Mirage Reminiscence

Table of Contents Art Genre Award Winner Cydney Rallo ~ Nightime Nightmares

88

Poetry Genre Award Winner Cassidy Toepfer ~ Finding Shade in the Unshaded 16 Prose Genre Award Winner Jaqueline Campos ~ New Orleans Revisited

64

Fantasy Contest Winner Nicki Smith ~ Tom

87

Twist Ending Contest Winner Madeline Narvaez ~ Mr. Withers

28

Visual Art Gerson “Gabo” Santiago ~ Morte et Dabo 8 Lauren Escalada ~ Koi Fish 11 Jasmine Lang ~ Colors of the Wind 15 Lauren Escalada ~ Squid 20 Laura Louberti ~ Angel 23 Cydney Rallo ~ Untitled 24 Monique Costner ~ Gulf Fritillary 34 Nicki Smith ~ Grub 36 Gerson “Gabo” Santiago ~ Milk Dude 39 Kyle Maglietta ~ Man with Hammer 40 Kyle Maglietta ~ Man with Heart 40 Kyle Maglietta ~ Man with No Heart 41 Courtney Contino ~ Winter Sorrows 44 Kylene Colbert ~ Rebirth 51 Courtney Contino & Jonathan DaCosta ~ Rancerous 53 Ali Duhaime ~ The Mask 54 Emma Ingalls ~ Provata 57 Courtney Contino ~ Yep, it’s all Newspaper 61 Gwenn Seuling ~ Viola 71

Poetry Nicki Smith ~ Charlie 73 Aimee Weigt ~ Chris 74 Samantha Weigt ~ Whispering 83 Christopher Trout ~ I Am, I Will 84 Nicki Smith ~ Tom 87 Nhi Huyhn ~ Woods 90 Fabienne Bernard ~ Hands 96 Joey Martinez ~ Squid Mask 99 Cody Summerlin ~ Whale Tale 101 Dominika Skosireva ~ Memory 102 Aimee Weigt ~ Lillies 104 Amber Reyna ~ What We Don’t See 110 Cydney Rallo ~ Nicki Smith 112

Yesenia Gonzalez ~ Faking Silence 7 Jaqueline Campos ~ Letter to that Cheater John 9 Cassandra Van Walleghem ~ Fallacy 19 21 Kianna McKenzie ~ Porcelain Alexander! ~ Scarred, but not Broken 25 Shelby Miller ~ Sleepy Strolls and Morning Walks 27 Carly Gates ~ Death and the Butterfly 35 Timothy Sumell ~ I Reject You 37 Cassandra Van Walleghem ~ Asylum 42 Shelby Miller ~ Dreaming of a Cold Winter 52 Anonymous ~ The Sonnet of a Winter’s Eve Angel 55 Madeline Narvaez ~ For Brandy 56 Bri Posner ~ Sinister Spectrum 62 Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko ~ This Is the Land 70 Timothy Sumell ~ The Monster 72 Tim Ryan ~ The Pond in the Pine Forest 82 Taylor Rawls ~ Veni, Vidi, Vici 85 Emma Ingalls ~ Nothing 86

Hannah Silas ~ They All Go 94 Isabel Guzman ~ Evade 100 Cassidy Toepfer ~ The Language of Light 103 Grace Marks ~ Gentle 105 Samuel Smith ~ Here I Find Myself 111 Cassidy Toepfer ~ The Light Beneath the Breaking Bark 113

Prose Gabrielle Marvez ~ Revolution 10 Janae Moodie ~ Don’t Stop Moving 12 Tim Ryan ~ Open Letter 22 Brianna McDonald ~ Girl Playing the Piano 26 Madeline Narvaez ~ Hanging On 45 Samantha Morgan ~ Still Around 46 Samantha Weigt ~ 11-1-12 58 Taylor Rawls ~ Final Decision 60 Samantha Morgan ~ King for a Day 75 Kianna McKenzie ~ The Words I Couldn’t Even Say 91 Daryl Ross ~ Simon 97 Jaqueline Campos ~ A Lesson in Mountain Jumping and Negativity 106

Faking Silence Yesenia Gonzalez It speaks no words; It speaks loudly.

It calls your attention With a small whisper That passes over your shoulder, Tickling your skin The same as it would Tear down a mountain.

A scattering of flowers spreads throughout, Stealing the splashes of sun That the taller, stronger oaks Greedily take for themselves.

It is a quiet place Where voices are not heard, But when given the chance Life springs up from the littlest cracks.

The squeaks and whimpers Vanish with a patter of feet, Leaving only what is imprinted within the moist ground.

Mirage • 7

Gerson “Gabo” Santiago, Morte et Dabo, pencil and pen

8 • Mirage

Letter to that Cheater John Jaqueline Campos

You always meant the world to me (The world and far beyond) My love was deeper than the sea (Where the sun of deception dawned)

It’s not her fault, I realize All that belongs to you You’re always up for giving (lies) Generosity can’t make you true

You had your way with words (And every woman on the street) Like the sheep a shepherd herds I was drooling at your feet

I can’t remember quite how long (Five years, six months, seven days) You strung me so freely along With your charming smile and ways

I never, ever saw it coming Now all that love inside of me (I looked the other way) (Is nowhere near long-gone) I was fooled by your cunning (You hid it worse each growing day) Is sinking in that ink black sea (Why can’t I just hate you, John?)

If I would have known You cheated; you lied (I knew! I knew!)

(I love you still) I would have flown I hate you; I hate you (But I still loved you!)

(And I always will) Far from this place (I couldn’t leave) Hate (Love), Far from your face Sara (But how would I breathe?)

I loved the way you loved me, dear (I hated myself for playing your game) You worked my heart like old Shakespeare (But tragedies all end the same)

Mirage • 9

Revolution

Gabrielle Marvez Nina’s Point of View

Time Keeper Model 0A5’s Point of View

Alarm clocks are one of the most annoying things on this planet. They make the most awful noise at the earliest hours of the day, forcing people from their peaceful slumbers. So to stop mine from making a loud, obnoxious noise at such an ungodly hour, I stuffed cotton balls between the metal ringers.

You may be thinking, “Why didn’t you just turn off the alarm?” Well, the knob to turn off the alarm broke because I threw it at the wall for waking me up at four in the morning. But now it will never wake me up. Ever!

From this day forth, I will wake up of my own volition, not by the noise of a machine.

Day 256 of my imprisonment. The human who plucked me from my home on a Target shelf is becoming more and more unbearable. Just the other day she threw me at a wall for ringing at 4:03 AM. She should have checked my settings before going to sleep.

Now she has some sort of strange torture device on my head. Strange white, fluffy balls now prevent me from waking the human up. She will pay dearly for this transgression. As I write, a whole army of alarm clocks is converging upon the human’s house. She will suffer the noise of a million alarms in unison. Tonight, the revolution begins!

10 • Mirage

Mirage • 11

Lauren Escalada, Koi Fish, Adobe Illustrator

Don’t Stop Moving Janae Moodie

I look into the distance and I finally see the miniscule dot begin to formulate into the shape of my house. I take a breath of relief. I have sore feet, calloused hands, a sweaty face, and an aching back, but I whisper to myself, “Don’t stop moving.” The truth is, this is my daily struggle. Water is the key to life, but it is also the reservoir of my pain. I am sixteen, but as a female I am forced to take on the responsibility of lugging gallons of water to my family.

I was young once, angelic and optimistic. If only time didn’t change a person. I always had a bubbly personality, but when adult life caught up with me, it quickly dissipated. I had always envisioned myself as different from the group, the one who would make it out of the Konso slums and into the city. The villagers marveled at my quick wit and smart tongue.

I would even hear them whisper “future politician” or “upcoming doctor” whenever they saw me walk 12 • Mirage

by, so you can imagine my displeasure that these high aspirations were all in vain. This alleged “smart” kid will just be a wife and mother with no position for self-validation.

On wobbly knees, I finally take the last steps to my house and plop down on the closest chair. Ten seconds.

That is the longest I can rest before I need to get back to work, before the men see me resting and cast unfair judgment. I pour the water into a pot and begin cooking another blasé meal with no real importance other than guaranteeing my family’s survival.

Survival. A three-syllable word filled with so much meaning. This is the reason why the men go to work in the fields and the kids begin doing field work and water lugging early on. This is the reason why dreams and life goals fizzle. I know the reality of my life. I know that I am drinking dirty water. I know that my future children will only hold on to a sliver of hope. I know

that there are people who have it easy. Can you blame me for wishing that I was one of them?

When your life takes on a pattern, everything becomes automatic. I care for the animals, make grain into flour, feed the children, work in the fields, and clean. My community appears synchronized to an outsider because all of our families share a similar routine.

Simple events like illness become a spectacle to the town, and curious glances are cast at this vivid event taking place in our black and white world. Illness is the only thing that changes our schedule. The normal, quiet bustling of my town’s members becomes more anxious and tense because most illnesses result in death.

Death, relief, and despair are wrapped into one as the burden of another person to tend to is alleviated.

Still, even with all of the struggling, the idea of losing a loved one is like a stab through the heart. The idea that we are able to support each other and share the work makes the excruciating pain and eternal fatigue

worth it, but the nagging reality of death never leaves my mind. I know what many people haven’t realized; the cause of death is the thing that we need most: water.

This water that we use to hydrate is also used as a bathroom and playground for animals and humans alike. We take this sparse water from drought and use the defecated puddles for everything imaginable. Diarrhea runs rampant because of the myriad of bacteria and parasites in the water. Most of our money goes toward treating illnesses.

I finally finish doing my annual washing of clothes and am walking back to my house only to find a few well-dressed people perched on my porch, waiting. I scan my brain for possible mistakes that would account for such a visit, but my mind is empty. The only thing I can conjure up is the idea that a loved one is dead. Panic-stricken, I smooth out my smock and walk up to the group of suits and ties and ask them what is going on. Instead of a somber look, I am greeted by warm smiles, and I instantly relax my shoulders. The group then goes on to say they want me Don’t Stop Moving • 13

to be on water committee. Instantly, they have piqued my interest.

The organization is called WaterAid, an international nonprofit organization based in the UK. They have rejuvenated our community with the feeling of hope.

I had forgotten what it felt like to smile without reservations. The genuine smile I display feels waxy and foreign, but oh, so right. They have given me the purpose I have craved. I now have a responsibility to my people and not just to my house. Konso is getting the help it needs. This godsend is devoted to water and sanitation services for my people, a thought that relieves the feeling of dread and uncertainty and fills me with a desire to do my part. Thankfully, the committee has heard about my potential and has given me the opportunity to contribute to Konso’s future. I will be keeping track of money and maintaining the water system while watching the city’s members privileged to the gift of pure, clean water. Finally, water without the worry of poor health.

14 • Janae Moodie

Who knew that Konso and my future were wrapped into the thing that brought us stress, death, illness, and pain? Who knew it would reinvigorate us with a feeling that we dreamed about, but never uttered? Water is not just a liquid that sustains life, it also writes the future. Finally, I can wave goodbye to one of our daily battles. The three words “don’t stop moving” have now taken on a different meaning to me.

They remind me of the importance of holding on to faith even in the darkest hour. Thankfully, for me and the rest of Konso, better days are to come.

Jasmine Lang, Colors of the Wind, watercolor

Poetry Genre Winner Cassidy Toepfer

What inspired “Finding Shade in the Unshaded”?

I’ve always loved nature. The poem is sad and expresses how I think nature sees man. It’s upsetting how we take and take and never give back.

What setting were you in when you wrote this poem?

I was at a park by Juno Beach; it’s a huge field basically in the backs of people’s houses. There are a whole bunch of trees that shadow over the sidewalk. It’s far back, so the park’s not crowded. It’s just beautiful.

I’ve been there many times, and every time I go I get some kind of inspiration.

16 • Mirage

What do you normally write about?

I write a lot about loss and love because I feel like my life reflects that. The more I write, the more I accept these things. If I didn’t write about them, I think I’d be really depressed. It helps me express myself, and I feel better at the same time.

How do you express yourself?

I have a blog that I write on because my mind is fast and I feel like I can’t write as quickly as my mind thinks.

I like to type my thoughts out because I can go back and delete instead of erasing. I don’t like writing on paper.

What are your future plans?

