spir anbenda the survival of the hum [ writing by brooke huerter ]
“suspension”
[ photo by megan keyser ]
[ photo by abi knapton ]
16
“hundred year hinges”
I went to a museum today. As I walked through the testament to the workers of the Union Pacific I had a thought. Why is it necessary to preserve material things in a box to remember events of the past? If you take away the plaques and the people who come through to read them, what is left but a collection of objects in a room lit by LED displays that hang on the white walls. What if one day, everyone stopped going to museums. Would it matter? If a museum stands alone in a city full of people, but no one is around to visit, is it still a museum? I think the answer is no, simply. Without the people to care, n o t h i n g matters. Now that I’m thinking about it, that’s how most things in life are. Without the drive and motivation of the human spirit, nothing we know would be the same. Politics wouldn’t matter, bands would no longer make it big, small businesses would never see the light of becoming a large corporation, and Life as we know it would be bleak. So I guess, This is my call to care. This is my call to think and dream and become a contribution to our big and scary world. Find something you are willing to put every thing you’ve got on the line for. Become consumed in the amount of hope and desire you have Get up and care about things as soon as you can. Don’t let yourself grow old without taking part in something bigger than your own well being. Don’t let yourself not have interest in the changing world around you. I promise you are not too busy, too young, too smart, too anything to not care. It’s cool to be invested in something you care about In fact, It’s the only thing us humans have got. So please, make something matter before all the museums are gone and the small businesses are dried up. And do this not for yourself, Do this for the survival of the human spirit.
17 17
“82 cecil road” [ photo by cassie heisey ]
18
digression
[ writing by kathryn baginski ] These are just a few thoughts, some notes to jot down, About some things in my life that aren’t very profound. I’ve never been one to talk about fate or destiny, I prefer those things that happen daily Such as the greeting from my dog as I walk through the door: A wagging tail and a love that is so much more Than I could offer anyone I love to the moon and back. And there’s another thing that my brain can’t pack in: How far until my love grows thin? That’s a question of philosophy, Perhaps one not supposed to be answered by me. The moon rises each night until it’s time for the sun, Then all throughout the day we are supposed to have fun But there is so much that stops me from unending joy Until I remember the comfort of my bed, The warmth of hot chocolate that continues to spread All through my body ‘til I’m toasty inside, When I get an A on a test and a swelling sense of pride, And the ink of my pen putting words on the page. You’d think I’d have some comment, in this day and age, About laziness or homework or physical things, But I’m more interested in an airplane’s wings And how they keep me up above the world so high Like that diamond in the sky Instead of hugging a cushion in the ocean When I’d rather be hugging my teddy bear instead. By now you’re probably thinking “This is rather long. Why doesn’t she get to the point and move on?” But I told you at the beginning I don’t care for life lessons Or morals or purpose or tons of speculation Sprinkled with metaphors about stars and love But here’s one thing I can tell you, one thing I can think of: Jot down your thoughts every once in awhile, When you need to frown, to shout, or smile. It helps, I promise, to release inner tension, And sometimes you end up with a lovely digression.
moments
[ writing by brianna wesling ]
It’s late at night, The Big Dipper shines above me, The only constellation I can pick out. My fingers tap the slow rhythm, Of the cicadas song, and I am alive The guitar sings out over the crowd, As the drum beats into the concrete floor, Locking me in a capsule of vibration. I am dancing between the waves of sound, I am sweating and free, and I am alive I am driving late at night, And the world passes by around me, People, and places, and entire lifetimes go by in a blur. The streetlights lead me home and The cool night air combs it’s way through my hair, and I am alive Goosebumps rise up on my legs, And I squirm in my seat, My body revolting against the too cold air surrounding it. My eyes keep wandering to the clock, As I wait in heavy anticipation for that final bell to ring, and I am alive I am lying on the grass, Staring at the sky stretching above me, Letting the afternoon air lull me to sleep. I am drunk on happiness and sunshine, My eyelids begin to droop with the weight of the warm air, and I am alive
19
fall
[ writing by susana pettis ]
As the snow falls the wind burns my cheeks and I know that soon enough the feeling will leave them. My boots crunch and I know that I’m on this narrow ledge and one wrong move can easily send me down with only the ground to catch me. No matter how much I shove my hands in my pockets, they’re still freezing and the cold that nips at my fingers leaves them warm, burning. Ice clings to every tree branch and the trees seem to lose their strength and immortality. They seem frail, frozen in time and without the movement and whisper that the leaves give. A white cloud escapes my mouth and I can’t help but think it’s one of those things I was going to tell you. But instead I close my mouth and let it turn to steam. I keep walking, more and more until I finally reach the clearing that we stumbled upon. You know the one. It feels like a wave that washes over me as I remember every single thing that has ever happened between us. The times where I didn’t scream at you but I formed my words into knives in the hope that they would somehow affect you. When I do that I feel as cold as my hands but with each moment that passes I feel colder, and no false sense of warmth could ever fix it.
