Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2015

bu r n

[ v. 5 ] [ i. 2 ]

photography & art

2&3 salmon skies [ faith vinton ] dupont circle [ annika zimmerman ] 4&5 irl [ fiona kennedy ] out of place [ gabbie jonas ] 6&7 somewhere in between [ abi knapton ] pout [ brooke huerter ] 8&9 flipped [ brighid welchans ] morning glory [ sara flaxbeard ] 10 & 11 buttons//pussycat dolls [ grace bradford ] 12 & 13 la perla [ megan smith ] door [ maddie mendell ] 14 & 15 a pug by bug [ elizabeth brison ] innocently beautiful [ catherine mormino ] 16 & 17 such great heights [ cassie heisey ] dtown denver [ evelyn benda ] 18 & 19 bygone [ kelsey o’connell ] rated r [ megan szwanek ] 20 & 21 midnight train to georgia [ lucy findley ] bravest of them all [ tyra carstens ] wisest of them all [ tyra carstens ] 22 & 23 tunnel vision [ annika zimmerman ] endless [ sydney miller ] 24 & 25 who gon’ stop me [ fiona kennedy ] starting point [ kelsey o’connell ] front cover mixed tapes [ isabella nownes ] back cover wild and free [ kelly neuhaus ]

“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...”

table of contents

~Jack Kerouac

writing

2&3 just working [ gwendolyn johnson ] confession [ erin carollo ] 4&5 earworm [ kenna silvey ] reflecting on the gun [ megan smith ] 6&7 rusty faucet [ charlotte elsasser ] each of us inevitable [ brianna wessling ] 8&9 shakespeare himself [ natalie ashbrook ] sun-stained memories [ brighid welchans ] 10 & 11 más alla de las estrellas [ maria valadez ] 12 & 13 100 divisible by 10 [ grace bradford ] 14 & 15 to whom it may concern [ kenna silvey ] i never actually continued [ natalie ashbrook ] 16 & 17 perspective [ kellyn daly ] toxicity [ amber bridgeford ] 18 & 19 falling up [ susana pettis ] ashayam [ emily welchans ] 20 & 21 backpack [ isabelle swanson ] 22 & 23 tattered line of string [ megan smith ] january 2011 [ amber bridgeford ] 24 & 25 comeback of the year [ mckenna simpson ] ash wednesday thoughts [ emily welchans ] “the nutcracker”

[ laura shaw ]

Aud

Emma Fletcher

Maggie White

r r ey B u

t

Lucy Findley Kayla Sullivan

Rac hel Sedlacek

an s B righid Welch

Steph Huber

rd Grac e B rad fo

Anna Slezak

Natalie Ashbrook

Kathleen B ever

Ab

Erin Carollo

ss Maken zie Fu

Amber B ridge ford

i Knapton

Emily Welchans aladez Maria V

y Ca ssi e Hei se

editorial policy

Megan Smith

Charlo tte El sa sser

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

Mr s. Chri sten

the burn family tree

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

[ megan smith ]

reflecting on the gun I held a glow stick between two fluttering fingers shaky and restless, we were just as unsettled as my hands. mistakes were made; we counted the costs with sidewalk chalk and understood that the parents don’t stand for this kind of thing.

We knew we only had one mistake, two mistake, three and we were out it was shorter than the version of Hopscotch we were used to but we jumped on the edge of things anyways. one jump, two jump, three, we scraped our knees on the pavement consequences for the crimes we committed, but they weren’t the kind of wounds a get-well kiss could repair.

“out of place” [ gabbie jonas ]

05

earworm “irl”[ fiona kennedy ]

[ kenna silvey ]

Last night I made myself a sandwich. I put the knife on the edge of the sink just in case I wanted to make another (I know that this annoys my dad). My dad and I don’t talk much anymore, at least not with words. The look he gave me when I set the knife there, however, said something along the lines of “Damn it, Kenna, we’ve been over this.” So I offered him half of the sandwich. He accepted and we went our separate ways.

All night I had the song “Rivers and Roads” by The Head and The Heart stuck in my head. The tune is beautiful, and the lyrics have been hitting me hard lately.