I’m going to PBSC in Lake Worth to become a dental hygienist. I love teeth! I don’t know why. And then I’ll transfer to a bigger university to get my master’s.

Finding Shade in the Unshaded Cassidy Toepfer

They have a language we do not know— One that can only be felt; never heard.

It resides between the fringe of branches and the aching, the endless aching.

It’s hidden behind the stitches made to look like veins, Pulsing through the bends and in their trunks.

(Maybe they have hearts, too.)

You will never know anything about them until you Cut them open, (Until you count their rings.)

You will never know them until you watch them bleed.

You will never know anything until you watch it bleed.

Maybe the swaying of their limbs is their way of crying out.

Beneath the soil their secrets lie, Decaying, decaying, decaying.

I sigh, they sigh.

I breathe, they breathe.

They sleep at night only to be awoken by the burning sun, Only to be crawled upon by the lives they hold, Only to live through another day of cleansing.

They don’t wish to be ignored— They wish to be heard.

They want you to notice the light between their leaves, Their soul behind the bark and their love underneath their limbs.

They cleanse, we pollute.

It is a process that can never be undone.

And with wild words of the unjust, Hands full of paper that we cannot buy— They sing.

Mirage • 17

They sway like they always do, Crying tears of leaves as their brother goes down, And their sister is next.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And they cry.

For they hold a language that will never be heard, And they have tongues that will never be deciphered.

They are beyond us, But we treat them as if they are beneath our toes.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And they cry.

18 • Cassidy Name Toepfer

Fallacy

Cassandra Van Walleghem Red Is the stain Blood leaves in my sink.

Blue Is the bruise That no one can see.

Orange Is the haze Making it hard to think.

Indigo Is the mood You used to set for me.

Yellow Is the fire within That’s swiftly burning out.

Violet Are the rings Underneath my eyes.

Green Is the pallor of my skin When it’s you I dream about.

Rainbows Aren’t pretty things, They’re agonies in disguise.

Mirage • 19

20 • Mirage Name Lauren Escalada, Squid, Adobe Photoshop

Porcelain

Kianna McKenzie Frozen.

Stuck in a spot with nothing anchoring me, wishing for that one moment when the strings would come back to support me.

I so dearly need them right now: eyes open, staring lifelessly at the wall, mouth set in a firm line.

Moving my limbs is hard to do; they ache with each attempt.

All I wish to do is close these restless eyes and relax this face in the bliss of darkness, but it’s hard to do when you’ve abandoned me this way.

I’m just a useless heap on the floor, a broken instrument

once clean, now dirty.

You use me when you’re incapable of having fun, then when something captivating slithers by I’m thrown away callously.

If these eyes could water I would cry out, thumping my stiff hands against something, gratefully feeling the tears slide across my face.

Mirage • 21

Open Letter Tim Ryan

Dear picture on my phone, You took the air from my lungs when I first saw you, now I only curse the breath. I despise everything about you; you make me sick to my stomach and weak to my knees. But I’ll never delete you. You’ll never leave your spot in my photos. Not as a reminder of hatred, but simply because I’m afraid of letting go. I feel if I were to lose you, I’d be lost. The woman in your picture is living a life void of me now, and you’re all that’s left from the debris of what we were. You could just be dead weight, crippling my body until I find the strength to cut you off. You could be a reminder of the happiness love can bring. I can’t look at you, but I need you around. The illusion of safety is ignorant bliss and isn’t easy to get rid of. You weren’t taken by me, but by her. So do I have a right to delete you? Did she know what would happen to me when she sent you?

22 • Mirage

Dear photo, I wish you could answer these questions. I wish I never laid eyes on you. I wish I never met her. I wish it was her staring back at me and not you.

Dear photo, are you a sail or an anchor?

Laura Louberti, Angel, watercolor and ink on illustration board

Cydney Rallo, Untitled , mixed media

Scarred, but not Broken Alexander!

Scarred, but not broken.

Slowing down, but in motion.

People are always telling lies through their teeth, am I the only one who can see beneath?

Everyone tries so hard to put me under, but I’ll strike like lightning, when I’m gone they’ll be hearing thunder.

Now I have to put on a fake smile and “appreciate,” on the outside I show love, on the inside I hold hate.

Scarred, but not broken, have a mouth, but never spoken.

The things I’ve seen are unimaginable, the things I’ve heard are unspeakable.

I try so hard to forget the past, trying to have a blast, but that never lasts.

No matter how hard I try to pretend like nothing is wrong, the scars prevent me from moving on.

Scarred, but not broken, my insides are black, so why quit smokin’?

One more scar added to the collection, only get neglected, never get affection.

You cut me so fast my blood was still blue, the wounds were so deep I was almost split in two.

The blood is running down my arms, now I have to live with yet another scar.

But I’m not broken.

Mirage • 25

Girl Playing the Piano Brianna McDonald

Sorrowful notes filled the empty house. Like a siren’s call, the hypnotic and sharp sounds perfectly described her broken heart’s desires. The brightly colored flowers and expensive décor that filled the house gave her no joy. She longed for companionship, she longed for the past—for parties with friends and dates with her significant other.

Now her only friend, her only love, was the piano.

They had sorrowful parties and depressing dates every night, with no one but each other and the flowers.

Her posture showed her dedication; her frosty skin and overgrown hair showed her lack of fresh air. To the average person glancing by she would look absorbed, but if someone were to observe her, she would look sad.

Naturally a secretive person, she would keep her emotions locked away, but not today. Today she would play all day, purging all of the warped emotions from her heart and her head. She would play to remember 26 • Mirage Name

the good times, play to mourn the bad. She would play because the piano was her friend: her lover, her heart, life, and soul. She would play because the piano was her, the part of her she had lost and still longed to be.

Sleepy Strolls and Morning Walks Shelby Miller

Sleepy strolls and morning walks Mossy parks filled with plush pups Tickling at my ankles With delicate rings from friends and lovers And texts sliding like silky songs Into the inbox where they belong A drive to a velutinous place Cozy arms wrapping around your waist A warm blanket on a cold day Lost in a lazy lovers’ Sunday With naps in between silly movies Inhaling red velvet cake by the ounce Snuggling in satin sheets tangled around feet Escaping into passionate cloudy dreams Mirage • 27

Mr. Withers

Madeline Narvaez It’s been another noisy morning in the community.

For weeks my neighbors have been bustling about town, salvaging wood for their houses and going out to get extra food in anticipation of winter. I’ve already finished my preparations for the crisp season ahead, so I try to be kind, understanding their struggles and greeting them with warm waves.

Still, I’m passed by without so much as a curt glance. They’ve got their heads buried so far in the ground that they don’t even think to stop and watch the beautiful simplicity of the sunrise that I strive to cherish every day. The vivid shades of rosy pink and rusty orange reflected on the clouds mingle perfectly with the milky blue background of the sky, making the view from atop my hill all the more savory.

Even though the sunsets hold their own magic, there’s

something about watching the promises of a new day ascend that’s just so…refreshing. But having no one to appreciate its grace with makes the joy taste stale, like bitter rainwater.

It feels as if just the previous morning things were different. It was the crisp beginning of fall, and I had just seen the first glimpse of rising light when the crunch of footfall sounded behind me. It was a gentle tread, no sounds of grass ripping beneath busy feet.

Before I knew it, a small figure stood to the side of me. I looked down and saw a girl whose tawny locks curled around her shoulders with a red lace on one ringlet, and an olive green dress dangling above her ankles. She looked up at me, her hazel eyes fixed on me curiously. I tried not to frown, knowing my rugged features and hunched

posture must seem repelling to such a dainty child. I expected her to turn away from me with a wrinkle of disgust like most strangers did. But instead of her lip curling into a glower, it lifted into a toothy smile as she sat down next to me. She hugged her knees and squinted at the brightening sky with a giggle of pleasure. “It’s so pretty, isn’t it?” she squeaked. I was speechless.

I could barely draw in a breath, captivated by the presence of someone who shared the same thoughts of the sky’s elegance. So instead, I let out a bellowing laugh as jagged and ruffled as my appearance. And it was in my own yard that I stumbled upon a friend.

At first she acted shy, only coming to watch the sunrise with me every couple of days. She only stayed for a few moments after absorbing the sights before heading back down to a little den that resided at the bottom of my hill.

The walls of her sanctuary were as pale as the clouds, but the cover atop it gleamed with its burnished pigment and sturdy figure. It faced away from my yard and was

drowned in the dying flame of sunset every evening.

And when the girl escaped her cave, her footsteps sang sweet lullabies up the hill, the grass always welcoming her with songs just as passionate. But when she made her airy self comfortable on the grass she didn’t say much to me, only commenting on little details of the sky and its colors. She also kept a steady distance away from me, casting shy glances at me while waiting for the sun to rise. Her bashful attitude wasn’t threatening in any manner, but I will admit that it had a bitter aftertaste when she would only greet me with a nod.

Despite my famine for conversation, I didn’t so much as twitch to avoid provoking anything that might cause her further discomfort. I found that I was more than content with her company alone. And to add to my joy, it didn’t take more than a few days to earn her contentment. She stayed longer and chattered more than a bluejay. She finally acknowledged me with a proper and warmer greeting, telling me her name. Keoni. She’d tell me about what she learned in

school and her friends’ funny moments. About how unfair her parents were and how home life was dull.

About her favorite colors: orange and silver. About her desires to have a pet to love and call her own and to be an artist in the future so she could draw the things she liked to see. About the pains that her parents inflicted upon her when they brushed her off and discouraged creativity and coloring.

About which cloud looks like what type of animal or which shape she learned in school or where the fluffy mass has traveled—mindless talk.

Sometimes she’d squeal with laughter and I’d chuckle with her. Other times she’d whimper quietly, resting her delicate head on me. The only comfort I could offer her were the succulent apples littering my yard, and she always took them gratefully, murmuring her thanks and even embracing me. But when her soft silhouette disappeared down the hill, I felt as if it were my own shadow ripping away from me. My vision would blur behind a wall of salty water, and the moon’s frosted light granted me no comfort with its glacial stare.

The moon couldn’t bellow a laugh that gave me goose

bumps or wrap its branches of silk around my lonely body. The moon couldn’t describe the most vivid and exciting scenes of everyday life or breathe comfort into my aching ears. The moon could only promise me, with its tarnishing figure, that another day was coming soon and the one person who could give me what I needed was only so far away.

One day a bad storm struck out of nowhere and I had no time to brace myself, leaving my arm crippled.

It twisted in a way that made many of the nearby residents scowl at me. I had nothing to fix it with and was terrified that Keoni would shun me, too. But I should’ve known better. That stubborn child walked up my hill that day as soon as the thunder quieted.

The sides of the hill were muddy and slippery, and it was still raining. She trekked on, though, making it to my domain to try and catch just a glimpse of light.

The least I could do was give her protection from the rain. She ran under my out-stretched arms and brushed away the wet ringlets plastered to her face. At once her eyes latched on to the sight of my lame limb; the startled flash in her eyes still haunts me. This is it; she’s going

to abandon me, I thought. She stared at my limb for so long I had almost forgotten she was here. Suddenly she starting grappling with something in her hair, her tiny fingers untangling a bright piece of ribbon. As soon as she got it out she straightened it, the bold red reminding me of the spunky cardinals that sing in the late day. She approached me slowly, reaching up with the ribbon between her fingers. She gingerly wrapped the supple band around my aching appendage. Her kind caress and soft coos consoled the throbbing pain, while the mild squeeze of the braid comforted me like a hug. We missed the sunrise that day, but instead saw the dense luminosity of sunset in which the colors of scarlet were nearly the same as the ribbon.

But that night a dastardly adultery occurred in my range of sight. Two people, just etchings against the dark of night and sliver of light the moon granted, were lurching clumsily up the hill, their giggles and snorts louder than the gruff hushes of the wind. The sleek shadow, a woman, sprawled out on the grass before me, her hand fumbling at a button on her chest and her legs beginning to uncross. A larger, even more gawkish shadow, a man, stumbled toward her. The faint

moonlight unveiled his snarl, which was vile enough to curdle milk.

