Dedicated to everyone who has had a secret... or told one.
Awards Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Circle Award Essays Honorable Mention: 2010 Experimental Fiction Honorable Mention: 2010 Portfolio of Photography Honorable Mention: 2009 Comics Second Place: 2009 National Council of Teachers of English Superior Rating (nominated for highest award): 2010 Superior Rating: 2009 Excellent Rating: 2007, 2008 National Scholastic Press Association Magazine Pacemaker Finalist: 2009, 2010 First Class (one mark of distinction): 2010 Second Place Design of the Year Award: 2010 Second Class: 2009
Copyright 2011 by Seminole Ridge High School Printed in the US by InstantPublisher.com
Secrets & Confessions Editor-in-Chief Rachale Park Production Editor Powers Perrotta Editors Melanie Bean Heather Kendall Michael Lerer Rosemary Murray Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith Editorial Assistants Kyle Maglietta Brandy Milano Nicole Serrano John Trevino Mark Vernon Meagan Wells Faculty Advisor Carly Gates
EDITORS’
NOTE
Maybe you see something happen, or there’s something about you, or your friend tells you something and you don’t want to tell anyone else. You think they’ll laugh, ridicule you, shun you. You have a secret and are afraid to say it aloud. But are you more afraid of the critical views of everyone else? Are you afraid that you’ll be different? Afraid to be looked at differently? There is no reason to hold a secret. You are different. You are the same. Everyone holds secrets, everyone thinks differently, we are all unique. Confess yourself, divulge your encumbering secrets, take a look around. Holding a secret keeps you from seeing everything else. Then you will know your secret isn’t something to be ashamed of. It makes you human. It defines who you are and what you are. Hiding this secret is keeping your truthful visage locked away. Let truth find its way.
TABLE OF
CONTENTS GENRE AWARD WINNERS Sam Blair — Art
Politics
Robyn Exclusa — Poetry
Elk Forest 11
Samantha Morgan — Prose
Cupcakes 12
POETRY Destinee Bowers
Just a Dream 43
Natoya Brown
Jazzy Has Hope 35
Jade Chung-Lee
How Long? 41
Robyn Exclusa
Life in a Death March 48 Love 75
Sean Farmer
Winter Haven 24 Gray Veils 69
Cody Fishman
My Redneck Sweetheart 74
Rachel Hand
What They Hide 20
Mitchell Herrmann
Daisy
Mary Beth Hietapelto
Sometimes
Nini Huynh
Remember Me
76
62
78
Jonah King
Lost in You 26
Jasmine Lang
Let’s 40
Brandy Milano
Ashes 33 She Is Here 63
Paige Miller
There Once Was a Girl 53
Rosemary Murray
If You Were a Color 70
Powers Perrotta
An Anthem of Our Own 51 No Secret of Mine 67
Sarah Probst
Something Like Summer 79
Jodi Sica
The Puppet 22
Luis C. Small, II
Who Am I (Give Me a Name)
32
Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith
Sub-Tract-Me 30 Broken Home 56
Timothy Sumell
Rain Kisses 38
PROSE Jade Chung-Lee
Nightmare 45
Chad Hamann
Stream of Light 37
Rachale Park
Spring Breeze 29 Giraffes and Yogurt 72
Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko
Lost Dog
77
Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith
Pimped Out 65
John Trevino
What the Hell Do You Want?
57
EXTRAS
Confessional 81
Thank You Letter 85
Policy 87
ART Emigdio Abac-Ordonez
Cows
Kelsey Angles
Goats
Farah Barstrom
Albizia Julibrissin
Brianne Codner
Innocence
Cindy Dosch
Sloth
Nicole Gamblin
Stuck on a Feeling
Melissa Garrity
Difference Is at a Price
Mary Beth Hietapelto
All the People
Zach Jones
Skate Feet
Jasmine Lang
Crazy Little Thing Called Peace
Kyle Maglietta
Life
Connor McLeod
New York Street Scene
Brenna Nephew
Untitled
Jordan Percival
Parrot
Jessy Persaud
River to Immortality
Sarah Probst
Robots Cry
Robyn Exclusa
E L K FOREST
IIIII Nightly, the snow on the ground arrived fresh The ice on the pine trees had not melted The entire world had evolved milky flesh Frozen in time, this sculpture of marble When the trees sighed, snow covered the cold ground The birds were not chirping on the branches All of the forest had quieted down This wonderland woods had slept without breath The wind moved aside, curtsied the moon Chaos held its sound as the sun rose This blanket of peace let us instead bloom While veiled clouds released cotton feathers Where trees were old friends protecting the small My blithe winter slept safe behind its wall
M 11
Samantha Morgan
C U P C A K ES
IIIII “Hey, Rori,” Jessica called from the living room of the apartment. “You have something waiting for you on the kitchen counter.” “Okay, thanks, Jess,” I said, hanging my keys on the key ring right inside the door. Perched on the granite countertop was a small brown cardboard box. On the side was a sticker that said: Lorelei Truffle 1660 Stockton Street San Francisco, CA 94133 Recognizing the handwriting, I tore into the package, not wasting a second. In the cardboard box was a slightly smaller box covered in pink wrapping paper. I carefully undid the wrapping. A hard white box was left. Opening it, there was a plaster cupcake in a miniature sea of neon green tissue paper, a periwinkle envelope, and a ten-dollar bill. I removed the cupcake and admired the paint job. On the classic pink frosting was a red cherry, and it had a simple limegreen holder. Setting the cupcake aside, I retrieved the envelope and broke the seal. A sudden sadness overwhelmed me as I stared at the familiar handwriting; eventually I began reading.