A year from now we'll all be gone

All our friends will move away And they're goin' to better places But our friends will be gone away Nothin' is as it has been And I miss your face like hell And I guess it's just as well But I miss your face like hell

And my family lives in a different state If you don't know what to make of this Then we will not relate So if you don't know what to make of this Then we will not relate

Rivers and roads Rivers 'til I reach you

Something about this song forced me to walk out of my room and stand directly in front of my dad. He looked at me, finishing the half of the sandwich I had given him, obviously very confused. I hadn’t thought of what I was going to say to him so we just looked at each other. Like I said, we hadn’t been talking much and neither of us are any good with words anyway.

Been talkin' 'bout the way things change

04

“Are you free November 15th?” It was all I could think of to say.

“For wha-” “I need to go on a college visit... um... Can you go with me?”

There was a silence here while he was pretending to go over his schedule in his head. We both knew he had no idea what he was doing on November 15th.

“Is that a Friday?”

“Yes.” He paused again. As the quietness grew, I realized that this man, the man I had grown up fearing, was just as afraid of me.

“A Monday or Tuesday might work better for me...” he looked at the ground as he said this.

“I can make that work.”

Rivers and roads

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

más alla de las estrellas [ maria valadez ]

10

“Grandma passed away,” reads a text message from my oldest sister, Liliana, to our family group chat at half past midnight. It’s January 13th of this year and the room seems to have gotten smaller. No, that can’t be right. I was going to visit her tomorrow after school.

“Maria, did you see the message?” Liliana yells from upstairs. “Grandma’s dead,” she continues.

I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. I utter “yeah,” but nothing comes out. My words fail me and tears begin to stream down my face. I immediately get up from my seat and run up the stairs.

“We have to go see her, Lily,” I say.

“She’s dead, Maria.”

“I don’t care. I want to go, Lily. Mom needs us,” I try to explain in between sobs.

Without saying another word we both begin to put on our coats. In less than three minutes, we’re outside opening the car doors of her white Jeep.

“How did you know?” I ask. “Did mom call you?”

“Victoria texted me,” she informs me.

Before I can respond my phone rings. My mother’s calling and I instantly answer.

“Ma.” “Mi reina,” she slowly begins, “Ya vino Jesus por tu Mama Chirita,” (“My lovely daughter, Jesus has finally come for Mama Chirita) she says in a faint, nearly inaudible voice.

A sob escapes my throat. I tell her we’re on our way.

No response.

The line’s dead. I know she heard me, she just couldn’t muster a response. * * * * * I feel a certain thickness in the air entering my grandma’s home. As I hear the weeping cries of family members all around me, tears, once again, begin at a continuous flow. I lean on Lily for support but I can’t help but yearn for my mother’s touch. I kiss Lily’s cheek and say, “I’m going to find mom. Come if you’d like.” I then get up and move into my grandma’s crowded room, maneuvering through several relatives before I finally see my mother. She’s at the head of the bed, her two hands holding onto the sides of my grandmother’s still face. Her body is leaning against the bed, her head tilted onto my grandmother’s. I lay my right hand onto her back and she slightly lifts her head. We make eye contact, but she doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. Instead I close my eyes and lean my head against her shoulder and listen.

“Padre Nuestro que estás en el cielo . . . ” (“Our Father who art in heaven . . .”)

My uncle prays the Our Father to begin the first of many rosaries. I join in, but my voice cracks when I feel my mother’s body shudder. I open my eyes and see her face hidden in the pink and white polka-dotted shirt of my grandmother’s. She’s uncontrollably crying. I kiss her back and hug her

“buttons” tightly. I’ve only seen my mother cry two other times. Tonight was the third. As she continues to uncontrollably cry, so do I. I can’t help but remember when we used to live with my grandma and I would fall asleep in her lap watching Caso Cerrado, a Spanish-language court show, while she played with my hair. Or the time when my older sister, younger brother, and I used to walk to her house everyday after school during our middle school years and she’d have our favorite Mexican dishes prepared.

“Ya llego la enfermera,” (“The nurse has arrived’) my cousin, Rolando, loudly announces, bringing me back. My uncles and aunts are asked to speak with the nurse.

