Legacy 2012

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Foreward The concept of a literary magazine is not unique to this year at Northside. The Legacy was the Northside literary magazine in the 90s. We did not invent the idea, we simply reinvented it.

Our magazine is separated into three themed sections. Our themes - New Beginnings, Telling the Story, and Alternate Endings - were developed by our staff to fit a variety of works and express our feelings about the magazine’s own new beginning.

The works in this magazine were written by students on and off the literary magazine staff, edited by staff, and compiled by the editors. They range from essays to poems, drawings to photographs, and cover a wide spectrum of topics and subject matter. We have worked hard to present a coherent piece, including works from all different kinds of students, showing our creative splendor.

This is a compilation of written and visual art. This is a representation of our school’s collective voice. This is The Legacy.

Sincerely, Shannon Adams Editor

2011-2012 Staff Shannon Adams - Editor-In-Chief Bobby Dominy - Copy Editor Ausirus Billips (2nd semester) Ashlynne-Kate Chadwick (1st semester) Bri Felder (2nd semester) Javier Molina Taylor Nix Alexis O’Brien Kierra Powell (1st semester) Lyndsey Shelton Felicity Watts Lawrence White Bianca Wiggins Ashunti Williams Adviser: Shelley Stahl

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The Legacy is available FREE and in FULL COLOR online at: http://issuu.com/nhs_litmag/docs/legacy_2012

New Beginnnings Picture: “New Beginnings” by Bianca Wiggins pg.6 “I Don’t Want to Leave Her” by Bri Felder pg.7 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.8 Photo by Shannon Adams pg.9 Picture by Selena Brown pg.10 “Sunshine” by Javier Molina pg.11 “One, Two, Three” Essay by Jessica Furtney pg.12-13 Picture by Olivia Lovelady pg.13 “Who Do You Think You Are To Judge?” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.14 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.14 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.15 “Task Deception” by Clifford Patterson pg. 15 “Why me?” by Felicity Watts pg.16 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.16 “This Stretch of Beach” by Shannon Adams pg.17 Photo by Shannon Adams pg.17 “Fortune Favors the Brave” by Allison Broeils pg.18 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg. 19 “The Ghost of 318” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.20-23 Photo by Erika Campbell pg.23 “Sylvie” by Shannon Adams pg.24-26 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.24 Photo by Erika Campbell pg. 27 “Incoming” by Bianca Wiggins pg.28 Picture by Lisa Dowden pg.29 “In My Next Life I Want to Be A Computer” by Bobby Dominy pg.30 “In My Next Life I’d Like To Be A Safe” by Bri Felder pg.30 “The World is An Oyster” by Thomas Ray pg.31 Photos by Jessica Furtney pg.32-33 “Yes, I’m From Puerto Rico” by Lawrence White pg.34 “No, I’m not Black” by Javier Molina pg.34 Picture by Amanda Geiger pg.34 “Of Remote Controls and War” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.36 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.37 “Be Led By Your Dreams” by Lawrence White pg.38 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.39

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“Homecoming” by Javier Molina pg.40 “Homecoming Queen” by Alexis O’Brien pg.40 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.41 “Indecisive Queen” by Ashunti Williams pg.42 “Homecoming” by Lawrence White pg.42 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.43 “Dreaming ” by Angeline Eugene pg.44 Photo by Krista McDonald pg.45 “New Beginnings” by Le’Paris Hall pg.46 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg. 46

Telling The Story Picture: “Telling the Story” by Bianca Wiggins pg.47 “The Dolphin’s Ode to Sea” by Felicity Watts pg.48 Photo by Shannon Adams pg. 48 “Acta Non Verba” By Javier Molina pg.49 “Why Won’t She Listen” By Taylor Nix pg.50 Picture by Nicole Monseurrat pg.51 “Sugar High” by Marlon A. Billups pg.52 “Mind’s Loss” by Dylan Treend pg.53 Picture by Leonardo Ortiz pg.53 Photo by Krista McDonald pg.54-55 “Fire” by Virginia Buzzell pg.56 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.56 “League of Overactive Imagination” by Jessica Furtney pg.57 Photo by the yearbook staff pg.57 “She’s Changed” by Bianca Wiggins pg.58 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.59 “Man Weds 20 Women in One Year” by Bobby Dominy pg.60 “Draped Model” by Jay Robinson pg.61 “My Name is Javier” by Javier Molina pg.62 Picture by Lisa Dowden pg.63 “What You Do Not Know” by Ashlynne-Kate Chadwick pg.64 “I Should Be Able to Write This” by Marlon A. Billups pg.65 “My view of Reality” by Kierra Powell pg.66 “Ghostly Hobbies” by Marlon A. Billups pg.67 Photo by Scarlett Peterson pg.67 “Actions and Pens” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.68 “Bodybuilder Explodes” by Bianca Wiggins pg.69 Picture by Olivia Lovelady pg.70 “Microphone” by Lawrence White pg.71 “I Love Her” by Javier Molina pg.72 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.73 “The Female Language” by Shannon Adams and Bobby Dominy pg.74 “Adrian’s Adventure” by Ashunti Williams pg.75 Picture by Olivia Lovelady pg.76 “I Like Earlobes” by Bianca Wiggins pg.77 “Dreaming” by Taylor Nix pg.78 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.79 “Love” By Shannon Adams pg. 80 Picture by Jessica Furtney pg. 80 “A Warm Winter Afternoon” by Bri Felder pg.81 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.81 “Facebook Good or Bad” by Ashunti Williams pg.82 “War” by Taylor Nix pg. 83