M
12
CUPCAKES
Rori, Happy birthday! I hope this gift comes in time for you and isn’t lost in the mail with no return address. I would’ve given you an actual cupcake, but I don’t think that would’ve lasted well in the mail, so I made you one instead. The money is for you to go get yourself a cupcake on me. I miss you, Rori. It’s been awhile since I actually saw you, but thankfully we’ve kept up with the letters. When we started writing letters to each other back in the summer of ninth grade, they said we were crazy, but hey, it’s kept us together all these years. The reason why there is no return address is because I was accepted into a Canadian communications department. I am currently sitting in my old apartment writing, but I’ll be in Ontario by the time you get this. As I was packing my belongings, I thought back to your fifteenth birthday; it was there that I actually talked to Jake Douglas. To you, he was Cupcake, but to me he was London. London adored you back then. He had this fervent interest in you and he honestly wanted to date you. Sweetheart, you should’ve seen him talk about you. A light seemed to burn in his heart and shine out through his gorgeous blue-gray eyes every time he said your name to me or when you talked to him. Although it was a party, he and I wandered off a number of times. We’d sit in the front yard talking and you’d eventually come and find us. As if previously agreed upon, we shut out certain topics and we’d change the subject to
M 13
SAMANTHA MORGAN
something else related if you got too close to what we were previously talking about. Rori, you and I are telepathically connected, but London is, to this day, the guy version of me, give or take a couple minor traits. There was one point after it got dark that you were between London and I, and you took our hands. When we rejoined the party–at your mother’s request–something upset you, so I took one hand and gave it to London, then took your other, and we started walking again. This was not just comfort for you, but also for London. I knew he wanted to hold on to you, and I gave him the opportunity to do so. Looking back now, that moment with the three of us walking through the cold winter night holding hands just felt right. The feeling of peace was impregnable then, and still is now. You stopped us in the driveway and turned into my arms, putting your head on my shoulder mournfully. London reached out to comfort you and touched your cheek. I can guarantee you that London would’ve enjoyed the moment a whole lot more if your dad wasn’t walking out of the garage with the trash. London radiated uncomfortable waves that reeked of awkwardness as he looked at your dad while you stretched up to kiss his cheek. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers. Rori, I knocked down London’s wall that night while sitting on the cold ground leaning against your mother’s car. Sweetheart, I can tell you that that boy is Fate’s ordained match for you. His feelings are a sublime sunrise out over crystal-blue ocean waters. He hardly expressed the words, but I swear I was tapping
M
14
CUPCAKES
into that twin-like connection that he and I share. The boy is congenial beyond words, and we both agreed that he could probably get anyone, just not the ones he actually wanted to be with. The prime example is you. Rori dearest, we both agree that you deserved a better childhood–a better life at the time–than the one you got. We both agreed that you needed more stability. Sweetheart, at the time I think you just didn’t want to get hurt, not by a boy, not by someone who said they were your friend then stabbed you in the back, not your family that suddenly seemed like an earthquake hit it. I think you were scared. You told me once that whoever hurt me was going to get the Old Spice Man unleashed on them; I told him that night if he ever hurt you, it’d be ten times worse than that, and it still goes. The same night he kept telling me, “I don’t think it’s going to happen.” The only things I could offer as alleviation to stubborn London were to stay by your side and give you time. I knew, if he left, you would be hurt. London didn’t think he made that much of an impact on your life, but he changed his mind once I gave him a few of our “friends-for-sale” abandonment stories. Being stubborn, I wasn’t about to let him walk away or let you get hurt. London and I did everything within our power to take stresses from your shoulders, even if all we could give was temporary relief. We always found a way to cajole the troubling thoughts from your mind and silence the bedlam going on in your head. Unfortunately, time has separated us; you
M 15
SAMANTHA MORGAN
should honestly give London a call. His number hasn’t changed since high school. You two are closer than I am to either of you; he’s in your neighbor state of Oregon. We both miss you. I’ll send you another letter with a return address once everything gets settled. Until then, your friend and sister forever, -S PS - Please call him. I set down the letter and stared at the cupcake. Scarlet and I never had hidden secrets from each other. She’d basically dedicated a whole letter to talk about Jake. We both knew I never really gave him a chance to be anything more than a friend. The longer I stood there thinking, the more I realized that Fate had ordained him as my match. Thoughts falling like a waterfall, I went in my bedroom and pawed through the box of our ninth grade letters. I began rereading until I found one talking about the type of guy I needed: You need someone to watch over you–to take care of you. The same line was repeated throughout the year, rephrased and rephrased. A few letters expanded more on “what I needed,” but it was mostly that one line. Sitting on my bedroom floor, I came to the revelation that Jake Douglas was exactly what I needed, and Scarlet knew it; this time he was giving me the excuse to take hold of his hand. I was about to pick up the phone and call him, but the what if’s started rolling through my head: What if he’s with someone? What if he’s married? What if he has kids? What if he doesn’t remember me at all? What do I do if I get his voicemail? What if someone other than him picks up?
M
16
CUPCAKES
Almost two weeks later, I got a call from Scarlet. “Hey, Scar,” I said into the phone. “Rori, are you coming home for the holidays?” “To Florida?” I asked. “Mhm,” she answered. “I was thinking about it. Why?” She paused. “I want to see you. Can you try to come? I mean really try.” “Sure,” I said. “Is something wrong?” “I’ll tell you when I see you,” she replied with a faint trace of a smile in her voice.
On Christmas morning I called Scarlet. “Happy Christmas,” I greeted her, British style. “Happy Christmas to you, too.” She laughed lightly. There was a short pause. “Can you meet me at Coral Reed Park in an hour?” “Of course,” I replied. “See you soon.” “See you soon,” I echoed.
Standing in front of the reef was Scarlet and another person. Once I saw them facing the sea together, I had a foreboding feeling in my stomach. I took time to savor the moment and studied them. Scarlet’s auburn hair was shorter than I’d seen it in a long time but still danced under the harsh Florida sun. She was much thinner than the last time I’d seen her, and her skin was marble white. Next to her, the boy had golden hair that also seemed to have natural red highlights. Both of them stood tall, the same height, both strong. Something about them made her look so much more fragile. “Scarlet,” I called out.
M 17
SAMANTHA MORGAN
She turned around, gave me an incandescent smile, and waited for me to come over to her before she gave me a hug on the surprisingly empty beach. “You remember Jake,” she said, gesturing at the blond boy to her side. I stared at him, catching sight of his eyebrow piercing as it glistened in the sunlight. “Hey, Rori,” he said politely. “Long time no see.” “It’s been awhile, Jake,” I answered softly. I looked at Scarlet again and noticed a distinctly haggard look on her face. “Are you alright?” I asked her. She gave me a sad smile and let me look at her openly. It was then that I realized that Scarlet had a malady to her. “Scar—” I began. “When London and I first really talked he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind if I died tomorrow. Not as in suicide or anything, but I wouldn’t mind it.’ Long before I met him, I prayed that if any one of the people I cared about were to get sick and get cancer, that it’d be me instead of them. Too many people have died, not lived a life that they deserved. I don’t want people to suffer, so I’d rather take it.” She paused, looking straight into my eyes. “My prayer was answered about a week ago, and I called you two after I was answered. I have stage three Hodgkin’s disease.” Tears began pouring down my face. I sank down to my knees. My best friend has stage three cancer. My sister is dying. She knelt and hugged me. “Rori, it’s all right, I promise. It’s just my time to go. I can watch over you guys.” I began to shake violently, unable to speak at all. My world was ending. A life without Scarlet–how could I go on without my other half? Jake came behind us and wrapped his arms around us both. Scarlet and Jake were always the strong ones when it came to life-changing scenarios; they were always looking out for me
M
18
CUPCAKES
and protecting me. When I finally found my voice I choked out, “You can’t leave.” She kissed my cheek and held me at arms’ length to look at me. “We all will one day; my day just came before yours. It’ll be okay, Rori, I promise.” Jake and Scarlet stood up and pulled me to my feet; she took my hand and Jake my other, like we did at my fifteenth birthday party. We began to walk; suddenly, I remembered her letter, and it clicked when she said that the peace she felt was indelible. “We have to enjoy life while we have it,” she said softly, staring down the beach.
Scarlet lived another two weeks, and all fourteen days Jake and I spent every moment we could with her. When her funeral came, many gathered in remembrance of the bright girl we all loved. Her parents and brother sat in the first row of the church, while Jake and I sat off to the side with other old friends who grew up with her. Jake held me tight when I started to cry. I realized in that moment, when I was clinging to Jake, that Scarlet was right: he wasn’t leaving. Later, at the burial, Jake held one hand, but the other was left cold where she would’ve been. Standing there next to her closed casket with Jake, I said, “You’re right. You always were. We need to enjoy life while we have it.” I kissed my middle and index fingers, opened them as a peace sign, and offered it to her like she used to whenever she said goodbye. “You’ll always be my best friend and sister. I love you Scarlet, and I’ll miss you.”
M 19
Rachel Hand
W H A T T H E Y H IDE
IIIII Don’t you see them? Cheerful smiles, Mouths open in laughter, Eyes shining in glee, But do you really see? Look closer: Painted smiles glint, Mouths a deep red, Eyes frozen, sharp at the tips, Can you take a hint? Now you see: Plaster white skin, Masks they all wear, Hiding what they can’t bear, But beware… No matter what— Personas don’t last, Pain moves fast, So by tomorrow Come all your sorrows.
M 20
WHAT THEY HIDE
The pain concealed, The sadness resealed, All not healed. When masks are peeled, All truth is revealed.
M 21
Jodi Sica
T H E P U P P ET
IIIII I wish (or not) that I could take it all back, But my mind is already the puppet. I may not see the strings, But I know they’re there. I hear your voice: Clear, angry, But gentle and soothing nevertheless. You told me things: You said I could be a god among men, So I set my flames across the world. I spread my darkness into people’s dreams; Into their hearts goes the fear. I brought my wrath to those humans, But all for what? To die each time I came back? To hear you angry that I failed? I can tell you, those lives I lived, Even though short and vengeful, They were nothing but lies. Now I live in a world alone; Hearing you, Feeling you pull the strings, I feel so bitter and used, But I’m the puppet.