The worst part is that you act like you’re bulletproof. You seem to be on cloud nine on a permanent vacation and I feel guilty whenever I imagine your fall. But every time that you do, I stupidly confide in you, desperate to make you feel better any way that I can. But there are those times that I feel glad you’re there and that I can talk to you. That my knives turn to nothing but melted metal. I stop, looking around at the forest surrounding me, hoping one of them will provide the answers that I need. I have no one to tell me ‘don’t do it’ and the little place at the back of my mind is always persuasive enough to get me to forgive anything you do. I open my mouth and see my bottled up thoughts escape once again. Then I scream. I scream until I cannot thinking of anything else but the pounding in my head, and the beating of my heart, and the knives, and the forgiveness, and everything that you seem to do to drive me to this exact place at this exact time. I let myself fall into the snow. I feel it stick to my jeans and find its way into my coat, hoping that my screaming will stop at some point. I do it until my lungs constrict and nothing comes out. It keeps falling and I know it won’t stop and it’s nice to know that something can’t be controlled by me and my mind can be blank as I watch the snow fall.
“at a glance” [ photo by emily evans]
21
cufflinks [ writing by mckenna simpson ] You in your white cuff linked shirt buttoned up, buttoned down in this moment I can see all of you all there ever was all there ever will be a blank canvas polyester and cotton steamed and hung the price you pay for self control off white buttons concealing the flesh underneath the raw flesh the raw fear packed into your frame buttoning down in innocence dressed up in ignorance your blank canvas you in your white cuff linked shirt
“a waterfall of lights� [ photo by margaret mcgowan ]
20
icarus
[ writing by amanda skalka ]
but soon enough...you reach your limit you fly too close and soon you can feel the sting as it all begins to slowly trickle away
your resolve begins to soften and wilt as the warm glow turns to punishing heat and you fall you fall far and long and it burns as you tear through the atmosphere plummeting to the earth below and you wonder.... will anyone remember? will to dust I return? am I no more than a fallen star? a momentary beauty? You may never know, Because when you hit the water You can’t see who heard the splash
[ photo by olivia leatherwood ]
but when you break free you do not just take it step by step you soar you spread your wings and reach for the heavens, embracing the light that shines down from above for a little while, you stand on the shoulders of giants You touch the constellations And ride with heleos
“in the chinese lantern�
You always read about them in the stories. the ones who fall from grace. but you never really know what it feels like until it happens to you one moment, you are chained rooted to the ground fighting against the current that pushes you down the almighty, invisible force that determines what your place is that from dust you came and dust you shall return that the universe will pass you by and forget for you are nothing. a blip. a spec.
23
fairly better
[ writing by gwendolyn johnson ] I am the best fair weather friend I will be with you for every good day and successful moment For every bright shining star you will get my bright shining smile I come with every dollar you earn You will love me for celebrating with you because I am so good at it But if the clouds come I will be gone as quickly as your shadow I will wash away with the rain And I’ll leave you as empty as your bank account I’m shallow and superficial But you’ll want me around as the pretty thing on your arm Because I’m better as an accessory anyway As a decoration As a trophy of sorts Honestly I have nothing to offer other than something pretty to look at
22
“all bottled up” [ photo by makayla sedlacek ]
the storm
how
[ writing by brianna wessling ]
[ writing by susana pettis ] I just can’t help but love how your eyes light up when we talk how you always respond so fast that I know you were waiting for me to text back how my obvious imperfections don’t exist to you how I roll my eyes when people hold hands but I always hold yours
This was not the type of storm that so many find peace in. There was no gentle roll of thunder, or light pitter patter of rain. This storm looked like it was trying to end the world. The lightning almost ripped the whole sky in half, exploding through the atmosphere with such a violent boom. I could feel that thunder reverberate deep within in my chest, shaking me to my very core. The rain was relentless. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like each drop of rain was trying to break through the roof above to get to me. There was no peace, but it matched the violent whirlwind I felt inside, so it felt comfortable. It felt like the world was trying to tell me that not everything I was feeling was inside my head. That sometimes the world really was trying to end itself around me. That night, I found peace.
how your attitude seems to stick to me like the air on a humid day
“seaside saturation”
how you somehow made a terrible pessimist into a fellow optimist
[ photo by cassie heisey ]
how natural it is to you to have open ears and know exactly what to say without me even opening my mouth how you laugh makes a shiver run down my spine because it’s just so real and I can’t help but feel proud that I can make someone like you laugh like that how you somehow made me into someone who writes sappy poems much like this one
24
“wednesday hues” [ photo by brighid welchans ]
25