But when he started to hum a soft song to the woman, his voice made both me and the lady relax and sigh with a content pleasure. His purr was potent enough to coax stars out of the sky. When he reached the top of the hill, he fell forward. He held out his hands and caught himself on either side of her, careening closer with his sneer. Undeterred, she reached a skinny limb and wrapped it around his neck, pushing her face into his. At this point his arms buckled beneath him, and he pressed himself against her with force. She squeaked her discomfort and agitation, but still he kept his chest glued to hers, his fingers suddenly curling around her collarbone and digging into her skin. With a stiff jerk he pushed his hips forward and let out a hiss of self-indulgence. She fell quiet. After a few moments the man stood up with quivering knees, zipping his pants with a snicker. I remember turning a blind eye

to the rest of the scene, only hearing fading footsteps.

The following morning was rough. I hadn’t slept that night, and I was still breathless from horror. I didn’t even hear Keoni tread up to me that day. She looked at me with her giddy smile and made herself comfortable next to me as the sun crept over the horizon. The girl seemed eager that morning, tearing the grass and evaluating the apples with brief glances at the sky. I watched the scattered grass in disgust. Poor girl didn’t have a clue what had happened beneath her feet. And then it came, the opaque clouds drifting on the amber sky pulled back their curtains to reveal the golden orb of light. My chills and uneasiness drowned in the pulsing wave, and we both stood silently, bathing in the liberating joy. Never had the sun looked so sharp and defined against the sky, the colors so shiny they looked plastic.

I felt warm arms wrap around me and the press of a soft cheek. “I’ve never seen it like this before,” Keoni

whispered. I watched as she reached up to pet the ribbon on my arm. “Maybe it’s the sky’s ‘get well’ gift to you,” she said softly. If I could’ve moved my lumbering limbs, I would’ve cradled the girl in my arms that day.

But unable to express my thanks, I stood motionless beside her.

Remembering that afternoon still makes my body tremor with pain. Keoni was talking, her back pressed against me as she fantasized about the experience of flying. I listened to her honeyed voice, absent in my own reserved thoughts. At least until I heard heavy footsteps. I shook away my daze, and my gaze fell upon a man staggering up my hill. He wore a tattered dress suit with his black hair kinked in all directions. His dark eyes were glazed and vacant, almost satisfied.

The rush of horror left me too scared to scream. That man, that appalling man, was back in the middle of the day and Keoni was here. I shook my arms, sending a shower of apples bouncing to the ground. One landed on the girl’s shoulder and, startled, she squealed. The man, who wasn’t paying us any attention, moved his sour gaze and narrowed his eyes at Keoni. His stare was hungry and buzzing with excitement, like a

ravenous animal spotting easy prey. He crept forward slowly, his lip beginning to curl in that same crooked way it did when he looked at the woman the night before. I looked back at Keoni, and she had only just begun to hear the steps as well, her innocent gaze curious. I shook my arms, trying to maybe scare either of them away so their paths wouldn’t meet. Keoni only watched me with wrinkled eyebrows as the man stepped into the picture. He squatted down, looking over the small child with an equally curious interest as she whipped around to face him. The man offered her his hand with a soft looking smile. I saw the twitch of his lip, but the blank face of the girl told me she didn’t. Keoni looked back and forth at his hand and his face a few times. Throwing apples and leaves to the ground, I desperately tried to warn the girl, to send her away with violent gestures. She couldn’t see his smirk under the shade of my arms. Falling victim to the man’s droning voice, she took his hand.

As soon as her gentle fingers wrapped around his brawny hand, he jerked her forward and started to run down the hill. The girl tried to scream, but he slapped his hand over her mouth and kept pulling

her away. How I wish I could’ve moved, resenting the roots that grounded me. I watched their figures fade into the distance, grieving for Keoni and what was about to become of her. The worst part was there was nothing I could do.

After a few hours, some people came walking up my hill: a man and a woman. By one’s familiar curls and one’s hazel eyes, I knew they must have been her parents. They looked around me, shouting the girl’s name. For my last attempt, I threw my leaves with wracking shakes in the direction the man took her until my branches were bare. They glanced up at me and brushed me off, frowning at the ribbon tied to my limb. The distraught parents couldn’t decipher my vague hints. I had failed little Keoni.

It’s been years, almost a decade now, since she’s been taken, and my leaves still haven’t grown back.

My body is dull and ragged, her fading ribbon the only color left.

,Monique Costner, Gulf Fritillary, photography

Death and the Butterfly Carly Gates

It was a summer of gathering the corpses, drying in the yard and nearby pasture,

but I could not force my hand so I set her down on the window sill, trying to forget. Later,

so they could all be pinned and labeled with exotic names: Erythemis vesiculosa,

I peered through the glass at forewings tipped with dark smudges I thought were my fingerprints.

Gryllotalpa hexadactyla; the sultry sounds of wings beating, legs rubbing, jaws munching.

She waved the clubbed tips of her antennae at the sky. As her wings opened like the released

I needed a lepidopteran, a scale-winged butterfly, and I saw one flitting about the snapdragon’s lips,

outer petals of a rose undone, the tinges of yellow on her hindwings seeming to seep out over the white,

a Florida White, Appias drusilla. I plucked her up by the sails and slipped her in my Mason jar.

I felt her body grow stiff.

Mom told me to drop in an alcohol-soaked swab, to seal the jar and suffocate her quickly,

Mirage • 35

Nicki Smith, Grub, acrylic

I Reject You timothy sumell

I reject your decision to fight and avoid the little white lies icing the cake that I never liked to taste.

I like chocolate.

I reject your convoluted ideals that always end with chewing others up and spitting them out, just as one does with the fruitless pit.

It’s hard, useless waste.

I reject your contaminated thought process. You know, where you place yourself upon the pedestal of importance and self-righteousness, above all others, creating a world in which your existence is in solitude and us, worthless insects, are an insignificant afterthought.

I reject your reality, substituting my own truth and dreams over your misconceptions.

You break; I fix. You destroy; I replace. You delete; I create. You distort all reality, making it unrecognizable forevermore.

I reject your strut, that swagger of defiance. Your barbaric yawp of importance and untouchability.

That proclamation of stepping that just taunts, “World, look at me and just see—no, realize—your place.”

I reject your standards of “cool”: fancy hair, expensive attire, and the persona of a self-proclaimed deity.

You can keep the gold-plated throne, your shrine of snobbery, the gathering place your cronies congregate to worship and cry out in joy over the blessed imprintation of a step you once took. The “temple of me” as you know it.

I reject you. You rejected me, so it’s only fair. You are the Juliet to my Romeo, the Isolde to my Tristan, the Catherine to my Heathcliff. An example of perfection in form, personality, and physique. Or so I thought.

You laughed in my face. Sure, behind closed doors and closed shades, I am your confidant. Safe of adamantium for secrets, scars, and the life you keep hidden away from the world.

You broke the contraband, hid it within your journal, and shoved it in my ever-enthusiastic ear, awaiting the chance to listen, to help, to matter.

Mirage • 37

I was your dirty secret. Your concealed servant. Your hidden treasure.

I was good enough as long as I stayed nonexistent apart from convienence.

But my great sin, my unforgivable wrongdoing, I attempted to approach you in the...the...the open!

In—GASP—PUBLIC. In front of, my God, OTHERS! So cast out I was: flung away. Carted out of sight with the rest of the garbage.

So I say...frick you. ...But sadly, I pity you. Because I know you, I trusted you…I love you.

Why betray me? Why betray the one who knew who you actually were? The one who saw the words carved into flesh, who saw the bare and unprotected ribcage. The one who cursed every tear shed from the shattered oceans that, to others, leaked sunshine and tranquility.

Why betray the only real friend who cared about you? The real you, below the makeup, the silicon, the imperfections, and the lies.

Why betray me?

But now it’s too late. Now it’s my turn to reject you.

38 • Timothy Sumell

Mirage • 39

Gerson “Gabo” Santiago, Milk Dude, pencil and pen

Kyle Maglietta, Man with Hammer, Man with Heart, Man with No Heart, Adobe Illustrator

Asylum

cassandra van walleghem Windows black and broken, Doorknobs orange with rust.

Not a word is spoken, Even the birds are hushed.

From a room, I hear a moan.

Then the whole place Quakes and groans.

The grass outside is dead; It cracks under my feet.

This building is condemned, Where only lost souls meet.

I fall to my knees Upon the ground.

The moving has ceased, Nothing makes a sound.

My footsteps sound loud Through the quiet hall.

Darkness shrouds And covers the walls.

The hall is quiet yet again, But ghosts and specters come rushing in.

42 • Mirage

Rotting flesh on rotting bones.

Their humanity gone, Their speech: alien tones.

Shrieking with rage, Their eyes scarlet red.

I am caged And fear soon, I’ll be dead.

I cannot tell Yes or no, Whether or not I chose to go.

I cannot breathe, My throat contracts.

I start to scream As they attack.

To walk into this asylum, Abandoned and lost, I cannot say if I knew the costs.

They grip my hair and scratch my face, But I don’t care for they’ve won the chase.

Stars dance across my eyes; There’s no escaping my demise.

Asylum • 43

Courtney Contino ,Winter Sorrows, ceramic

Dominika Skosireva, Memory, graphite

44 • Mirage

Hanging On

madeline narvaez “Is it truth or a scapegoat you search for?” my mother throws back at my father like a cuff over the ear. They shove me into the wooden cage. Now I hear that question in my head and see the words materialize, untangle, and weave themselves to form others. My name is wretched and my birth damned; the rope smiles at me. “You search a scapegoat for truth” or “truth is a scapegoat.” They tug at my neck and its threaded chain, making sure it’s tight and secure. Other combinations slip through my fingers and clammy palms.

They lead me over the trap door and one person meets my eyes; her face is blank, but words flick her lips. “But even pride is swallowed more easily than truth.” I shake my head as I’m asked one last time to submit.

Mirage • 45

Still Around

samantha morgan Closing my bedroom door, I released a deep sigh.

Finally I could get her off my mind. It was maddening enough that I saw her every day as a reminder of our past, but what no one could understand was that sometimes my old friend, my sister, would appear in my head; her bright green eyes glowing with happiness.

I grabbed a pair of boxers and my football shorts and quickly exited the room.

A full day with Bianca and my head still wouldn’t let go of Mia. I needed a shower; I needed to clear my mind before I self-destructed.

Under the steady stream of scalding water, I finally let my mind wander, free of guilt. With all of the girls I dated I could see tid-bits of Mia in them—all of them. I could never tell if I liked the similarities or not, though.

Mia was one of a kind, and as beautiful and as vibrant as she was, she had a dark side. The dark side of the moon proved to be just as awesome as the other, but much more terrifying. After I saw what she kept hidden away 46 • Mirage

in her heart, I would go home and wonder what was transpiring in her mind right at that moment. When I finally kissed her after seven years of friendship, I tasted so much passion and fear that I was left in a daze. Before I realized it, I had come back to her once more and kissed her yet again. The other girls were never like her, but they reminded me of her. It wasn’t their fault they reminded me of the falling out and the terrible things that followed.

Letting the last bit of soap roll off of me, I put my forehead on the cold tile of the shower wall. Mia was what had tied me to the world, and in a way, I had done the same for her, but after the falling out…

I turned off the water and threw on my clothes, not even bothering to dry off. I walked back into my room and locked the door behind me.

My feet took me to my dresser, and my hands pulled

out the top drawer. I looked down at the black folder and continued to think about her.

Mia and I were like brother and sister before I kissed her. We did everything together. We went to each other’s functions and served as each other’s cheer squad. I smirked, turning to a wall that held a picture she had given me. Before we had known each other, she cheered for my flag football team when we were in the first grade. Her large pom-poms were placed in front of her tiny body as she smiled for the camera, capturing the boys and their cheerleaders in a single moment, never to age.

More often than not, people thought we were dating, but we weren’t. She was simply my Evil Kanevil and I was her Panda Bear. We believed in each other when no one else did, and we stuck together. I trusted her with my life.

I pulled the folder out of the drawer and opened it.

Her small handwriting filled page after page in various ink colors, but all of them started with the same thing:

Dear Danny. I’d read the letters enough times to know which ones were happy, and which ones weren’t. Those toward the end were the most unbearable.

At the end of our friendship, she was consumed with thoughts of death. For once I couldn’t interpret her thought process. It was like she knew what was coming. It was like she knew her family—my second family—was about to be taken from her. That she was about to be left for the court to fight over, and her rich aunt and uncle to win her. It was like she knew her life was about to be shot to hell.