M 22
THE PUPPET
I cannot leave my master. If I could, I may ask for forgiveness, But I do not deserve it, For I’m only the lowly puppet Doing my master’s bidding.
M 23
Sean Farmer
WINTER H A V EN
IIIII Winter is a monumental season The sun tames its sizzling beams Heat and humidity drop with reason Chills float through, giving icy dreams A blanket of white spills to the ground Trees lose all decency Lakes flex their grand muscles all around Animals change with utmost frequency As the temperature drops, feelings can be lost It is strange, this winter land Easily disoriented and double-crossed Nothing makes sense, bearings become contraband A harsh climate, indeed Found always if cold is what you seek Winds gather, forming a great stampede Winter is strong, climbing the highest peak Some say it’s a magical sight to see With nowhere to go but down, swaying side to side The snow falls careless as can be A white shower drizzling far and wide
M 24
WINTER HAVEN
Parts of nature are at true stand still The rest scurry through the icy snow Finding sustenance a true game of skill Winds thrash the trees, blow by blow This winter land is truly a spontaneous place A lot has changed since it’s begun For one thing is never at steady pace The true beauty can be recognized when all is done
M 25
Jonah King
L OST IN Y O U
IIIII Caught in the moment Trying to hold it and own it My eyes are lost And my mind is zoning Looking up at the ceiling Knowing the feeling That if I look down My heart will be keeling Insanity in check But emotions are a wreck Holding myself back Cringing my neck Not unheard of But unexplainable By man’s logic It’s unattainable Yet I still strive To keep my hopes alive Into a pool of dreams I continue to dive As I begin to drown I make my way down Do I want to go to shore Or search for that ocean ground
M 26
LOST IN YOU
My head can’t comprehend The words spilling from my pen I look into your eyes Oh crap, here we go again (Chorus): I can’t imagine it’s true But it’s true Every time I look at you Look at you It’s just what you do What you do The eyes I get lost into Now I’m lost in you Every day I get up And look in the mirror I see my reflection A little bit clearer I sit on my bed For a brief moment I pray That one day I’ll wake up Exclaiming it’s a different day Because every time I look into those eyes I’ve written my demise The water in my mouth dries Once again the tensions rise My hand curls into a fist And punches a wall Yelling out, screaming mercy This barricade’s too tall What do you have left When you’re driven by hate What are you supposed to do When you’re face-to-face with fate There’s no turning back
M 27
JONAH KING
Because there’s nothing to retreat to You get lost in the crowd Where no one believes you But what of that moment When you had life and owned it Your eyes are out cold Mind is zoning Continuing, life still droning Heading off into the mist Where am I going (Chorus): I can’t imagine it’s true But it’s true Every time I look at you Look at you It’s just what you do What you do The eyes I get lost into Now I’m lost in you I’ve made my final decision As long as I’ll be living My full future envisioned Earning your love is my life mission There’ll be difficulty But it’s got to be Every time those eyes I see A whole new world for simply you and me
M 28
Rachale Park
S P RIN G B REE Z E
IIIII I can’t breathe, I can’t think. Thinking is the only thing that makes me happy. But without your touch, your smell, or your kiss–I’m lost, searching in a blackened abyss for you. You’re so far, but sometimes so close. I want to prove to you that you’re more than a simple breath or a gentle thought. I wish I could, but must I? You should already know you’re my savior. My soul shouldn’t have to be released for you to realize I’m worth saving. I shouldn’t have to give in to truly feel your caress. You know I would do anything to keep you near. Please don’t walk away because I choose for us to go a different path. For now, let’s choose the spring breeze and summer leaves. Save the autumn seeds and winter needs for when the seasons come. Please don’t rush time with your own selfish pleasures. Enjoy every misty morning and bright night with me for now, until time and I choose to invite the later seasons into our wake. I will always be in the sun, wind, rain, and moon. Promise me you’ll stay on this road until we both find that shortcut to the unknown.
M 29
Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith
S U B - TR A CT - M E
IIIII LOVE—PAIN BROKEN—FRAME YOU—AND—ME WILL—NEVER—BE I—SEE MY—MISERY HURT—HATE A—PERFECT—DATE FEELINGS—NONE HAPPINESS—DONE WHY—ME?! I—SCREAM DARKNESS—FALLS UP GOES—MY WALL INHALE—EXHALE STALE. TRY—ME BUY—ME I—AM I—STAND I’M—DOWN NO—FROWN
STAY—UP DON’T—CUT
M 30
SUB-TRACT-ME
BAD—DAYS NEVER—FAZED GOOD—DAYS ONLY A’S LIFE—HERE DEATH—NEAR CLOSE—BOOK MIND—SHOOK SUB—TRACT ME—PLEASE
M 31
Luis C. Small, II
WHO AM I (GIVE ME A NAME)
IIIII
I am the light Shining and prevailing over The sun and clouds I am the shadow Lurking, watching, and waiting To strike at your proudest moment I am neutral In the middle of a raging war Yearning for peace I am the light I am the shadow I am your proudest moment
M 32
Brandy Milano
A S H ES
IIIII There’s blood in my scalp and skin in my nails, My eyes sewn shut by threads made of your promises, My imagination is set free, but I’m still dead center with the same dumb smile across my face. You kick the ashes around me and I stare at the back of my eyelids, smiling at perfection. With a bat as your wand, you play in my world’s decay, Laugh right in my face. You blind me and burn everything. At the last second, you pulled back the curtain to reveal your masterpiece. You’re expecting a great applause from me, but I just stare with fear in my eyes. I don’t want to discover this dust I’m sitting in. I don’t want to take my eyes off of you. I can tell what you have done just by the look on your face. You’re grinning with satisfaction, your hands raised to the sky. A single tear falls from my face and shatters on a pillow of ash.
M 33
BRANDY MILANO
My eyes still have not yet left yours, but I can see the corners of your smile drop. You’re stealing the fear from my eyes, and I see it grows in yours. Those dirty hands crash to your sides. Your eyes whisper I’m sorry, and you run. Frozen, I watch you disappear in the clouds of gray. You should’ve raised the blade to my eyes and cut the threads. I pray you run out of breath. I hope you fall to your knees gasping for air, breathing in guilt to rot your lungs, Your blood was poisoned by your own lies. Feel your body emaciate from the inside out, like I have done. You’ll get what you want; you won’t hear a damn word drop from my lips. I’ll stay right where I am and when you’re ready to give up, You can throw yourself into the flames. I’ll play in your ashes and not feel a thing.
M 34
Natoya Brown
JAZZY HAS HOPE
IIIII Jazzy has hope I was dying Just buying time Feeling the pain drove me insane But Jazzy still cared Never feared Lived life down the list A cancer patient with a twist I felt the beat of my heart Ripping my body apart Silently said a death wish Knowing I wouldn’t be missed But Jazzy made plans in advance Never taking a second glance And wouldn’t realize Reality couldn’t be disguised It was time to go That feeling of agony inside No one knew Couldn’t bear seeing her Her dad came into the hospital room we shared Promised her a picnic on the beach, told her to prepare Tears ran down my face
M 35
NATOYA BROWN
And I was in utter disgrace Salty water fell along my cheek Jealous and infuriated by her optimistic view The fact that I lost all conscience and never even knew Out my head questions started to flow “Why me?” is what I wanted to know Two weeks passed by I was out of the hospital I didn’t die Jazzy did I thought I’d be better off Accepting facts and not thoughts So life had me confused Every emotion but amused I can no longer sit around and mope I have to live, live because Jazzy has hope
M 36
Chad Hamann
STRE A M OF L I G H T
IIIII Under the shady oak tree I rest; everything around me is balanced. The blue sky feels like a tent suspended from above, protecting me from the world beyond. Then a stream of light from above shines down through the branches of the trees and stops upon my skin. It gleams like a new pearl and has a physical appearance, so I reach out to grab it. To my surprise, it’s a solid object and has a strange, comforting feel to it. It’s soft like silk, so I tear a piece of the light off and bring it with me as I explore the woods: my silent guide through the thick brush and pitch black canopies. When I meander to an open field, I rub the stream of light gently through my fingers. I take one last look at its beauty and throw it into the wind for someone else to share its joy.