Stepping out of the room, I notice just how many people are in her home. There’s more than 40 people here, my -- I’m stopped midthought when I hear my sister asks, “How’s mom?” I turn and see her looking at my face for answers, but I don’t have any. Our mom’s doing horrible, but how can I say that without uncontrollably crying again?

I don’t respond and she understands.

“Should I go in there?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

Sitting on the couch we wait; meanwhile, I can hear the nurse.

“I haven’t checked the records yet, but have you decided on which home?”

My cousin translates and my aunts and uncles respond to which home they’ve chosen.

The nurse stayed for another hour until the details were figured out.

Once she was gone we began to pray rosary after rosary. Soon my eyes began to close and I fell asleep for a few minutes.

“Maria, Maria,” my sister says while poking me.

I reluctantly open my eyes and murmur, “hmm?”

“Maybe we should home, so you can get some rest.”

Instinctively I object.

“No. I want to stay here until they come for her. I’m not leaving her, Lily.”

She waits a few moments before responding.

“Maria,” she says in her soothing mother-like voice, “grandma’s dead.

She’s far beyond the stars. She’s with God, and I know she’d want you to submit the Gates Scholarship on time. Imagine how proud you’d make her if you got it: you’d be the first in our family,” she finishes.

Her words seep in and I realize she’s right. I walk into my grandmother’s room and slowly make my way to her. It’s been four hours since she died. Her body has lost its color, making her skin appear yellow, but I don’t mind. I gently kiss her forehead, whispering so only she can hear, “Te amo, grandma. Fuiste la mejor abuela y te voy hacer orgullosa de me” (“I love you, grandma. You were the best grandma and I’m going to make you proud’).

[ grace bradford ]

11

“many thresholds” [ maddie mendell ]

“la perla” [ megan smith ]

“100 divisible by 10” [ grace bradford ] ]

13 12

[ 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

[ cassie heisey ]

“such great heights ”

toxicity

[ amber bridgeford ]

“dtown denver” [ evelyn benda ]

I never realized How much other people’s scars Would affect me Until I caught a glimpse Of my coworker’s forearm And he said “_ _, you’re staring.”

So, I closed my eyes But his scars were burnt into the backs of my eyelids “_ _, you’re staring.”

But I couldn’t look away So I just squeezed my eyes tighter.

16

And we’re all here thinking that we stand so tall, But the stars look back at us and wonder, “How did anything ever get so small?”

[ kellyn daly ]

perspective

All I wanted to say was Josh, you’re hurting When I saw you, I knew.

Not at the very first Who’s-that-cute-new-boy moment But when I took you out to dinner And you described how you couldn’t sleep And I saw the self disgust accumulating beneath your skin Fast forward a few months We’re making out in your backseat And I’m wondering if you’ve changed your mind If you’re glad you let me look If you’re glad you let me in Because I think I am.

But then I freeze.

“Please stop.”

You glide your fingers over the scar tissue on my thighs And say “hey, it’s okay. And these are okay, too.”

I start to cry So I squeeze my eyelids And in my head I scream “Josh, I’m hurting I’m sorry that when I close my eyes, I’m staring, rewatching the rape scenes of my life.

I’m sorry that you learned to express your feelings By carving road maps into your body Because the condescending voices of your parents

Are stuck echoing against your ear drums.

And I’m sorry that I’m hyperventilating But I want my lungs to remember your scent forever.”

But all that comes out Is “I’m sorry.”

On the ride home all I can think about are your hands and how awfully big they are and how awfully they fit around mine. and worrying if that’s maybe symbolic for how awfully we fit together.

I don’t want to believe that.

You turn to kiss me goodnight, but I don’t lean in; I just continue to look at you.

You laugh at me and say, “_ _, you’re staring.”

And I say “I know.

This time, I’m not sorry.

Just let me look a little longer.”