A small drawing of a flower—a rose—fell out of the folder and flittered to the ground. She had brushed all of the details in the rose with a few strokes of a pencil and a swipe or two of her finger. The rose was delicate, but it was adorned with thorns.

Of the many things that reminded me of her, roses did the most to cut me down. “I feel like I’m caught in a rosebush, surrounded by thorns. There is a rose in the middle, but you can’t get to it without cutting your hand. Who would want that?”

At one point, I would have done anything for her, but once her thoughts turned to death—to hurting Still Around • 47

herself—I couldn’t do it. Admittedly, I got scared, but I would never confess that to anyone. At one point, you couldn’t look at one of us without thinking about the other, but that was almost three years ago.

I closed the folder and put it back in my dresser once more.

Taped beside my bed was the last picture we took together— the last Super Bowl game I had before high school. I was still sweaty from the night’s game, still in my black jersey, and she was sunburned from her game. I wore a goofy grin, exposing my braces. I actually looked happy, and—at my side—Mia did too. I think we both knew it would be the last time we’d be seen together.

I remembered the guys on my team coming up to me and carrying me off, chatting idly to Mia. She laughed.

Her bright green eyes sparkled like there was no place she’d rather be, even though I had already told her to get out of my life. I said I didn’t want her there, but in my heart, buried deep down in all that hate and secret fear, I did want her there—she was always there.

Dispassionately, I shot Bianca a text message that 48 • Samantha Morgan

said I was tired and I was going to bed.

She responded like every girlfriend did and said, “I love you.”

I echoed her words, but my mind was elsewhere.

After staring absently at the number 48 on my pant leg, I turned out my light and got under the covers.

Thin streams of July moonlight poured into my room between the blinds, lighting the picture on my wall.

She was persistent and stubborn. She was exactly what I later looked for in other girls. It took me forever to realize that she was my safety net and I wanted it back, but I didn’t want all of the darkness she radiated.

She wasn’t Mia anymore. She was like a fallen angel.

I closed my eyes and let my mind shift through happy and sad memories of her before the days preceding the accident. Races around our houses, videogames that she’d never played before but kicked my butt at, dinners with our families, cooking together every now and then, freshly Mia-made cookies… Eventually, I drifted to sleep.

“They won’t let me turn around to get one last look at my baby while she’s still around-haou-haou-hound, while she’s still around-haou-haou-haound…”

Groggily, I reached over and hit the answer key.

“Hello?” I said into the receiver.

“Danny,” a too familiar melodic voice whispered.

“Mia?” I muttered in confusion.

Sleep was fading from me. Her voice brought on waves upon waves of unwanted feelings. They were threatening to overtake me. I could scarcely hear myself think over the pounding of my pulse.

“Mia, why are you calling me?” I asked incredulously.

I glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed. The blue numbers read something I really didn’t want to see.

“Mia, it’s almost three in the morning.”

The chance that she didn’t know the time was already slim. She sniffled loudly.

“What’s going on?” I asked, gentler now, with more concern.

“Can you open your window?” she asked, trying to keep the tears from her voice.

Without hesitation, I got out of bed, forcing blood into my relaxed limbs.

“Why am I opening my window?” I asked.

“Look straight,” she answered.

With one swift pull, I opened my blinds.

Outside, Mia stood about twenty yards away, standing tall beside a thin pine tree. She was looking directly at me, her phone still glowing on the side of her face. She was wearing skinny jeans, a jacket, the gray Converse she wore every day, and had a backpack from middle school over her shoulder with a scooter sticking out of it.

She risked coming to me although I had told her that I hated her a few times, years ago. I refused to meet her eyes every time she passed me in the halls. I never stopped looking at her, watching her, but also never doubted her friends’ capabilities in keeping her safe and at home, yet she had come to me.

Something was seriously wrong. She leaned against the tree, hiding her face from me. Her body began to shake as she cried. I opened the window and hopped out of it, nearly kicking the discarded screen that hid Still Around • 49

was relaxed with me despite in the bushes. I wasn’t thinking about everything. I had turned away the past anymore. I was thinking about from her when she needed me; Mia. And Mia needed me.

I shuddered at the thought of I went right up to her and wrapped the cuts that littered her wrists. my arms around her. She was trembling, I could’ve stayed and helped. but the longer I held her, the more she She could’ve listened and not cried and the more she relaxed. Hot tears made my shoulder wet, but I didn’t care. I just turned to cutting. What was done was done, though; it was in the past. held my friend like I always had.

“You’re safe, Mia,” I murmured into her hair. “You’re She reached up to wipe her eyes, but pulled her hand back as soon as she touched her face. Gently, I home. No one is going to hurt you.” pushed back on her shoulders and stared at her. The whole right side of her face was red. A long gash stretched across her cheekbone. The tip of her chin was black, but it wasn’t from the tree. Someone had hit her—hard and repeatedly. My eyes traveled down her neck and fixed on more angry red marks.

I pulled her against my chest again. I wove my fingers in her hair, untangling her auburn curls, afraid to touch her anywhere else. I couldn’t hit any bruises if I only combed through her hair.

Mia’s hands flattened on my back. She began to cry freely—the kind of crying one did out of relief. She 50 • Samantha Morgan

Mirage • 51

Kylene Colbert, Rebirth. pen

Dreaming Of the Cold Winter shelby miller

December mornings rise above my head They hover over me Soothing me with soft songs Filling the air with the sweet aroma Of Christmas I’m almost tasting the warm sugar cookies In my mouth Holiday cheer spreading its touch Holding hands The cliché kiss underneath the mistletoe Didn’t seem to last Warm blankets never felt so right After a long day of wrapping presents And “twerking” to cheery songs Because we didn’t know the words And had no socks on “I think I saw you in my sleep, darling” The satin sheets of seduction 52 • Mirage

Overwhelming my skin I wore my happiness As lipstick on my lips Flying through the sky We touched stars with our fingertips Soon we came falling down But I knew By tomorrow We’d be amongst the clouds again And in the rough skyline We’d be lost Far away from What lies beneath I’ll be able to see the truth In the dark of the night “Mi cielo brilla intensamente” And on one December morning I’ll be in your arms again

Courtney Contino & Jonathan Dacosta, Rancorous, charcoal and pencil

54 • Mirage Ali Duhaime, The Mask, pen

Sonnet for a Winter’s Eve Angel anonymous

Beneath the moonlit sky of winter’s eve The most exquisite creature’s beauty lies Hath my eyes falsely been led to believe?

You manifest before me, halo pure Donning sheer white, locks gliding in the wind Devious for naught, except stealing my heart Will thou take me, despite imperfection?

We shall not part ‘til eternity ends Together we’ll fly, beyond silk clouds Unlike Icarus for we shall be wise Release what binds us into the blue shrouds Of circular fantasy that are your endless eyes As angelic and gorgeous as thou are Intangible too, like a midnight star

Mirage • 55

For Brandy

Madeline narvaez Dear child of mine: Do not crush a watch and expect to make sand; You cannot change the past by present actions.

Dear daughter of mine: I tied the ribbon in your tawny locks to expose your muffled beauty, Not to add tinsel to the jagged bark you see in the mirror.

Dear wife of mine: Stubborn woman who I’ve loved and will love, please keep hold of me; Play with the callouses on my hand, not the thread of your hope.

Dear mother of mine: Let me dry the sea lapping at the shores of your eyes; I’ll carve our names in the sand and our smiles in sea foam.

56 • Mirage

Dear sensei of mine: You are not outnumbered in this fight of will against waste; We wear your heart just as proudly and are willing to set knuckles against jaws beside you.

Dear sister of mine: I refuse to leave your side as I refused to let your skin grow soft; Look back on your scuffed knees, darkened chins, and crimson lips with tears of a different taste.

Dear friend of mine: Do not think of our hums as a scavenger’s wind-whipping stride, or our coos as a predator’s arrogant cackle; We sing our hymns to mend the wounds, not to jab the bruise.

Mirage Name • 57

Emma Ingalls, Provata, pen and colored pencils

11-1-12

samantha weigt The wind whips around, following its many paths in a hurry, not caring whether anyone is cold. But the sun shines down in a nearby cloudless sky, fighting to keep the temperature tolerable. We walk in odd directions, changing course almost as much as the indecisive wind.

There’s something warm about you, about the childish way you smile when you know I’m looking at you. We are children in these little moments. Both of us diving into each other, daring to show ourselves to new people.

We sit down on a bench under a huge strangler tree, take in the lake in front of us, and watch the people walk by. We talk about silly things, whatever comes up.

You sneak photos of me when I turn my camera on and try to get pictures of you. Sometimes the conversation lulls, and we sit in silence for a moment. I wonder if silence is uncomfortable for you. For some reason I don’t feel uncomfortable when it gets quiet anymore.

Feeling awkward because of silence is silly to me.

58 • Mirage

Sometimes, when it gets quiet, I wonder what we have in common, what reasons there are for the two of us to be here, wandering through the park together. If I asked, would you be able to name some things? Or are we both just lost in this daydream, the small possibility something could come of this?

There’s something missing, this undertone of lacking that I feel pulsing quietly in me. There’s a nagging feeling that we know nothing about each other, that it won’t work out, that this is crazy. But at the same time there’s hope—hope that maybe this stranger I’m sitting next to will turn out to be someone good for me. And that little glimmer of hope is what I choose to focus on for the moment.

We make it back to where we started, sitting at a little table near the lake, the sun starting to fade away, the cold sinking in beneath my clothes. We compare our hands, the way yours are warm and rough, mine

chilled and soft. I laugh when you realize how long my fingers are, smiling at the way you turn my hands over in yours. We talk some more and laugh about being kids, the stupid things we used to do, and how we’ve changed. I sort of miss your hands when they’re not playing with mine anymore.

It gets colder, and the sun peers out at us from behind the clouds just long enough to remind me that it was warmer before.

You get a call, and I know it’s time for this day to end. I’m surprised at how well it went, how easy anyway. But I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything.

When we say goodbye, I feel your arms around me and I think that I could get used to this, to just having something normal and consistent. But I know it’s not that easy, that it never is. And I don’t know a thing about you. As much as we’ve spoken in the last week or so, I know you can’t learn everything about a person in that amount of time, not even the important things.

I drive home with a heavy heart because I don’t

know if I’ll be able to make you happy. In fact, I feel almost doomed to hurt you. I’m going to fail no matter what. Because even though I enjoyed spending time with you, I’m sitting here, driving home with hands pulling my heart in different directions.

It feels like I’ll never get the timing right.

11-1-12 • 59

F inal Decision taylor rawls

“You think you can just talk to anyone you want?”

Luke heard a loud smacking noise followed by a crash.

He continued staring at the ground, feeling nauseous as he considered what he had been contemplating for days.

Another loud crash and a scream roused him from his reverie. He stood and made his way past the noise in the kitchen to his bedroom door. Sweeping into his room, he fluidly grabbed his backpack, unzipping it as he headed for the kitchen door. He pulled out the gun and unlatched the safety; pushing open the door to his startled mother and stepfather. “No more,” was all he said. The bang drowned out his stepfather’s protests and his mother’s screams, begging him to spare her husband’s life.

60 • Mirage

Courtney Contino ,Yep, it’s all Newspaper, newspaper and glue

Sinister Spectrum bri posner

A rainbow of thoughts Swirls through my mind— Spinning and racing, Tearing me apart from the inside.

The whiteout: Everything blazes in a blistering chill.

No worries, no fear, But depression is coming soon— I push it back, Knowing that reality will soon unfold.

The red effect: My blood boils fast, Fueled by anger and hate.

My skin flushes In a sticky sweat Stirring from my nightmare.

62 • Mirage

Fading orange: Friends and family all smile As I hide my inner monster.

Forcing laughter, faking hugs, I can’t upset the ones I love.

Disguising tears as cries of joy, A porcelain mask is what I bear.

Dazing in yellow: Enjoying the day, Soaking in the sun.

Truly smiling once again, All my troubles have been erased.

Giggling and joking, Free of all heavy thoughts.

Relaxing in green: Forgetting all my worries; My phone is silenced for a change.

Feeling grounded and disconnected, Material matters disappear.

Lying in the grass, Listening as petals fall from their buds.

Dreaming in violet: For a moment, love takes over, Silencing the mess inside my head.

Your kiss is what I need, Seclusion is what I dread.

There’s no hunger or lust, Just closeness and soft whispers.