M 37
Timothy Sumell
R A IN K ISSES
IIIII We were young when we met Me in my world You in another A thousand miles of separation But our hearts were together Like magnets We’d draw together Like gladiators We’d clash and feud But in the end It was you I had wooed Dreams of being together Eagle dreams That would dip and soar But like beggars, unsatisfied We simply wanted more So together we met And fled from our lives Just you and I Without a thief’s lie or tearful goodbyes Or fears that we would die
M 38
RAIN KISSES
Safe and away You kissed me For the first time Your mouth, like a raindrop As it tenderly touched mine Our hearts became one No more separating secrets No more heart-wrenching lies Just a touch of the lips And staring in each other’s eyes Souls fused together like welded metals For the rest of our lives Together with dewdrop kisses I give you all of me Except my heart, overflowing with love Because it’s already yours And as for your kisses When it rains, it pours
M 39
Jasmine Lang
L ET ’ S
IIIII Let’s wait until sunset, you and I, For the world to breathe; A beautiful mess of pinks and oranges and blues. Let’s sit upon these green hilltops And witness the birth of a thousand stars, Each one shining, burning, aligning A hidden message in the sky. Let’s decipher its code, you and I, And keep its secret meaning hidden. Let’s walk along the steady stream, Hand in hand, heart in heart, and wish for these days to never end. Let’s make the water speak an unspoken language, Skipping rocks and stones, we create our own Morse code. Let’s part our ways back home, For the moon and stars have to say goodbye for now. Let’s not wake, you and I, Only in dreams do we last a lifetime.
M 40
Jade Chung-Lee
H OW L ON G ?
IIIII How long is forever? It varies for everyone: For the little girl down the street Forever is the span of her attention. For that teenage boy promising his girl, Forever lasts until there’s a better model. “Till death do us part” becomes “Till we drive each other bonkers” Or even “Till you sleep with that secretary you keep eyeing And I get half of everything.” The word has been warped and perverted Until no one really knows Just what it is. To me, forever is just that— Undying, unending, unstoppable. Forever doesn’t bow When things get tough, Neither does it give in Without a fight: It is solid as steel. Thus the ideal has been tempered, Unbending as a vast oak—
M 41
JADE CHUNG-LEE
Despite the whipping winds As infinite as the grains of sand That litter the earth.
M 42
Destinee Bowers
J U ST A DRE A M
IIIII Scared to close my eyes Because that’s when I find myself dead My dreams are full of ways I’ll die Most show bullets through my head I tell no one Cause no one really cares They laugh & say I’m crazy So I smile to hide the tears Scared out of my mind Half the time But then I tell myself– It’s just a dream When I close my eyes to dream I don’t Nightmares flash I wake up Check the time 3 AM Like always Glass of water resting on my nightstand For when I wake up Breathless and dehydrated In panic mode For what reason though
M 43
DESTINEE BOWERS
‘Cause again It’s just a dream So used to the reiterated dreams Real life no longer fazes me When the time appeared I remained with no control Just like in my dreams Hoping I’ll wake up But I don’t So I don’t react Just as I don’t in the dream I pray And I pray Then I say, “Kill me, I’m dead anyway” And just like the dreams Confusion begins The scene moves so quickly I barely understand I wake up in my bed again glass of water sits in its place Clock reads: 3 AM Confused A note lies next to the water It reads: I’LL ALWAYS BE THERE Signed by no one It was just a dream, I tell myself But my mind disagrees It was real That I know But I’ll forget Just as I do with my dreams
M 44
Jade Chung-Lee
NI G H T M A RE
IIIII She was herself…yet she wasn’t. She could feel, hear, and see, but it was as though everything was happening on the outside of a translucent glass dome she had somehow gotten trapped in. But she wasn’t in a glass dome–that much she knew. She was astride a great beast with rippling muscles and mottled gray-purple hair, traveling rather quickly over snow and ice. She was hardly dressed for the weather: a leather skirt, boots, and a thin cloth shirt failing to keep the icy white flakes from kissing her skin. There were reins looped loosely around her right hand, a staff of some sort strapped to her lower back. Someone was with her: a strange man dressed in leather and fur from head to toe, straddling a creature like her own. Or perhaps the creatures were his? She had no way of knowing. What were they doing out here, where glistening white stretched endlessly in all directions? The answer came in a large, shadowy form, then lights. Her steed let loose a terrible sound–somewhere between a scream and a roar–and its pace increased, jostling her. Perhaps this was their destination? A sleepy little town called Damus, a voice crooned in her ear. It will be fun to destroy it. Men came hustling out of the stone buildings, large men with guns and shiny armor. Were they aiming at her? Her
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JADE CHUNG-LEE
companion, too? But they didn’t pose a threat– Without her consent, the girl’s body moved, a hand lifting from the reins, lips parting to murmur something in an odd language. Then, to her complete shock, flames shot from her outstretched fingertips as the man drew a long blade and calmly smote the men with well-aimed swings. The smell of burning flesh and blood mixed, a cocktail of copper and brimstone. No! she screamed, the words not leaving her mouth. Stop it! Her body didn’t react to her commands, her hand coming down again to clutch the beast’s mane and steer it around the mess they had made. A bit further on, the terrain became rocky, the scratchy sound their mounts’ padded paws made in the snow, giving way to silence. In fact, everything was quiet, not a living thing stirring after that initial attack. The pair passed under a bridge supported by wooden beams pushing into the rough surface of the surrounding mountains and, before them, yawned a pit that– “The mines,” the man grunted, his voice a low timbre. He gestured for her to continue on, making no move to follow suit. “I’ll wait here.” Power thrummed in the air all around the girl, even through the haziness that clouded her mind, a thick presence that made her ill. She was surprised that her mount seemed unaffected. Finally, after moments of listening to the muted footsteps of the purple creature and her own breathing, the earth gave way to something harder. Crystal perhaps? It was here that the beast balked, a tremor running through its frame. Corded muscles bunched and the creature reared, dashing forward into the crystal cavern. The multi-faceted walls glowed brilliantly as the girl careened past them; they stopped only because the creature collided with an even larger object.
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NIGHTMARE
Intense heat flared up, her steed screaming in pain and terror as it…dissolved? Molecules of gray-purple shot off in all directions, leaving the girl to fall to the ground in a graceless heap. The object was a huge gem, glowing with some inner light. The girl swore she saw something shift within its confines, but she had no time to ponder it as fine mist rose from its surface, permeating the room. The mist took on a vague form, tendrils of it reaching out like fingers toward her. She struggled to no avail–her body was not her own and would not obey her commands. Power roiled from the object…or perhaps whatever was inside made every fiber of her thrum in response. Wait, what’s going on? The moment the mist touched her skin she gasped, a cacophony filling her ears, voices murmuring like the low roar of the ocean. There was a sharp pain at the front of her skull. A crack. The jingle of something metal hitting a solid surface. Where–what am I? Darkness.