17

ashayam

falling up

[ emily welchans ]

[ susana pettis ]

She is every cliché that has ever been written With eyes like the earth after it rains A heart deep as the ocean A smile as heavenly as the stars And beauty that outshines Helen of Troy She is air when I am drowning And sleep when I am weary She burns as brightly as fireworks And refuses to be anything less Than wonderful

sometimes i fall but i land and recollect i rush and sit and wait wait..... wait? until i rise much like rain i fall down down DOWN fall hard and fast and land

“rated r”

18

[ megan szwanek ]

I LAND UP HIGH, ON WHAT SEEMS LIKE the top of the world i land down low at what seems like the bottombottombottom of a fast flowing river that pushes and pulls i recollect and heal i become a puddle to somehow not be alone to grow and to GROW then i rush and move as fast as i can i always seem to be and then i stop and i rise up up up i know without a doubt that i will rise and i will clear myself and begin again.

“byegone”

[ kelsey o’connell ]

moving

19

backpack [ isabelle swanson ]

I am a plain backpack.

Not a camping backpack for hiking and sightseeing.

Or one a mother might fill with snacks and sunblock to go to the zoo with her rowdy children.

Plain.

One for school and the occasional begrudgingly taken road trip.

The only time I am noticed is when I am exceptionally heavy.

So I have begun to fight for attention.

Seeing a smile turn to a scowl when I swallow up your calculator Is payback for my brothers and sisters that have fallen in your academic career.

Your kindergarten Dora backpack did not stand a chance.

So your pencils, well, consider them gone.

Those piercings you call pins and Sharpie tattoos have turned me into somewhat of a rebel.

See, I was minding my own business.

Pristine, hanging on the hook.

A regular honor student.

Until you started filling me with bad grades.

My zippers shook with fear as you strolled through the back to school section.

I heard about you.

Word gets around.

We backpacks are a tight zipped group.

I know what happened to your backpack with wheels after your first day of 7th grade.

As soon as the word "lame" hit your ears, he went in the trash.

He was too young.

Who knew my own demise would be at the hands of the same person?

Who knew my demise would be being blue, your favorite color?

So you chose me.

And threw me in the corner to collect dust.

That's all I do anymore.

Collect dust and scribbles and blank worksheets.

I always dreamed about being the backpack of a valedictorian.

Not a nightmare like you.

Someone going somewhere.

Someone that would take me to a big city.

So I can hear new people and smell new smells.

Someone that takes care of me and knows that you can't get mustard stains out of a backpack with just water and a dirty rag and why were you eating a hot dog with that much mustard over me anyway?

I am not a place mat.

I am not a doormat.

I am your backpack.

I've got your back.

I just wish you had mine.

21

“bravest of them all” [ tyra carstens ]

“wisest of them all” [ tyra carstens ]

“midnight train to georgia” [ lucy findley ]

20

january 2011 [ amber bridgeford ] The smell of dirty water The slippery mud on my slippery flip flops The constant snarl of his lip that somehow felt friendly The smell of cigarettes mixed with dirty water

“endless”

[ sydney miller ]

I don’t know if a storm blew it away or if some teenagers stole it, but I wish the picnic table was still in the creek. Ashlie+Marcus, Kyle+Kaylyn, scribbled in sharpie or carved in with keys. I never got to write You+Me inside of a heart because we spent all our time there together. I didn’t care that you blew smoke in my face because you kept me warm. The further we ventured into the creek, the harder I tried to look tough and act cute.

The further we ventured into the creek I wanted to sit down, not because I was tired, but because I wanted you to hold me.

10

“tunnel vision� [ annika zimmerman ]

tattered line of string [ megan smith ] Reminders of you are sprinkled everywhere like salt on strawberries, I love the taste of bittersweetness that curls down the length of my tongue onto the red plaid tablecloth, onto childhood memories and hazy summer evenings I think back to wanting to hold your hand so badly on the Fourth of July but I clutched a sparkler in shy hesitance instead to hide the spark curling behind my eyes that burned brightly as American flags and fireworks framed your features

09

I held onto watermelon smiles and moments of security but now I find myself in the hazy grey clutches of winter’s frigid grip I stick sugar in my coffee and sugar on my strawberries and I keep the salt in the back of the pantry because now I find salt everywhere in the wounds you left on my skin and my bones, and the ones you embedded into my brain with the taste of your name on my tongue and the distaste that spits from your mouth when you say mine

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