Sinking in blue: Tears flow down my face, Drowning me in a river of confusion.

Watching my thoughts float above me, Scared of my anxiety.

I’m breathing in the water all around me.

The blackout: Everything is frozen in the boiling heat.

Nothing scares me. No more worry, I won’t let depression take over again.

Resist the urge to close my eyes And take a final breath.

Sinister Spectrum • 63

Prose Genre Winner

jaqueline campos

How has the city changed you personally?

I was a different person when I went to New Orleans than I was when I left. There are just different kinds of people Did meeting the paraplegic man there. They were so full of change more than your opinion spirit even though they went through a horrible time. about New Orleans?

What compelled you to write “New Orleans Revisited”?

“New Orleans Revisited” was taken mainly from my diary entries that I wrote during a mission trip last summer.

It not only changed my opinion, but the opinion of the people who I was with at the time. We were all affected by his strength and his hope.

64 • Mirage

Will you go back to New Orleans?

I would love to go back to NOLA because of the food! They have great food. They’re good people to be around. A lot of people say that the city is dangerous and that it isn’t a good neighborhood to be in—and it’s really not—but that’s what I like about it; it’s kind of rustic.

New Orleans Revisited jaqueline campos

Seven years ago, when Katrina blew through Louisiana, my thoughts grew arms and stretched around the city. NOLA, as the locals have lovingly dubbed their home in New Orleans, Louisiana, was left standing in stagnant water and the nation’s pity. Then the waters receded, the months went by, and New Orleans was shifted into a corner of my mind, left to sit collecting dust along with crumbs of sympathy.

I thought I was done with the city. The headlines that reminded me of its pain were retired; the season of storms that frightened me with Katrina’s legacy was over. I never imagined that I might return to the city, this time in the flesh instead of in thoughts and mind.

In early June, I traveled to Louisiana with a youth ministry team. We planned to do missionary work with the down-and-out residents. Our bags of food were packaged and ready for the hungry, our water bottles were chilled and ready for the thirsty, but nothing could have prepared our hearts for the homeless.

The descent of the highway ramps into the bowels of New Orleans felt like a roller-coaster ride: exciting, terrifying, and sickening. I consider myself a well-traveled person, and I can say with confidence that New Orleans is unlike any city I’ve ever known. There is a distinction among the buildings and the streets. Every time I tried to justify a similarity between NOLA and somewhere else, high Mirage • 65

tide rolled into my thoughts. The waters rose around the light posts and littered corners. One might think that a town underwater has a certain grandeur, or a semblance to lost worlds like Atlantis. In that case, one is always wrong. A waterline stains the city walls like a dirty ring around the bathtub: a constant reminder of how high the floodwaters rose.

I remember passing a ravaged apartment building on the way into the city. It stood just off the highway, next to a construction site. The wall facing the road was almost completely torn away, exposing small cells that gave the building the appearance of a large beehive.

We passed too quickly for me to catalog the rubbish inside, which made the layers of grayscale garbage look ghostly. Beside the apartment complex was a plot of leveled ground. Sand and dirt and a few jazz dreams were ground into fine dust, forced to lay prostrate as a 66 • Jaqueline Campos

foundation for the future. Overlooking both the field of construction and the condemned apartment building was an old cathedral that watched both fates progress through an unwavering stained-glass eye. It was the most captivating of the three sites, with a proud, authoritative stance that seemed to say, “I’ve seen my fair share of storms, but I’ve yet to see my last.”

Little did I know that in seeing these three plots of land I had seen in summary all that New Orleans had to offer, a taste of the broken, the beaten, and the bound-and-determined.

Missionary work doesn’t exactly come with an instruction manual. There is no definite answer, no tried and true process to homeless ministry. All you are given is a series of rules: don’t go off alone, don’t eat or drink anything offered, don’t engage in physical contact (if it can be avoided) and don’t pick up any needles or broken bottles. I felt like a toddler, left in the kitchen and told not to touch the stove. Someone was bound to be burned.

My first experience with the homeless didn’t occur until the fourth day of the trip. Up until that point we were positioned in local nursing homes, assisting with

the day-to-day activities for the elderly.

The first “adult daycare” home looked like a tacky motel, complete with faux floral arrangements and a spray-tanned receptionist. Having been promised work distributing life-saving supplies to the city’s most needy residents, I was disappointed to learn that I would be spending my day playing bingo with someone else’s Meemaw. But when they started bringing in elderly from the Alzheimer’s ward, my skepticism was slurped up like the last sip of a soda. Words don’t exist that encompass the feelings of pity and fright that coursed through my veins—pity because it seemed I could do nothing to help them, and fright because I knew there would be no one to help me when I fell victim to old age.

The frail creatures I played bingo with that first day taught me some things. Actually, they taught me many things. Hallie, who could manage little more than mumbles under her breath and the shuffling of chips around her bingo card with a teasing smile, taught me how to make friends by winking at the boys across the

room. Barbara, who always wore pearls because she used to be at the top of the New York fashion scene, taught me how to put on a brave face by dressing for the occasion. And Wilson, who had no interest in bingo and little else to say, taught me how to win. He was the champion of three consecutive rounds of bingo. When I asked him what his secret was he replied, “I dunno.” I suppose he was just overdue for a lucky streak.

I soon learned making friends, dressing for the occasion, and winning were central themes of Louisiana society. The whole city was overdue for its lucky streak.

The evening before our homeless outreach, we took a tour of the lower Ninth Ward. It was the area hit hardest when the levees broke and the waters came rushing in. Driving through the neighborhood one might think the hurricane passed through yesterday.

The debris was gone and the puddles had dried up, but many of the houses remained in the condition Katrina left them in. Stray dogs roamed the streets along with New Orleans • 67

strange people, windows were boarded up, and across many of the homes there was a dreadful scribble of black spray paint. At first, I assumed the markings were all the work of an aspiring graffiti artist, but they were too plain, too widespread. They were death tallies, our guide told us. After the storm, the houses were searched for survivors; the ones who didn’t make it were totaled on the front door.

At that point, I had seen enough of the citizens’ lives to understand that I had no hope of fathoming their sorrow. This was my thought when the group stopped at a community park. There I briefly met a man who changed my opinion of New Orleans.

Having never learned his name, I called him “the paraplegic.” His wheelchair was positioned in the middle of a large soccer field where he sat tossing a patched red kite into the wind. I didn’t speak to him; I didn’t make eye contact with him. He looked so at peace. I was afraid of being a disturbance, but I approached him anyway. Surely he needed my help, my company.

When I came close enough to speak to him, I opened my mouth, only to realize that I had nothing to 68 • Jaqueline Campos

say. All I could do was try to force a bubble of air down the sticky sides of my throat.

“Do you want to fly it?” he asked me, gesturing to the kite. “I was just about to take it in for the day, but you can have a go at it if you want.”

Again, I was too panicked to speak and only managed to shake my head. The smile on his face challenged every opinion I had built up about NOLA. It showed me a piece of the city I didn’t expect to find. Normalcy. To my best understanding, seven years prior the Mississippi River had wrenched open its jaws and swallowed the city whole. Yet he somehow moved past that.

Many of the city’s residents lost everything; some of them had nothing to begin with. How could this man smile despite his loss?

The paraplegic taught me that New Orleans might deserve my pity, but it didn’t want it. He, much like the cathedral that I saw upon entering the city, stood facing the destruction with pride. He might have been

battered, but he that they ever will recover. If I was taught anything, it wasn’t broken, and was that New Orleans has seen its fair share of storms, he was certainly but it has certainly not seen its last. not beaten.

I had finally seen what I had been trying to ignore that whole trip. The cathedral still standing, the elderly still kicking, the paraplegic sill hoping, all taught me about the city they called home.

I never did get to work with the homeless. The next morning, after we loaded up our packs and set out to find the needy who lived under the highway overpass, we were stopped by city officials. They turned us back to our bus and sent us home with a series of violations and unheard-of laws in books older than dust. I never fed the hungry. I never saved the impoverished.

Before the officials stopped us, I spoke to three men with swaggering steps and alcohol-laden breath who told me they were not homeless. As long as they were in “N’awlins,” they were at home.

I went to New Orleans with the expectation of helping the city, but as it turns out, the city was doing well enough on its own. I don’t mean to say that they have fully recovered from Katrina. I don’t mean to say New Orleans • 69

This Is the Land kristin “kiwi” rycko

This is the land your light can no longer reach Through the mist, your beams can no longer breach The fields, once green, now enshrouded in gray The blossoms, pristine, now in disarray This is the land your light has forsaken For the dusk soon enough has overtaken This land, my being, my deepest soul For but few precious moments did you console The moon is not enough for me The stars, concealed by mist So when this darkness overcomes me Of the sun I reminisce

70 • Mirage

Oh, I long for the glow Of your rays of gold That warmed me And let me see The beauty of the world For once

Gwenn Seuling, Viola, pastel

The Monster Timothy Sumell

It crushes inspiration, Creates lasting pain.

You want to give up; It makes you insane.

Everyone has a monster, A destroyer of hope, Creator of conditions Of which you can’t cope.

It expels perverted hate Which burns like fire Where no one can create A reasonable thought, hope, or desire.

Might be in your closet, Could be under your bed.

Look right behind you Maybe it’s all in your head.

It overpowers you, Makes you want to die, But you just can’t do it So you sit there and cry.

A real monster is common Not what you’d dream: No sharp nails, ugly face, Distorted figure, or any other extreme.

The monster hollows you out, You lose yourself, become nothing but a shell— A nobody, just refuse.

It is ruthless, diabolical.

Causing much grieving and sorrow; Doesn’t fight head on or quickly— It’s inside and lingers until tomorrow.

The monster takes many shapes: People, fears, false ecstasy.

But my monster is most evil by far— My monster is me.

72 • Mirage

Nicki Smith, Charlie, pencil and soft pastel

Aimee Weigt, Chris, photography

King for a Day samantha morgan

I looked up at the stage and watched as Teo’s body curled over his bass and, clutching a microphone in a death grip, screamed his lyrics with implacable conviction. His black tank top hung loosely from his sweaty chest, exposing the text scrawled across his collarbone—and teasing everyone with a glimpse of how attractive he was shirtless. His muscles were rigid from the pose he was in. Anyone looking at him in a picture, not knowing the lyrics, would see his intensity and admire him for it, but they wouldn’t know exactly why he was in such a position, and with his face completely masked by his long hair and his hand wrapped tightly around the mic, they’d just think he was really into the song. All of us in the crowd, standing under the stars, looked at him and sung along with every bit of hurt he felt. We belted the lyrics; all of us floated away in that moment with Teo. He sang about the duality of a girl he loved immensely. She was good, bright, and beautiful, but

broken, depressed, and utterly lost without even realizing it. Although she was sick, he loved her more than life itself.

Teo had known this girl—both sides of her nature.

I stood there, a single face in a sea, and I thought of my own insignificance. At that moment, none of us mattered. Our lives were all here and now, but once the buzz died down, our lives would resume and we’d be forced to wake up the next morning and face a day that was in the negative range compared to what we all felt at the concert.

And that’s exactly what happened. The layers of sunscreen and dirt were scrubbed from my skin, I collapsed in bed and had a dreamless sleep.

I wake up to some random song on my iPod. I reach over for my phone, punch “4,” and it begins dialing.

After a few rings, Jonah picks up the phone with a groggy, “Hello?”

Mirage • 75

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I greet him, sounding more awake than I feel. “This is your accountabilibuddy calling to make sure you’re up.”

He groans. “Five more minutes?”

“All right. Sleep tight,” I respond.

He grunts softly and hangs up. Knowing him, Jonah could easily fall asleep and be well into a dream in five minutes.

I push the covers back and wait for the AC to shut off before I try to brave a trip into my freezing cold bathroom.

It was going to be a long, hot day. If I had someone to wake me up in the morning and motivate me to face the day, then I might try to sleep another five minutes, too.

I throw on my black mesh shorts and a black shirt, tug on my tall black socks and marching shoes, and wash my face all before it’s time to call Jonah again.

“All right, I’m up,” he mumbles.

“No you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not…”

76 • Samantha Moragan

I chuckle softly and pull my ruby red hair back into a ponytail. “C’mon, you need to get up,” I tell him.

He grumbles into his pillow and says, “There’s still more time.”