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Robyn Exclusa
L IFE IN A DE A T H M A RC H
IIIII
Don’t worry, I will be here all night I’ll watch over you for the rest of time Little baby, you can take a breath I don’t blame you, just slow down Stop listening to the beat That isn’t music, it’s only your feet I’m a melody, calling you Harp and string, a healing tune Because they will come, they will go They will be punished, this I know You are innocent, you are strong No more do you have to clutch on So take, take a breath, stop running And slow down I know, I know that you are scared But I’m here, let me wipe your fears No more crying, it’ll all be quick I love you; let me carry you from here I’ll bring your soul above the clouds Show you what it means to be free, not crowded
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LIFE IN A DEATH MARCH
Don’t look aside, release them from your mind Stop fighting, little one, slow down Because they will come, they will go They will be punished, this I know You are innocent, you are strong No more do you have to clutch on So take, take a breath, stop running And just slow down We’re waiting for the place I have prepared To me your blood is precious Be calmed, I have bought your transgressions Let them talk, they will see my vengeance Am I so unworthy that I need to bribe you? Do you prefer the lack of food? Despising? I am living water; my love will be enough Why do you doubt my absolute power? Because they will come, they will go They will be punished, this I know You are innocent, you are strong No more do you have to clutch on So take, take a breath, stop running And slow down Though it seems that they’re forcing you to race Escape to my heart, your safe haven More important is my grace Than their rusted, cold, dead weapons Focus, here, look on my favor Don’t worry about your brothers They’ll be here with me I have gathered my children You don’t need to see the end to know that you will conquer
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ROBYN EXCLUSA
Because they will come, they will go They will be punished, this I know You are innocent, you are strong No more do you have to clutch on This life is hard, listen to my voice For you, you have won So take, take a breath Slow down Submit, please, stop marching
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Powers Perrotta
A N A NT H E M OF O U R OWN
IIIII
We are the Children of the Broken. We are the Silent and the Threatened, Born into a world of the Fallen. We are strong, we are skilled, we are done With all the problems you have passed on, You make us live with what you’ve done wrong. Our dying hearts beat revolution, We will get up when you push us down, Disavowed, we’re our own Nation. We are children of imperfection, We are the Oppressed and the Beaten, We are strong, willed, mighty, and frightened. How can we know the songs of virtue When we’re taught the Melody of War, The Rhythm and Symphony from you? We gather Like refugees in the Shadows. We cry out The pain, the anger, the sorrow.
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POWERS PERROTTA
Riot now: There might not be a tomorrow. We just need A war cry, some bows and arrows. Walk the streets, A thousand souls, and all alone, Hear the beat— The rhythm, the Anthem, our own. And we will Forgive the Sins, the Pain, of You.
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Paige Miller
T H ERE ONCE W A S A G IR L
IIIII
There once was a girl, About only five. Mama was an alcoholic, Papa was working, home-deprived. Too many times did this little girl see, The hand that struck her, The hand that made her bleed. Papa never noticed, But mama always screamed, Left the poor little girl all alone, With just a teddy bear in need. One night of torture, Mama drunk and tattered, Stomping into the girl’s room, She could hear her footsteps, As they echo toward the door, Baby girl holding on to her teddy bear, The door slamming against the wall. “This is all your fault, Anna, why did you have to be?” “Mommy, stop, please let go of me.”
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PAIGE MILLER
Horrified, the little girl screams As Mama beats her to the ground, The teddy bear left to comfort her as her mother leaves, “Teddy bear, please help me, I never make mama happy.” Gripping tightly to the teddy, She closes her eyes, “Are you ready?” Someone whispers in her ear as she sees a light beam across her eyes, Feeling no pain she follows the whisper in her ear, Leaving nothing but her one last tear, “Welcome home,” the voice says, “This is where your heart is.” “I can’t leave Mommy behind, is she coming, too?” “No, not now, it’s just you.” “But I want Mommy to see what a place this is.” “Just one more word before I go, please let me know.” Mama in prison, Papa in tears, The years of torture, The pain and the fears. One night Mama laid in her bed at night, As the memory of her came to her mind, A dream she discovers of a girl she once knew, Memories of the night, The pain she went through. “Mama, this is for you, I’m sorry I wasn’t what you’ve always wanted, But I love it now where I am, A place where guardian angels sway and the birds so sweet and sound, Mama, I forgive you for the things you’ve done, And the pain I’ve bound,
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THERE ONCE WAS A GIRL
Teddy sends his love, And I do, too, But God said to me That I can send this letter to you. I don’t know where you are, Or how long you’re gonna be there, But I forgive you, Mama. Just so you know, I’ll always be there.” Mama lying on the bed, Tears streaming from her eyes, “I’m sorry, baby girl, I’m sorry for the tears, But just so you know, I’ll always be there.”
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Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith B RO K EN H O M E
IIIII DOORS LOCKED CURTAINS LOW HOUSE SILENT NON-MELLOW HEAD ACHING EYES BURNING THROAT SORE MIND TURNING RESPECT GONE TEARS CRIED LIES EXPOSED NO PRIDE BODY SHAKING AIR TOXIC NO HELP STACKED BOXES BIRDS CHIRP DUST GATHERS DISHES UNWASHED HOW MUCH CAN I TAKE? BROKEN HOME. BROKEN NOSE. BROKEN HEARTS. BROKEN APART. THE TRUTH? PRAYING SOMEONE HELPS ME CHOOSE. BROKEN HOME. BROKEN ME. BROKEN HOME. BROKEN FAMILY.
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John Trevino
W H A T T H E H E L L DO Y O U W A NT ?
IIIII
It’s a normal day in Area Thirteen. Well, normal for us anyway. This area’s other name is “The Crimson Plain.” The name itself says it all: it’s known for all of its bloodshed and weapons. The adults are relentless, the cops are brutal, the kids are vicious; all in all the place is one huge hell-hole. The kids who have families are the lucky ones. Most kids are orphans because their parents either died in a riot or got killed in the crossfire. When even the orphanages reject you, you end up in the streets. It’s just about the worst thing that could happen to you here: most starve to death, some get odd jobs or get sold off by someone, and a few make it off the streets. I’m one of the few who survive living on the streets. My name’s Sora. People who knew my folks say I had a different name. I don’t care; I like the name I have. I’m around seventeen or eighteen years old, but I don’t know for sure. I’m sitting on a curb watching people walk by, most of them staring at me with eyes as cold as a blizzard. I’ve grown used to them; they don’t bother me anymore. While they continue to stare, I notice some kid trying to steal some food from a stand. Unfortunately for the kid, he chose Jared’s stand. Jared sees the kid trying to steal from him, grabs the kid by his arm, and yanks him. The kid slams face first into the stand, blood dripping from his nose. Jared grabs him by the shirt and starts to shake him up. “You think you can steal from me?”
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JOHN TREVINO
he screams while thrashing him around. “Do you?” The kid shakes his head and Jared throws him across the street. “Now get the hell out of my sight.” He doesn’t need to say it twice: the kid flees in terror. Looks like he could be around nine or ten years old; most likely he’s new to the streets. I let out a sigh of boredom. “Man, there’s nothing going on today.” I stare up into the sky wondering what I could do. Somehow God must’ve heard me, ‘cause right then someone got robbed. To make things better, it was the rare hit-and-run. Everyone on the street is moving out of the thief’s way. When he’s only a couple steps away from me, I stick my leg out. He reacted just in time to jump a bit early; I move my leg up. He clips my leg and lands hard onto the concrete floor. Wiping the blood from his face, he tries to get a running start again. I grab him by the back of his shirt, and hold him till the victim runs up to us. He’s a middle-aged man, probably pick-pocketed. I look at the thief; it’s a girl close to my age. She gives me a death glare, just like everyone else does. “Yeah, yeah. You hate me, too. Get in line.” She looks away in frustration. Meanwhile, the guy in front of us is getting his breath back. He takes the girl from my hands and starts beating the crap out of her: punching her, kicking her, kneeing her–he doesn’t hold anything back. She slumps to the floor, barely conscious at all. He clenches his fist as tightly as he can then goes in to finish her off. The girl shuts her eyes, but before he gets in striking distance I jump in front of his fist. He hit me straight in the jaw; he looks shocked, either that I jumped in front of his punch or that it didn’t do any damage to me. “Bit much, don’t you think, old man?” He goes from unnerved to rage and swings at me. I dodge, then send a punch back straight to his jaw. He drops to the floor. “Now you two are just about even,” I say, walking away. I don’t even make it out of there before everyone starts yelling at me, cursing my existence. This is why everyone gives me those cold stares, I take
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58
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?