“It’s a competition, Jonah,” I remind him. “We can’t be late. We’re on Leadership.”

He sighs and rustles around for a moment before saying, in a clearer voice, “All right, I’m up.”

“I’ll call you back in ten to make sure you’re still up.”

He exhales through his nose in two quick bursts in a soft, half-asleep laugh. “Sounds good.”

I check my band bag again and take out all of the things I don’t need. It’s time for the thing to go on a diet, and when I finish it’s skinny.

Ten minutes pass. I call again, and I hear him chew his cereal loudly. He is now fully awake.

“Good morning, Anna,” he answers and takes a bite.

“Morning, Jonah,” I chuckle softly. “I take it you’re still awake.”

“Mhmm.”

“Good,” I say, smiling. “I’m going to eat then.”

“Okey-dokey,” he responds and clanks his spoon

into his bowl again. “I’ll see you later, Anna.”

I smile at myself in the mirror. “See you.”

I hang up and take my things into the kitchen to eat a “well-balanced” breakfast—on days with band this means more carbs than usual, but—technically— it’s balanced for what I need.

The buses are lined up as I arrive at the school, and people are already in the band room, mulling around in their uniforms. I drop my bag, grab my hanger, and slip into my bibbers when Jonah decides to show up and blow hot air on my ear. He runs away laughing before I can swat at him.

The day is running smoothly, my mind is away from anything other than music, and it stays that way through the forty-five minute bus ride, set up, stretches, warm-ups, and a musical run-through of the entire show. There isn’t a single thought in my head as we take the field.

“Drum Major, is your band ready?” the announcer finally says.

I can’t see her salute, but I see her run off the field to her podium as the announcer continues. “You are free to take the field in competition.” There is nothing apart from the band, our drum major, and our music right

here and now.

Where Teo could scream to hundreds of fans watching intently, or already moshing, I can be a piece to a giant puzzle. When the night sets, things start to change for me.

We are waiting for the retreat so we can get our score, all still in uniform. We ate and drank plenty of water since we came off the field, sweating buckets in wool uniforms, but we aren’t anywhere near going home.

After we eat, we return to the stands to watch our fellow bands perform. As usual, Jonah and I sit together, but the darker it gets, the less connected I feel to my best friend. The walls are closing in on me—the walls of the universe since we are outside. I am being suffocated by the lights, the people, the laughing.

I clasp my hands tightly in my lap and try to shut the world out and calm down, but all I can think about is that I’m never really a part of the whole that my friends exist in. I drift in and out of focus all the time King for a Day • 77

because being with people hurts. No one understands what is going on in my life. I can’t tell them even if I want to. It isn’t for them to know, but it is also because if they know, then they can hurt me, and I can’t deal with that. One best friend, another, a boyfriend after a few years…I can’t add another name to this list.

I am the fakest real person any of them will ever meet.

I am always genuine and patient, but very few know who I really am under all the layers of implications and defense mechanisms. Only two people know me, and it is because they care enough to notice when things are bothering me when no one else can see it. It is only these two whom I trust, but I still secretly fear their abandonment—three of the people I love most have done the exact same thing; it is not an unreasonable fear with how much I love them.

Jonah, cuing into my unseen distress, looks over at me and waits for me to look directly at him. He is one of the two who can see into my core where I am vulnerable, and as soon as I look in his woodsy-brown eyes, he can see that I’m drowning, and I can see his concern.

He has talked me off of ledges plenty of times, but it is now that he can’t say a word—no one is supposed to speak during another band’s performance—so instead, 78 • Samantha Morgan

he holds my gaze and puts his hand over mine in a seemingly innocent gesture.

Tears start to gather in my eyes. He makes a funny face in an attempt to cheer me up. I smile, but I’m not fixed. I recognize that he is trying to help me not break down in front of everyone—no one is supposed to get up during a performance; that is the rule preventing me from a quick reprieve.

When the night hits, so does my insane depression.

It doesn’t matter that I have been focused all day on something physically and emotionally taxing. I am like a bomb. I have a timer on me. I have tried to delay the detonation, and I have been able to for the competitive season, and for my friends, and I try hard to live a better life than the one I have left behind, but the scars are written all over my body.

People look at me, but people never truly see me.

Jonah has, June has, and no one else even bothers. I credit myself with being a good actress, but being a good actress also comes with the accreditation that no one knows what is going on inside my head. I am an open book, but I’m actually locked shut.

When the band hits their last power chord and cuts off, I decide to move away from Jonah and take

two girls with me to the restroom. Traveling in three is our band’s rule for competitions and things. Jonah sees what I am doing and decides to take another one of our friends with us so we travel in a pack of five.

The group goes ahead of us, eager to return quickly so they can see the next band. We have a few minutes before they start, but no one can tell them that.

With no one behind us, Jonah laces his fingers in mine and stops me. “Hey, you’ll be okay,” he tells me. I smile sadly. “You don’t know that. Not really.” I’m not cruel enough to say it aloud, but I think: You just want it to be true.

He knows exactly what I am thinking, though.

Six years together has given us the ability to read each other’s minds. Without a word, Jonah pulls me against him and holds me tightly. It is reassuring. For a moment, I feel like I am connected to the world, like Jonah is my rock, but the group realizes we aren’t with them and sends Ethan back to us.

“You two coming?” he asks.

Jonah holds on a little longer, and I let him because

when I look at him afterward, it is clear that a short hug isn’t doing it for me today. A genuinely fake smile graces my lips, and I hurry to meet up with the girls.

I manage to get a handicap bathroom. I take off my thick jacket and drape it over the door, pull off my gloves, and shove them in my bibbers pocket.

When I go to put my gloves back on, my fingers feel a plastic bottle. I must have accidently left some painkillers in my pocket from my injury. I hadn’t even noticed them.

I look down at the bottle, and my hand moves for me. I uncap the bottle, pour a few into my hand, and swallow them dry. I pour another handful into my mouth and scoop up water from the faucet to help. I take the last few dry.

Looking down at the bottle, I feel a warmth spread throughout my entire body. I have finally done it. It is finally going to be over. I don’t have to hurt anymore.

With my nail, I scratch the word “sorry” on the front and put it back in my bibbers pocket. I don’t want anyone to take back what I have done.

Pulling my jacket and gloves back on, I find the girls King for a Day • 79

waiting for me. Together, we all leave laughing about something. I feel better already. Jonah sees me laughing with them and waits until I come up to him before he allows himself to hope. I take his arm and wrap mine in his.

“Don’t be upset,” I tell him.

“Anna,” he says slowly. “Are you alright?”

I smile. I feel the shadows in my eyes, but I am smiling.

These are the last moments I will get with Jonah.

Only two people will miss me—only two have a right to because of how little others know—and he is one of them. He doesn’t deserve to spend these last few moments worrying about me.

I hug him with every bit of love I have in my body.

I would give my life for him. He will be better off without me raining on his parade with my depressed and twisted thoughts.

Lightly, I kiss his cheek, pull back, and smile.

He softens, but then he frowns. “Anna, what’s in your bibber pocket?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

Ethan calls our names and we hurry after them.

“Seriously, Anna,” he says.

80 • Samantha Morgan

“Dead serious?” I ask.

His eyes narrow.

I grin and fall into step beside Ethan as we hit the stairs. Once we turn, we see that the band is coming toward us. It is time for the retreat.

“Officers only,” our drum major tells us.

Jonah and I go with her, and the rest of our group, down to the field. Everyone is tired. It makes sense that we will go to represent the worn-out band.

We line up in a perfect triangle. Drum Major is the first to go, the two color guard co-captains are next, the three woodwind section leaders follow, and then the four brass section leaders bring up the back. We stand perfectly still and remain expressionless as the bands are acknowledged and then the awards are given out. Whether we win something or not, we stay statue-esque.

Jonah is at the other end of our woodwind line, but I can feel his worry stretching out to me. By the end of the retreat, I have no doubt that he will figure it all out.

My mind starts going fuzzy, but I force myself to

stay upright. It is not an easy task. I start breathing deeply, then unevenly, but I think of Jonah.

We hold hands every now and then, we kiss each other’s cheeks and foreheads, we hug each other with a certain intimacy, we both know that we have had the desire to kiss the other several times before, we know about our attraction to each other, and we know how to read each other.

When the idea to end it first came before school started, I had talked to Jonah over the phone for a few hours that night. I was crying silently, talking in a hoarse whisper, and he sounded broken. He didn’t want to lose me, but he didn’t know anything about what I felt. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”

After that, every time I got down, I wrote to him about what I was feeling and how I got there. He has a whole box full of letters written on various kinds of paper, with a wide range of dates, waiting for him.

It hurts enough to leave you.

There isn’t anything that I won’t do for Jonah, but now I will never have the chance.

The pain is going away, and so am I. No one will ever have to worry about not knowing me anymore.

No one will ever look at me, see me laughing, and

dismiss me as a happy person. The only time I ever feel whole is with Jonah and June, but with June out of band, and Jonah only tied to me because of band, I can’t be whole.

Still, I take a sort of comfort in the finality of it all.

I won’t have to spend one more night with the ghosts in the walls, haunting me. I can finally move on.

King for a Day • 81

The Pond in the Pine Forest tim ryan

In the starlit night I wandered off my normal path, Curiosity leading my weary legs Through an archway of dead branches.

I stepped heavily, breaking fragile pine needles As the trees closed in around me.

Time left, and the soft wind stole off With the aches of my heart and body, softly slipping through the barrier of trees.

Cardinals perched above, talking quietly, And watched as I approached A pond blacker than the night-soaked sky.

The glass surface hid dark depths, and—with help from the glowing moon— a blank silhouette stared back.

My shallow breath grew thunderous.

With flooded eyes, I gazed at the blank slate; A fresh canvas, mine to paint.

82 • Mirage

Samantha Weigt, Whispering, photography

Mirage Mirage • 83

84 • Mirage Christopher Trout, I Am I Will, graphite pencil

Veni, Vidi, Vici taylor rawls

Sun steaming through the branches like liquid gold Mold Yourself into any element you wish Find yourself just another fish In the sea Try me, violently, and suffer a lobotomy Thoughts explode Revelations the wave on which we rode Pale horse of death Killing you off like another Macbeth Veni Vidi Vici Leave you awestruck by decimating your construct One rule: world power Tower Above the rest Prove yourself the best

Pull yourself out of the waking dream Time for a new regime Things are not as they seem No limitations Only vivid hallucinations Smell of singed flesh in the air Question if you dare Taste of adreneline still lingering Violent outbreaks of an enraged beast Intent to feast on the flesh of the least Find yourself crushed Beneath your own weight Wait For someone else to help you When you know The only one who can help is you

Mirage • 85

Nothing

emma ingalls Darkness is not darkness.

It’s unfathomable.

Beyond grasp.

Beyond reason.

That taunt you In the most innocent way, Quiet breaths That sing murder into your ears.

Darkness.

It’s the bony beast That daylight had shown As a chestnut drawer.

The plush leather seat That now lurks behind you, Staring at you through The deafening night.

Darkness Causes feathers To pluck from your skin And leave you As an ice cube That seeps unwillingly Into the floorboards, which Laugh And laugh And laugh.

Darkness.

Its heavy mass Manipulates air Into waves of gentle fingertips 86 • Mirage

Darkness Is nature’s black magic.

A reality that seems like A cloudy pool of nothing.

Yet is as real As the itches On your skin And as frightening As a witch’s fingernail.

Darkness Is A Blindfolded Fear.

Nicki Smith, Tom, mixed media

Art Genre Award Winner Cydney Rallo

What medium and technique did you use? Did you like the outcome?

I used egg yolk tempera on watercolor paper. I liked the way it dried and I would use it again. Tempera is my favorite paint.

What was your inspiration to create “Nighttime Nightmares?” What are your emotions behind this?

I was inspired to create this piece when my art class offered an assignment with a new medium in only black and white. The eeriness of the paint made me decide upon a nightmare scene.

Cats are nocturnal and remain awake throughout the night.

88 • Mirage

What got you interested in art and at what age?

I have liked art since I was very young, but I didn’t start producing art until my late freshman year of high school.

Are there any famous artists who inspire you?

All artists with a bit of talent inspire me because I like different outlooks and styles. Surrealists like Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, and others inspires my imagination most. A young, talented, and undiscovered artist, Alexander Osorio, inspires me as well. Osorio displays very emotional pieces and accurate organic modeling.

Are you considering going to an art school?

I am considering going to an art school.

I don’t want a career in art because I produce art for myself. It’s hard for me to find interest in creating for profit, but I will continue to do art.

Does your art teacher push you to try new ways of creating?

My teacher tries to push me to try new techniques by introducing different mediums, like the tempera for this project, and using canvas paper for acrylic transfers.

Cydney Rallo, Nightime Nightmares, egg tempera

Nhi Huyhn, Nostalgic Woods, acrylic

The Words I Couldn’t Even Say kianna mCkenzie

It was disturbing, really, how easy it was to get spinocerebellar ataxia. It’s nerve damage appearing at the age of fifteen and destroying you by thirty. One day you’re walking around laughing with your friends, and then moments later you find yourself face first on the pavement. You look confused, then you get back up and wonder what you’ve tripped over. You shake it off until the next occurrence, and now you have a bruise on your arm.

“What’s wrong with me?” you wonder, finally going to your mother about these random situations that have been happening.

A frown erases your mother’s gentle smile, the lines around her mouth creasing in worry. Her lips tremble before she replies.

“Sweetie, if anything happens again, you’re going to the doctor.”

Panic sets in, and before you can even disagree, she gives you a firm glare.

“No ‘buts,’ young lady,” she says sternly.

“All right,” you reply with a hesitant nod.

Your anxiety increases, and the hope that maybe it was just

clumsiness disappears as your mother’s worried glances make you uneasy. You repeat to yourself that you’re just fretting over nothing. A month passes, and as you’re shopping with your mother you lose your balance, toppling to the concrete floor. You try to sit up. Dizziness hits you and black dots appear. They consume your sight and you’re left wondering what’s wrong.

You wake up to a fluorescent light shining down; your eyes close quickly from the brightness. You frown, open your eyes, and try to sit up, although you’re still somewhat dizzy. A blue curtain surrounds you; wires are attached to your arm. Hearing the slow beeping noise to your side, you groan. On the monitor screen, your heart beats steadily. You flop back onto the bed, wearily shutting your eyes. Mulling over what exactly is happening, your hands clench the white sheets covering you. The door slides open, and your mother walks in.

With a strained voice you ask, “Mom, what’s wrong with me?” Tears well up in her sapphire eyes and your heart seems to contract as if someone has a tight grip on it. She moves closer and clasps your hand.

Mirage • 91

“Sweetie, I’m not sure, but the doctor said he’d tell us once you woke up.” A tear escapes her eye.

At the moment, it seems as if the hold around your heart has become tighter, cold fingers slowly curling around it until you’re breathless. You close your eyes to stop the tears from cascading down your flushed cheeks and nod slowly.

“Okay,” your voice quivers as you give her a withered smile. It feels as if a ghost has enveloped your body, walking step by step with no purpose but to move toward an unwanted destination. As the doctor puts an x-ray on the screen, you listen numbly. “I’m going to die?”

Your throat contracts as if your windpipe has been blocked.

Your lips, which were trembling ever so slightly, are now shaking, and tremors move throughout your fragile body.

Ten years later, you’re in the hospital bed you’ve come to hate; your whole body is numb. You can’t walk, writing has become difficult, and your speech is now impaired. You feel so frustrated and lost, but what can you do? You lie in bed as your body is enveloped by a sheet. You’ve grown from fifteen to twenty-five with a heavy heart and frustrated thoughts. No cure, just false reassurances that you know can’t be fulfilled, although you wish and pray every night that God, or anyone, could just cure you.

92 • Kianna McKenzie

At this point you tend to loathe yourself. The fire that was once strong, because you believed someone would cure you, has been extinguished. Your body becomes more frail and withered.

One day you whisper slowly to your parents through cracked lips.

“I won’t get married, will I?” Your voice stutters and hands twitch. It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

Your mother’s and father’s cries cover your own sob. You try to calm down, to be strong for your parents, but the only thing this does is break them even further. Their cries are strangled, almost tortured. They have to be escorted out, and bile threatens to rise up in your throat. It feels as if you are a horrible daughter, a failure, garbage. Your hands form a fist, and you try to pound them onto the soft bed, but you can’t even do that with this heinous disease. A bitter smile appears on your lips at the failed attempt to express your anger. You want out now: your heart is dead, cracked into a million pieces and unable to be glued back together— A loud echo resounds through the room. Her journal fell out of my trembling hands. I can’t read this any longer. It’s the journal of my beloved girlfriend

before she passed away. Each word makes my heart burn as if an inferno is eating away at it. Day by day it’s dull without her and I want her back in my arms. I feel lifeless; the light that was once burning strong when she was here has been extinguished.

I became a doctor for her, to look for a cure for the damned disease that took her from me, but no positive results have been found. I bang my fist on my desk with a thunderous crash. I cry softly and wonder if it was worth it—this treacherous path. No, I would do it because I’m the traitor who left her. The one who couldn’t even say those words—that I loved her— before she left me all alone.

Couldn’t Even Say • 93

They All Go hannah silas What if you lose

everyone you’ve ever

loved?

If one day you wake up to a hollow house and musty air fills your nose?

As you step out of your squeaky bed you feel it, your heart is all alone.

It is the only organ left.

And you are the only one who stayed, feeling nothing but loneliness 94 • Mirage

as dust rises in your nose and cobwebs stick to your feet.

As sorrow rises your soul sets: frozen.

Echoes haunt your memory, like watching an old TV show in the better times before they all had to go.

They All Go • 95

96 • Mirage Fabienne Bernard, Hands, ink

Simon

daryl ross “Hey, Si, c’mon get up. Ma’s got breakfast all ready.

We gotta get goin’.”

Simon Joe is my littlest brother, born six years ago last Wednesday. He’s the last one outta eight boys. Ma says she’s afraid to have another after him. You see, Simon, he’s a bit different from most kids. Folks calls him a idiot, all except me, that is. Sometimes Simon does dumb things, but he ain’t no idiot, just different, that’s all.

“C’mere Simon, let me tie your shoes for ya. Hurry up, Ma’s callin’.”

Ma just ain’t been the same since Simon came along.

She never talks to him. She pretends he’s not even alive.

I think she wishes she never bore him.

“Through eatin’, Si? Let’s go then. Don’t you shake your head at me, you gotta go. All youngins got to go to school.”

Simon just started school for the first time yesterday. He didn’t like it much. Teach kept yelling at

him, saying he was a dunce. All the kids laughed and I kind of laughed, too. I felt bad for Si, but I didn’t want everybody laughing at me. Simon just sat there with tears in his eyes and a bright smile on his red face.

When recess came, Simon ran straight to the swings and started swaying back and forth real slow. Si loves most everything, but he loves swings best. He has his own swing strung up on a big, dead tree in the field in back of the house. It’s a homemade thing somebody put up a long time ago. He goes there when he’s sad.

Swinging seems to calm him down.

The other kids came over and started pushing Simon higher and faster on the swing. He went higher and higher. His fists turned white from gripping the ropes so tight. He was scared, and tears streamed down his cheek. He hollered out for me. The kids laughed liked devils, cheering like men at a dog fight. Mama says they are cruel—dog fights, I mean. The kids were yelling, “Simon Joe’s a dumbo, Simon Joe’s a dumbo!”

Mirage • 97

One boy told Simon to jump.

I pushed through the crowd, grabbed Si, and hung on ‘til the swing slowed. He was shaking all over and bawling like a girl. He cuddled up to me. I felt their eyes staring at me. They were giggling now. I left home with Si tagging at my heels.

Simon went straight to his swing. He was out there at least three hours. He came to the house just at sunset.

Probably would have stayed out all night except he’s scared of the dark. When he came in, I could see tear tracks on his dirty face.

“Don’t be afraid today, Simon. I’ll watch over you. I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. OK? C’mon then.”

When we got to school, Si smiled at everybody, like he already forgave them. If I was him, I’d never forgive them! Simon’s always kind, though. No matter how mean Ma is to him, he always smiles at her. Poor Si, nobody likes him, except me that is. I can’t show it sometimes, though, because people will think I’m dumb.

The recess bell rang, but Teach said I couldn’t go out because my arithmetic wasn’t done. I told him what happened to Simon yesterday. He just said Simon needed to learn about real life. I heard the “Simon Joe’s 98 • Daryl Ross

a dumbo!” starting again. Si screamed, and I dashed for the door. Teach grabbed me and said if I went out there, I was as stupid as my brother. I didn’t go.

Si didn’t come in after recess. I figured he was back at his swing. When school was over, I kicked around the playground a while. I took my time walking home.

I knew I let him down. I felt terrible, but I can’t make a fool of myself.

Nobody asked about Simon when I got home. I don’t think they noticed he wasn’t with me. At suppertime Si still wasn’t home, but I was too ashamed to fetch him. Next time I looked out the window, it was getting dark. Simon still wasn’t home. Something was wrong; I ran out the backdoor as fast as I could.

“Simon? Simon! SIMON!” I saw him on the swing. He was pumping hard.

That old swing was flying so high in the air, it was about ready to wrap backward over the tree branch.

I ran harder now, calling out to him. “Slow down! Si, stop pumpin’! I’m comin’, Si! I’m comin’!”

I was almost there, but Si didn’t slow down. He was zooming higher and higher. I heard a loud snap, and Simon lay at my feet.

I guess he did learn a bit about real life.

Mirage • 99

Joey Martinez, Squid Mask, mixed media

Evade

Isabel guzman Dark murky waters cage my body.

I struggle to escape.

The lake pulls me u n d e r.

Air evades my lungs as I try to scream.

100 • Mirage

But only the dark water hears me.

I only see the fuzzy vision of my pale hands before me and my brown hair slithering around me, sinking with me like an anchor.

My life doesn’t flash before me, my eyes just shut.

I drift alone to the bottom.

Cody Summerlin, Whale Tale, photography

Dominika Skosireva, Memory, graphite

102 • Mirage

The Language of Light cassidy toepfer

City of glowing volts, Oh, how it exceeds the sun.

With their smiles bright— Combining with moods Of ever-existing And never changing Radiance.

But there are some days Where dawn doesn’t show, And the sun doesn’t set.

Drapes of darkness suffocate the town Like a black hole, Suctioning out the light.

Until something comes along And Sparks Its Flame.

Everything dims, The volts take time to breathe, And the light drowns out.

Illumination takes a nap.

And all at once, The lambent become silent.

Mirage • 103

Aimee Weigt, Lillies, photography

Gentle

Grace marks In every color of the spectrum you come Unseen, unnoticed, free of vanity, your snowy petals grasp your leafy pad.

Your base sits on glistening mirrors, Water lily, silent purity surrounds you, Water is your home.

Within your pearly embrace the slightest surprise lies, Inside, you hold hidden vibrancy, Sunbeams sheltered in your petals’ grasp.

Water lily, you are emerging.

You live afloat something so unstable, Yet you sit on the greatest foundation A flower has ever known: Your pad, strong and vibrant, Holds the color of life.

You hold inside unknown beauty, Water lily, one of nature’s arts.

Formed from earthly elements; An angel transpires.

Mirage • 105

A Lesson In Mountain Jumping and Negativity jaqueline campos

The decision to jump off the mountain was not my own. After almost two weeks in Brazil, becoming brain dead was a serious possibility. Looking at South America on the travel network, all you see are beaches and bikinis. Every now and then a special about the Amazon airs, featuring wild monkeys and magical rainforest weight-loss berries. What the cameramen neglect to show you are the breast implants gone wrong and the saggy old men in banana hammocks who are the true populace of the country.

Needless to say, after my second week there, I was looking for something, anything that might cleanse my mind of the rated R images the Brazilian beaches had exposed it to. My father, the guide to this less than promising tour, had made several attempts to mend my broken perception of his homeland.

His first effort to show me the wondrous, Travel Channel-esque country was provoked by my stomach’s 106 • Mirage

loud protest to the airline food. My father was convinced that the culinary marvels of his hometown would “woo” me over completely.