things too far, so they say, and leave both sides injured. I have a bunch of nicknames: The Double Edged Sword, The Man with Evil in His Soul, Slicing Wind. I only answer to my name–I don’t take pride in this. They just see me as a monster. I wander the streets looking for breakfast: I grab some bread, an apple, and a pound of beef. The owners of the stands can’t do anything because they owe me for stopping people from getting away with their goods. No one likes owing anyone here. I head toward the edge of the market and then the outskirts of the city. Outside the city is nothing but woods, hardly anyone comes out here. They only come here when they need materials for weapons. I’m the only one who really comes out here. I circle around the city’s edge, to a hut. Smoke’s rising out of the chimney. “Looks like they’re home.” I walk through the door unnoticed. “What the hell are you guys doing here so early?” All three turn around, ready to jump at whoever entered their home. Once they see it’s me, two of them calm down; one still leaps at me with a knife ready. I jump back almost a second too late. When he lands he throws the knife at me. I throw my apple, skewering it, stopping the knife. The kid comes at me still; he’s pretty fast, he manages to get to me, but I’m faster. He goes to elbow me in the chest, I block it, then palm strike him. He flies back to the other people behind him. The others keep ahold of him; they start laughing. The kid growls in frustration. “Looks like you still can’t beat me, eh, kid?” “Don’t call me kid!” he yells. The kid’s name is Leo. He’s fifteen years old, and his prized possession is his silver medallion. It’s the only thing he and his sister have left of their parents. Leo never likes being called a kid. The girl to Leo’s right is his older sister, Nia. I was about seven or eight years old when I met these two– they had been on the streets for about four months, I was already going into my second year. I stole the medallion from them and they chased me. I led them down an alley that was
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JOHN TREVINO
home to a gang I’d run into; no one liked me much back then, either. I hid behind some trash; they ran into their hangout. I was going to leave them behind, but I couldn’t. To this day I still don’t know why I went back for them. When I ran in Nia had been burned, and they were about to burn Leo. I managed to stop them from torturing them, but turned the focus on me. After they beat me to a pulp, I went looking for them. The next day I found them in the same spot, but this time Nia had a knife in her hands. I walked toward them; she saw me coming. She pointed the knife at me, ready to kill if she had to. She ran up to me and stuck the knife deep into my arm. I pushed her to the floor, gritted my teeth, and pulled the knife out. Blood rained down on her. She scampered over to her brother, using her body as a shield. I walked over and she closed her eyes, expecting death. She opened them to see their medallion hanging around Leo’s neck. I gave him the knife, “You protect her,” I said pointing at Nia. “You’re a man now, not a kid.” After that I left, didn’t see them for another two years, and they weren’t welcoming either. “Sora, give Leo a break.” Nia asks me. I shrug and tell her, “If he says he’s a man, then I’ll treat him like one.” Ace steps forward, “I’m with Nia on this. He’s still a kid. For now anyway.” Even though no one says, Ace’s the leader of this group. He has a long scar across his face. Sadly, I’m the one that put it there. Ace and I didn’t get along with each other when we first met; in fact, we hated each other. We met in the slums, the black market. Ace was trying to trade for a knife so he could go hunting–problem was, I had just taken the last one. In Thirteen surviving is everything, so for him to try and steal from me is understandable. But I wasn’t just going to let him take it from me. All hell broke loose: the owners, cops, the residents of the slum, and anyone in earshot came to see us fight. They placed bets to make it more entertaining, most of them on Ace. Even back then he was a capable fighter. I was
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60
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?
getting pummeled. He barely had a scratch on him, but he was getting tired. I charged at him, knife in hand, and he kicked me in the chest. I lost grip on my knife and it fell to the floor. I struggled to get back up, but he put his clogs on my chest. He leaned down, my knife in his hand, and asked, “Is this all you got? If so, that’s pathetic.” What he should’ve known was never to pity me. I put what energy I had left into my right fist and smashed his face. He reeled back and cut my right cheek deeply, but I ignored the pain. I charged him again, he swung, and I ducked, elbowing him in the abdomen. He caved in automatically; I took the knife away then slashed his face, leaving him the scar he has today as he left me the one on my cheek. He fell to the floor. I drove the knife into the soft ground next to his face. “This is my win.” I left him there on the floor, pushing my way through the soon-to-be angry mob. “Hey! Get back here!” I looked back; Ace had gotten up, knife in hand, rage on his side. “I’m not finished yet!” I scratched my head. “As true as that may be, it’s best we finish this later.” I knew he wouldn’t agree, so I ran. It wasn’t long before everyone knew my name, wasn’t long till I ran into him again. But that’s another story. We clasp hands, then eat breakfast. These kinds of moments are rare in Area Thirteen, we need to try to savor then. We hear a knock on the door, which spells trouble immediately–few know about this hut. I open the door to a man in black. “What the hell do you want?” “Are you Sora?” “Yeah.” He pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. “What’s this?” “It’s a congratulation letter. You have been selected as one of the twenty kings.” This just totally ruined my day, and most likely, my life.
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Mary Beth Hietapelto
SO M ETI M ES
IIIII Sometimes I just wish I could fly away From all the hate, the pain, the wrong way, I wanna ride the waves of Sublime, Marley, and Sugar Ray, Until the dawn brings another day. Sometimes I just want to go to sleep To escape the harshness of reality. I wanna dream of peace and harmony Until the end of eternity. Sometimes I just need to wake up From all the depressing, negative, bad luck. I don’t want to, but I gotta suck it up Until we make it out of this rut. Sometimes the potholes seem like they’re only getting deeper, And the fill only gets sharper and cheaper. My muscles grow weaker, But I gotta ride the ride Until the road gets clearer.
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Brandy Milano
S H E IS H ERE
IIIII Deep beneath disguises, she hides. She sees him and falls to her knees, Peeking through the gaps between her fingers. She builds a tall gate around her, Hidden by vines, The black paint chips to reveal the light. He seems to be the only one who notices, Who believes there’s hope in saving her. She pushes everyone away. She says everything’s okay. Silent, she denies her feelings. He swears he hears her crying. And keeps running back. Tripping on every lie she throws at him to keep him away, He jumps the rusty gate to reach her. She looks up from hugged knees and he finds himself suddenly silent. Speechless, scared to move, Her lap fills with tears. She can feel him lift her chin. Afraid to open her eyes, his lips touch her cheek. At that very moment, the tar peels off the gates. The clouds disperse. The sky, blue.
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BRANDY MILANO
She recognizes her home and finds herself smiling again in his arms. Feeling alive, she looks up. She is here And always has been.
M 64
Camellia “Skiittlesz” Smith P I M P ED O U T
IIIII “Where were you last night?” my fiancé yells from the kitchen. It’s 10 on the dot and I smell like I’ve been scavenging through the dumpster. I close my eyes, trying to sigh all my bad breath away. I fix my hair as decent as possible and get ready for the thunderstorm. He strolls into the living room with the most pissed facial expression. Sweat lingers on his forehead and his eyes flame red…he probably hasn’t slept all night. “Didn’t ya hear me?” he yells. “I asked where were you last night?” He inches closer to me. I prepare myself for the worst. I gulp. “I was out honey… wh-wh-why you trippin’? I can’t go out now?” I step back, unnoticed by him. He sucks his teeth. “Man, I don’t have time for your bs, Cici. You finna be my wife and now you wanna lie to me? Man, calm that mess down.” My fiancé sits down abruptly on his favorite chair, rubbing his beard softly. “Imma ask you one mo’ time, Cici, and I swear if you give tha same answa, imma beat the crap outta you, aight? Ya hear me?” He turns to look at me. I gulp again. I fight back my tears and quickly try to think of somethin’ to say. Nothing comes to mind. My fiancé shoots up from his chair and lunges at me, wrapping his right arm around my neck ever so tightly. I gasp
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CAMELLIA “SKIITTLESZ” SMITH
for air, pleading for him to not kill me. He chuckles. I don’t know what is so amusing about me begging for my life, but it sure amuses him. He eventually loosens his grip on my neck and backs off. I drop to the floor, holding my neck. It takes me about a minute to fully catch my breath and say, “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you where I was at, Michael, juss chill!” I slowly get up from the floor and stand in front of my Michael. “I was at the spot gettin’ your money. I had an all nighter. That’s why I’m comin’ home so late. I’m sorry, baby, but I had to…for the money.” I stand there silent. Michael inches toward me and stops right in front of me. I know what he wants. I reach in my jacket pocket, pull out a wad of cash, and put it in his hand. He smiles, gives me a hug, and walks out the room…damn. Why did I lie? I just couldn’t bear telling him what I really was doing last night: I was ratting on him, his crew, and saving the souls of the other girls he’s messin’ wit. I just hope he doesn’t find out. ‘Cause if he does…he’ll kill me.