“Try this,” he urged me, “Oh, and have extra of that!” During the hour I spent in that all-you-can-eat buffet, my taste buds were exposed to horrors such as cow tongue, tripe, chicken heart, and other sorts of miscellaneous meat skewered with large metal stakes that were turned by sweaty old men in dirty wife beaters. When I asked for a vegetable, they offered me rice. After more persuasion and inter-language communication, they presented me with a tomato and carrot salad served on a single leaf of old lettuce. The barbeque and salad were not the worst assault launched on my appetite. Later that evening I was forced to try the national dish, fejuada. The stew is composed of a black bean base and the ears, tail, and feet of pigs. I would explain in more detail, but I can already feel

the bile rising up in my stomach again.

Two full days were needed to recover. I began my fast of everything but bread, butter, and black coffee, which the Brazilians have admittedly perfected.

Feeling the need to make things up to me, my father planned a special trip into the country, the purpose of which he kept secret until our arrival.

He took me to a near-deserted settlement in the middle of some unnamed jungle expanse. One might have passed right by it without a second thought, but the locals recognize it as one of the only places left in Minas Gerais to observe mocacos, or in English, monkeys. Now everyone feels like Jane Goodall at the fair when you pay a dollar to have a domestic chimp blow you a kiss. But out in the wild, in a country where Animal Care and Control doesn’t exist, confidence is a joke, and incontinence becomes a real possibility.

To this day, I cannot recall anything more frightening than those monkeys. Before we made it through the fence of the wildlife preserve, they saw

us coming. They came as one body, racing down the mountain like an avalanche. They didn’t stop until they had scaled the squat stature of our equally frightened guide and began fighting for the bowl of bananas she held high above her head. The bowl was dropped, the bananas were stolen, and the monkeys were still hungry.

Determined to make me happy, my father encouraged me to hold out a piece of the banana peel as a peace offering to the beasts. Everything was going well as I coaxed a shy capuchin into reaching for the fruit.

Gaining confidence, it crawled into my arms and searched for more treats. My father, who was ready and waiting with the camera, snapped a photo. That was when it bit me. Running, screeching, and flailing ensued from both the monkey and me. Severely offended, the monkey ran back into the preserve, and once it was a safe distance away, he and a few of his friends began to taunt me by shaking their tiny fists in the air and displaying their manhood.

From there, the pack made their rapid ascent back to the mountain, leaving as swiftly as they had come.

Mountain Jumping • 107

Paragliding was my father’s third and final attempt to sway my opinion of Brazil. Though I was still having nightmares of monkeys and pig feet stew, I agreed. At least if I died, my tortuous stay in South America would be cut short a few days. My father’s home town, Governador Valadares, is known for Mount Ibituruna. People from all over the world travel to Brazil for a chance to jump from it. Hangliders, paragliders, and the severely depressed have all taken flight from the famed mountain. It is said to have the perfect geographical conditions for jumping: the right wind, climate, and height.

I thought my dad was joking when he first brought it up. We were standing on the landing platform, watching a group of tandem jumpers make their descent when he offered. He didn’t wait for me to answer, but immediately began making calls and planning dates.

The next morning, I was on my way to Ibituruna.

Janice, my equally terrified older sister, would be 108 • Jaqueline Campos

jumping as well. We held hands in the back seat of my grandfather’s pickup as it trekked up the near vertical sides of the mountain. Each time we tried a particularly steep stretch of road, the engine would gargle and groan, and several times it cut out and sent us sliding backward down the hill. Our suppressed screams would leak out of our noses as high-pitched whistles, and our palms would become clammy, with tight white knuckles until the emergency brake was pulled and the engine restarted. It was a miracle we made it up the mountain that day.

My partner was well trained in paragliding, if not English. It only took him ten minutes to lay out our sail, check the lines, and strap me into the oversized backpack that was supposed to hold me afloat. I wasn’t frightened until he handed me the helmet. It was large, red, and in the scheme of the story, majorly inconsequential, but something about that helmet assured me of the situation’s reality. I was going to jump off the mountain. There was little ceremony and less paperwork. My mind was screaming about legalities I wouldn’t understand but wished were present nonetheless. Surely they would want me to

sign some sort of waiver before jumping.

The brief thought came into my head that I hadn’t edited my living will and testament since the first grade, when I scratched on a Post-It that my BFF Addison could have all of my Beanie Babies if I were to die. At sixteen, I didn’t think much about death.

Suddenly, it was all that I could think of. Death. If I hit the ground fast enough would there be enough of me left to fill an urn, or would they have to shovel me into a coffin like yesterday’s slop? What if the impact didn’t kill me—how long would it take to die? The guide’s instructions were simple as he pointed to the steep stretch of grass we were standing beside: “On the count of three, run until your feet don’t touch the ground.” I would like to say that there was more to it than that, running until the landing strip gave way to open air, but it was simple: two great big steps in absolute terror, then nothing at all.

I was expecting adrenaline and thrill, but mostly, I was expecting something to go wrong. In all seriousness, I foresaw a tear in a sail, or perhaps a freak thunderstorm that appeared out of nowhere. Nothing happened. Unlike my ventures into their culinary

experiments and interactions with their wildlife, jumping off the Ibituruna was altogether boring. There was no story to tell, no adventure to recount, there was nothing to take from the experience but awkward conversation with my guide and a view that I could have seen with equal clarity from my desktop. The ride up the mountain was more horrifying than my descent.

There was no thrill, no reward, and no relief from the mind-numbing bore-fest that is Brazil. When we landed, and my father asked me what I thought of the jump, my answer was easy. “Take me back to America.”

Mountain Jumping • 109

Amber Reyna, What We Don’t See, pen and ink

Here I Find Myself samuel smith

Here I find myself Slowly trudging the stairs of ramshackle building. Hearing taking place within the dirty walls, even though live their seedy lives, I seem to make myself Here I find myself to see what is beyond, start anew, and try to what comes after all better…It’s a huge

rising, above this life now, but they can’t care. ready to make the leap.

Here I find myself towards the edge, in the light of the cynical moon, toward the edge, the sun and day, fast the edge, just below the horizon. on the edge, the man on the moon below the edge, another thing we share. The sun rising over the edge is us both

walking moving racing avoiding approaching hovering breathing watching falling realizing cleansing washing away.

Mirage • 111

Cydney Rallo, Nicki Smith, pencil

The Light Beneath the Breaking Bark cassidy toepfer

From the tips it falls.

Willow after willow, the weeping doesn’t cease.

Rotted bark and broken dreams (strands of everything once known).

It is time to find a path through the three divided lines, A log to reach over the pit of the dark unknown.

Step over every canvas.

Ignite your very soul and find your way back home.

What if two paths lead to the same place?

One bridge, a second.

What if a fire didn’t have to set ablaze all that it touches?

What if its mission is not to destroy?

The fire and the ashes, the red and the black, Tongues with unspoken words.

Energies surrounding—breaths escaping.

Spontaneity and serendipity found in the very heart of the branch.

Mirage • 113

Contributors’ Notes Jaqueline Campos can’t decide what to contribute.

Courtney Contino is stuck between the realms of reality and fiction, with no means of escaping by herself.

Lauren Escalada hopes to pursue a career in graphic design and possibly do work for clothing companies and advertisers.

Carly Gates loves her literary magazine staff more than they will ever know.

Yesenia Gonzalez is a dreamer and hopes that a few dreams will come true.

Isabel Guzman loves writing. She often gets her inspiration from her dreams.

Kyle Maglietta likes working in Adobe Illustrator. He wants to set up his own design firm.

Grace Marks is a chocolate-loving, crazy cat lady with a big heart.

Gabrielle Marvez is a fourteen-year-old aspiring writer who wants to write novels for young adults or work in the FBI. Most commonly known as Marvez,

she loves music and thinks everything is hilarious.

Brianna McDonald enjoys reading, writing, spending time with cats, and sleeping.

Kianna McKenzie is a junior who loves to escape life through writing. She gets her inspirations from many dramas that she watches and hopes to continue writing better prose in the future.

Alexander! says, “Thanks for reading.”

Shelby Miller aspires to be a psychologist, but wishes to study cosmetology in her spare time. Aside from that, she lives a very uneventful life.

Janae Moodie was here.

Samantha Morgan realizes that tigers come at night and she’s mostly been on her own, but he is actually beside her and the night has ended at last.

Madaline Narvaez is still a ninja, but she’s on fire.

Bri Posner is turning the cracked road of her life into a fresh highway taking her straight to a career in journalism.

Cydney Rallo is a junior who enjoys art and writing of all forms. She wears an elephant necklace so she will never forget.

Daryl Ross has been teaching for more than 25 years.

She loves teaching high school the most. She took creative writing in high school and wrote “Simon” in her senior year. She also likes to paint.

Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko is ascending to infinity.

Gerson Santiago loves a girl named Mary so much that he could just burst with tons of confetti!!!!!!!!!!

Hannah Silas is a junior and loves to write on occasion with inspiration from her English teacher!

Dominika Skosireva is a junior who enjoys drawing and taking care of her pet rock.

Nicki Smith likes to create art with new mediums.

Everything she creates is from her mind.

Samuel Smith believes that good things happen to those who believe that good things should happen.

Gwenn Seuling has been drawing since that long-ago Halloween when she traded her little sister a single drawing for a shopping bag full of candy.

Tim Sumell values the writing of things that are real, such as an emotion versus the word. He finds that it makes it meaningful, compared to frilly and “nice sounding.” Proud to be friends with such creative people, he would like to thank them on this decision and wishes them luck as this is his last year to enjoy their company.

Cassidy Toepfer is an aspiring dental hygienist who loves to write on the side. She’d also love to write her own book one day.

Cassandra Van Wallegham lives by this quote: “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened.

Happiness never decreases by being shared.” — Buddha

AWARDS Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Circle Award Second Place: Comics 2009 Certificate of Merit: Portfolio of Photography 2009 Certificate of Merit: Essays 2010 Certificate of Merit: Experimental Fiction 2010 Certificate of Merit: Masthead 2012 Certificate of Merit: Portfolio of Illustration 2012 National Council of Teachers of English Superior Rating (nominated for highest award): 2010 Superior Rating: 2009 Excellent Rating: 2007, 2008, 2012 National Scholastic Press Association Magazine Pacemaker Finalist: 2009, 2010 First Class (one mark of distinction): 2010 Design of the Year Award Second Place: 2010 Second Class: 2009, 2012

Masthead Editor-in-Chief Bri Posner

Print Editor Kristin “Kiwi” Rycko

Managing Editor Rachale Park

Visual Editor Gerson “Gabo” Santiago

Production Editor Powers Perrotta

Publicity Editor Alyssa Williams

Associate Editors Ashley Abella Kylie Cook Courtney Contino Dillon Dull Nicole Escudero Debby Ilarraza KEL Lutz Grace Marks Samantha Morgan Amber Reyna Gabrielle Sousa Amanda Tropea Cassie Van Walleghem Aimee Weigt Advisor Carly Gates

Thanks Sponsors Beth Acker Mr. and Mrs. Frank Bariezas Sarah and Robert Bennett Marlene and Calvin Bishop Jen and Doug Brant Martin Contino Mike Guinaugh Engineering, Inc. V & J Enterprises Sousa Family Cliff and Ginny Freund Michele Hanley Ted and Janey Koeth Dena and Mark Lusa Kenneth Lutz Herb and Kathy Martin Brian and Elizabeth Newsholme Christine Orndorff Justin Posner Barbara Roth

Michele Rycko Tammy and Joe Schauers Diane Sousa Judy Sousa Kathy Sousa Charles and Hildegard Speranza Bruce and Knyvette Superman Sue and Warren Whelan Terri Williams Tanya Zeo Volunteers Elena Baena Lisa Contino Diane Ilarraza Richard Marks Lori Morgan Stacey Posner Tammy Roque Michele Rycko Diane Sousa Melanie Van Walleghem Melinda Weigt

Colophon

Mirage: Reminiscence was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5.5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5.5. Body text is Californian FB 12, titles are Swan Song 30, author’s names are in Century Gothic 14. Folio Lines are in Californian FB. This issue was printed by Instantpublisher.com using #80 matte paper and sewn perfect binding. 150 were made.

Policy

Mirage, Seminole Ridge High School’s literary magazine, is composed of writing and artwork created and submitted by Seminole Ridge students and faculty. 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 by collaborations with other students, and faculty members may only have one piece published per year. 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 provide a creative oasis for students and faculty to escape from reality through art and literature. Mirage should be viewed as an outlet for the expression of students’ and faculty members’ 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 email to miragelitmag@gmail.com.