M 66
Powers Perrotta
NO SECRET OF M INE
IIIII
The little girl: Sits in the corner as quiet as her skin is pale. Has a father, he comes home, Bottle in hand, doesn’t like her talking. The boy comedian: Enjoys making everyone laugh hard, no cares in the world, Every night he cries himself to sleep, Thinks no one cares for him. The young woman: Who dresses explicitly, enjoys the attention, Has never had father come home Nor had a joyous time without pills. The homeless man: Stumbles about on the streets he has always lived on. The mean, fat guy: Has never been loved, thinks everyone deserves his pain. Pious maiden: Compensating prayer for all the evils she has done.
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POWERS PERROTTA
Over-achiever: Living life the best, thinking he’s not good otherwise. The evil one: Hated even himself, never had reasons to be nice. The hypocrite: Is everyone. We all hate those different than our unique selves, And everybody is an imperfect someone. No secret of mine.
M 68
Sean Farmer
G R A Y V EI L S
IIIII I fall with dampened desire From the heavens I embark To the ground I expire I tumble in light and in dark My journey is very swift I am followed by strikes and peals In the wide open I drift The start of spring my presence seals Meadows and valleys praise my coming My arrival can be very bitter Or I can present an immense drumming I come from a vast and troublesome litter When I am ponderous I will inundate all I am no ordinary thing Neither am I rare from what I recall My arrival expected when gray veils overhang
M 69
Rosemary Murray
IF Y O U WERE A CO L OR
IIIII
If you were a color what would you be green like the grass or blue like the sea Yellow like the dandelion simple and bright swaying in the breeze on a warm summer night Red like the sunset timeless and bold different each day and precious as gold Purple like candy tender and sweet words spoken so kindly whenever we meet Black like midnight puzzling and deep watching me dream when I fall asleep
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IF YOU WERE A COLOR
White like clouds gentle and sole painting the sky parts of a whole Somewhere in between what’s wrong and what’s right somewhere in between what’s black and what’s white I found a color a whole new hue I found a color and I call it “You”
M 71
Rachale Park
G IR A FFES A ND Y O G U RT
IIIII Am I crazy? I don’t think so, but obviously everyone else does. That’s why I’m in this insane asylum. They say it will help. But what is there to help? I’ve been here a month and I don’t see anything wrong with me. My daily routine is to sleep when I’m tired, eat when I’m hungry, and have a daily chat with this old lady who scares me. She always asks how I’m doing. I always say, “I’m fine.” Five months go by: I’m sitting in a chair in the middle of my bare room. I’m writing a letter to my sister, letting her know how I am. Same answer, “I’m fine.” While explaining how fine I am, I notice an orange and brown image next to me against a wall. It’s a giraffe. I get up to chase it, but then it disappears. Now I’m sad. I’ve always liked giraffes. Seven months go by: I’m hungry so I call the lady for some supper. Well, at least I think it’s supper. There aren’t any windows in my room. When the tray arrives, I notice some strawberry yogurt. My favorite. I open it and scoop a bite of that fruity goodness. Next thing I know it’s talking to me. I converse with it for awhile. Then it stops and I eat it. Finally, someone yummy to talk to. A year has passed and I’m being released. As I walk toward the lobby I look at every tile I step on. I can’t step on the cracks. I feel that if I do, something bad will happen. My nurse taps on my shoulder and I stop walking to look up. I see my
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GIRAFFES AND YOGURT
sister and my fiancé. I stare at them for five seconds (I know because I’m counting), then I scream and run away. Am I crazy? I don’t think so.
M 73
Cody Fishman
M Y REDNEC K SWEET H E A RT
IIIII
It was a cool Friday night, sitting in the back of my pick-up with my girl. The smell of roasted raccoon and smoke on her got my juices flowing. The fire illuminated her barbeque-stained face, her mustache tickling my lip as we kissed under the moonlit night sky. I take her to Gander Mountain to buy her something nice. She picked out a rifle with a snaggletooth smile on her face and tobacco breath. We stared into each other’s eyes, hers mud brown and beautiful. Her lovely unibrow was the bridge that connected our hearts, and at that moment I knew we were meant for each other. I love my redneck sweetheart.
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Robyn Exclusa
LOVE
IIIII Oh, what joyous fruit has sprung from lips dipped in jasmine. I sing the grace of sparrows that soar high and swift away from the anchors. Alas! A freedom more tasteful than the berries of a sun-kissed day. To ponder the most peace-filled dawn and to be trapped on a soil cage. Forever stained needles affixed under my feet with ageless life and a death of red. I kiss the feet of gods that uplift my soul. I am surrounded by the breath of angels. Closer to heaven than even their bitter dreams dare take their hooves of dust.
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Mitchell Herrmann
D A IS Y
IIIII The natural beauty of you Leaves an imprint On those who had the chance To know you A flower that is beautiful On any occasion The one that brings happiness To those who truly receive her splendor We have days When our gaze meets as if Your eyes pierce through the crowds Of this prison And only we are there Standing alone in the courtyard Where the world is ours The natural beauty of you Strikes even those who are swallowed And overcome by the sins of their past The boy who will one day be whole again You shall be that missing piece The Daisy who will fulfill her role Of making the world beautiful again
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Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko
L OST DO G
IIIII I am overcome by anger. How could she do this to me? Patricia. Just that name makes me want to kill. It happened on our wedding day, two weeks ago today. I said, “I do,” she said, “I don’t.” she laughed. That laugh will haunt me forever. “You really fell for this? You think I would ever marry a slob like you?” And she walked out! All this planning, all this “love.” All for this. I needed to get my revenge. But how? Oh, it’s so obvious. The only thing she said she loved nearly as much as me (a lie of course) was her eleven-month-old Shih Tzu puppy, Oscar. And I had a plan. That night I went to her house, a place I used to see as a heaven. Now when I see it, I see nothing but Hell and the Devil himself. Luckily for me, I had experience, and I knew she kept Oscar in the patio at night. I snuck around the back, sliced the screen with my knife, and walked in. There he was. Oscar was sleeping soundly on the patio chair. The sight almost made me feel guilty about this, the small puff of white and gold fur just lying there. But then I snapped back to reality. This is Patricia’s dog and her name makes me want to kill. The next week as I was groggily reading the newspaper classifieds, I came upon an ad that read: “LOST 11 MONTH SHIH TZU,” surrounded by hearts and followed by a passionate, emotional description of Oscar. I had never felt more satisfied in my life.
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Nini Huynh
RE M E M B ER M E
IIIII Remember me: remember what you said, what we did, our last goodbyes. Remember me: remember the days we used to laugh, the day that we were at the beach, our first kiss. Remember me: remember our mornings watching the sun rise, the day you promised me, forever and always. Remember me and come home.
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Sarah Probst
SO M ET H IN G L I K E S U M M ER
IIIII
It’s a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. It’s an old car with speakers blown out with a new sound system we play really loud, making fat people jiggle when we drive past their houses. It’s together with the family and my mom’s iced tea, Served cold as we laugh, play, and talk all day. It’s the sunburn underneath your eyes that holds memories from long days playing outside. It’s our hair blowing ‘round from the wind when we run. It’s the ice cream and popsicles melting in the sun. It’s that old blue sky fading to new black,
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SARAH PROBST
when we all go back to my backyard back home, playing blackjack with two Coca-Cola twelve-packs. It’s the crickets playing their favorite tune. It’s the fireflies fleeing from children who have to go home soon. It’s a symphony of young love that burns, sings, and glows. And it’s youth’s melody Blaring, “WE’LL NEVER GROW OLD!” It’s the last day of freedom before next day’s bummer. It’s a beginning and an end to real life and summer.
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CONFESSIONAL Emigdio Abac-Ordonez likes stuff. Kelsey Angles still likes stuff. Farah Barstrom is a lazy student who likes to eat and jam out regularly. : ) Sam Blair is [>: D]. Destinee Bowers is inspired by her mother and her two kids, Nevaeh and Armani Bowers, and loves to write short stories, poetry, and songs. She’s looking to be an author one day and maybe a song artist. Natoya Brown is almost famous, but promises to share her creativity for free. Jade Chung-Lee entered these pieces for an assignment. She does love writing, but these felt rather forced. In any case, she hopes you enjoyed her work. Brianne Codner loves it when people call her weird. Her response is simply, “I know,” and a smile. Cindy Dosch is a total nerdy overachiever who is obsessed with expressing her ideas in her art. Robyn Exclusa is a lover of literature. Sean Farmer is an aspiring writer who enjoys the topic of nature. He grew up outdoors almost his entire life so far. One
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CONFESSIONAL
of his true inspirations is Robert Frost, who captures nature in great detail. Cody Fishman is a man of action. When life throws an opportunity his way, he takes it. Nicole Gamblin is everything. Melissa Garrity is a sophomore. She is addicted to black and white photos and music; she is also short. Chad Hamann is a freshman and enjoys school. In his free time he loves to write poetry and short stories. He believes writing is a type of art that should be looked over again and again to find its true meaning. Rachel Hand does not remember submitting this poem. Perhaps Mrs. Hand can explain? No matter, she still hopes you enjoy her poem. Mitchell Herrmann says, “It’s hard to be this fantastic. Ha!” Mary Beth Hietapelto is a barefoot sasquatch with a pleasant-sounding dolphin mating call. Nini Huynh is a creative, random, and fun little freshman. She can be a bit dorky, but if you get to know her she will be the most amazing friend… Enjoy life and express yourself. Zach Jones is inspired by his hobbies and what is around him at that time. Jonah King says, “When they ask for the real Slim Shady to stand up, I stand up.” Jasmine Lang is an enthusiast of Sarah Probst (Good
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CONFESSIONAL
Morting); vinyl records; fashion; beautiful, beautiful pizzas; ‘90s cartoons; owls; agloe; and New York. Kyle Maglietta is a master of Adobe Illustrator! Connor McLeod is a sixteen-year-old boy who loves to draw, loves sports like baseball and football, and likes music and art. Brandy Milano releases her emotions in poetry as an alternative escape from reality. Samantha Morgan says writing is the “fruit-of-the-soul.” “Cupcakes” goes out to Zach Chmielewicz and Tori Fernandez. Rosemary Murray spends all of her time surfing, lying in a hammock, and dancing in the rain. She loves meeting new people, being outdoors, and writing, of course! Brenna Nephew is a curly-haired, goofy senior who loves too weld and make people smile. Rachale Park is a mutant pterodactyl who was soaring above Loxahatchee one day, when a redneck shot her down and she crash landed into Seminole Ridge High, room 7-118. There she was welcomed by the lit mag staff and adopted by their family of love. Then she became the editor! Beautiful. Jordan Percival finds his creativity through computers. Graphic art lets him express himself. Powers Perrotta is weird, but what is normal without anything weird? Live without limits. Jessy Persaud eats, sleeps, and creates and will become a successful artist before time traveling in space.
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CONFESSIONAL
Sarah Probst is an enthusiast of Jasmine Lang (Good Morting). She is an enthusiast of the arts, gummy worms, hot Hispanic men, absolutely useless facts, spontananity, “Daylight” by Matt and Kim, ukuleles, happiness, football, band, John Green, and brothers whose names start with “J.” Also, she is an enthusiast of long lists, sorry. Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko is a sadistic puppy killer. Just kidding. She’s actually a figure skating metalhead who plays drums and is as obsessed with video game music as she is with metal. Jodi Sica is sixteen and hoping to be a writer or journalist in the near future. Luis C. Small II, aka CITO, is a digital warrior taking the scenic route to greatness. Camellia Smith is also known as the colorful name of Skiittlesz. She eats, sleeps, and breathes dancing and writing. Money makes her world go ‘round; laughing is her hobby. Never once will you see her not smiling; showing off her pearly whites. Fashion is her one and only love–besides God–and when it comes to expressing her feelings, boy does she express it through writing! : ) Timothy Sumell gets inspiration from experiences of love and devastation which are the basis for the majority of his poems and a book that he is writing. John Trevino is one of the manliest men you’ll ever meet (besides the great Kamina). He fights off space demons, intergalactic beings, and giant robots. Yeah, he’s that manly.
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THANK YOU
NOTE
The 2011 Mirage staff faced greater challenges than expected due to the class size amendment forcing us to meet after school in between AP tutoring, sports, jobs, and rehearsals. Our busy schedules hindered us so much that creating this issue took much longer than planned. We feel grateful to finally be getting this issue out at all. Therefore, we would like to give our sincerest gratitude to all who helped make this year’s publication possible. While it is not possible to give individual thanks to all who contributed, we owe special recognition to a few especially generous individuals Thank you to Mrs. Bean, Mrs. Kendall, Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Park, and Mrs. Wells for giving up precious time during the holidays to help at our Barnes & Noble gift wrapping fundraiser. Thank you also to Mrs. Murray for her generous monetary donation and for offering to purchase art supplies in the creation of a cover we unfortunately ran out of time to create by hand. Thanks goes to Powers Perrotta for overcoming his floccinaucinihilipilification and deeming the literary magazine worthy of his monetary gift. As always, we would like to thank the teachers and staff at Seminole Ridge High School for supporting our fundraisers, campaigns, and allowing class visits. We would also like to thank our former principal, Dr. McGee, for making this magazine possible. Thank you to Mr. Wright for promoting our magazine through commercials and interviews. Thanks to Ms. Seuling, who has promoted our magazine time after time, encouraged her art students to submit their artwork, and helped us scan and photograph art submissions to put in the magazine.
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THANK YOU NOTE
Thanks to Mr. Cybulski who has helped us with hardware and software complications. Last but not least, thank you to Mr. Grinder, who approves our content for us and, as SRHS’ resident grammarian, happily points out any mistakes. Without their help, Mirage could not have continued to create an outlet for SRHS students to express their creativity and share their confessions. Your secret’s safe with us, The Mirage staff
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P O L IC Y Mirage, Seminole Ridge High School’s literary magazine, is composed of writing and artwork created and submitted by Seminole Ridge students. Each submission is numbered and judged blindly by our staff on the basis of originality, technique, and reader appeal. No student may have more than three pieces published in the magazine except those granted based on collaborations with other students. The class, an English elective, meets to complete all stages of production necessary for publication: publicizing the magazine, raising money, critiquing submissions, and designing the layout. Writing has been edited for grammatical errors and some images have been cropped for design purposes. Our mission is to create a smorgasbord of artistic merits for students to escape through art, music, film, and literature. Mirage should be viewed as an outlet for the expression of students’ views and opinions; these opinions do not necessarily reflect those of Mirage. We do, however, reserve the right to deny any material seen as too inappropriate for a high school publication. To submit to the magazine or sign up for the class, see Ms. Gates in room 7-118 or send an e-mail to miragelitmag@gmail.com.
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