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Alternate Endings Picture: “Alternate Endings” by Bianca Wiggins pg.84 “The Light” by Bobby Dominy pg.85 “Hill Harper” by Bradley Morgan pg.86 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.87 Photos by Lyndsey Shelton pg.88-89 “Unintimidated” by Bianca Wiggins pg.90 Picture by Bradley Morgan pg.91 “Bodybuilder Explodes” by Bri Felder pg.92 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.93 “The Terrible but True Case of Sir Theodore and Mr.Ted” by Virginia Buzzell pg.94-95 Photo by Erika Campbell pg.96 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.97 “Avery” by Bri Felder pg.98-99 “Defense Against the Dark Arts” by Jessica Causey pg.100 Photo by Jessica Causey pg.100 “Search for Knowledge” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.101-102 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.102 “Why” by Bianca Wiggins pg.103 “Champion Bullfighter Killed by Bulldozer” by Taylor Nix pg.104 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.105 “Dinner” by Felicity Watts pg.106-107 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.107 “Experiment 2866” by Felicity Watts pg.108-109 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.109 “Power Hungry” by Ausirus Billups pg.110 “The Death” by Bobby Dominy pg.111-112 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.113 “Tacgnol Strikes” by William Crouch pg.114-115 “Scarecrow” by Shannon Adams pg.116 Picture by Brentt Sappe pg.117 “Stranger Things Have Happened” by Erika Cottrell pg.118-119 “Courage” by Virginia Buzzell pg.120-121 Photo by Jessica Furtney pg.121 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.122 “The Melancholy of a Misogynist” by Bianca Wiggins pg.123-124 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.125 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.126 “Foreign Wilderness” by Lyndsey Shelton pg.127-128 Photo by Lyndsey Shelton pg.129 Photo by Olivia Lovelady pg.130 “Sirens” by Shannon Adams pg.131 “Hanging Heavily” by Clifford Patterson pg.132 Picture by KC Blackwell pg.132 “Marlene’s Stroganoff” by Laura Dominey pg.133 Picture by Abrianna Shealey pg.134 “Uninvited Guests” pg.135-136 Picture by Robert Gilstrap pg.137 Contributor Biographies pg. 138-140

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New Beginnings

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Picture By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

I Don’t Want to Leave Her But I have to I have to clean myself up.

I don’t understand what’s going on.

Mom seems fine to me.

I don’t want her around these things.

I want her to stay healthy, drug-free.

Why is everyone acting so strange?

Don’t all moms act like mine?

Even if they don’t, I love Mom,

I love her with all my heart.

She has to be taken away from me.

Why do I have to leave my mom?

I’ll ruin her life if I don’t do this

I don’t want to leave her! I want my mom!

They’re taking her away now.

It’s for the best.

It has to be.

Where are they taking me?

Foster care? But Why?

Why did I have to start that mess?

It wasn’t worth losing her.

I’m so scared. I don’t know these people. I want my mom.

I want her.

Thank God it was only one night.

But still, I can’t stop crying.

Now I’ll have to start all over.

I’ll have to do it all on my own.

I’ll be alone.

I still can’t have mom.

Why did they take her from me?

Now I have to live with my grandparents.

Better than that family, but I can’t live without her.

One day I’ll be clean again.

Maybe one day I’ll understand And we can finally stay together.

By B. F., 12th grade

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Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Photo by Shannon 9 Adams, 12th grade

10 Picture by Selena Brown, 11th grade

Sunshine There was once a boy named Tito who lived on an island in a small hut with his mother. One day the boy woke up and it was still dark. At first the boy thought he had woken up early so he went back to sleep, but when he woke up later it was still dark. Tito could not imagine why the sky had not changed, so he decided he would go and find out.

He got out of bed and began to get dressed. As he was putting his clothes on, Tito decided that the reason it was dark was that the sun was hiding, and if the sun was hiding, Tito was going to find it. But the question was where to look. Obviously the sky was his best bet, but if it was in the sky why couldn’t he see it? He started the search by looking towards the beach; the Ocean’s horizon seemed to stretch on forever. After a while, he decided the sun was not near the sea, so he began to look to the West, but there was nothing but sand dunes in that direction and he couldn’t imagine the sun hiding behind one of those. He began searching to the East but there was only a jungle in that direction. Tito began to lose hope but he could not give up. He had to find the sun. As Tito began to lose all faith, he had a sudden realization; the sun could be hiding behind the trees. This thought gave him so much hope he immediately ran into the jungle.

The deeper he got into the jungle the more hopeless it all seemed. What if he got to the other side of the jungle and the sun wasn’t there? Then his search would be in vain. Tito could not bear having to go all that way just to return empty handed, but then he had an idea. If he could climb one of the taller trees, he could look over the canopy and look for the sun. Tito walked around for a little bit more until he found a tree that seemed tall enough to help him find the sun. Tito began to climb the tree. It wasn’t very hard, he was used to climbing trees, but the darkness made it harder. So he would have to take his time. The higher he climbed, the more light the moon shone down. Soon he would be at the canopy and would be able to find the missing star. Finally after an hour of arduous climbing, he reached the top. Tito began to poke his head above the foliage but he was still not tall enough to get a good look around. He began to bounce on the balls of his toes to try and get a better view. Off in the distance he thought he saw something: maybe he’d found it! But before he could figure out what it was, the branch he was on snapped. It could no longer take his weight.

Tito began to fall. The strange green ground seemed to be rushing towards him. He braced for impact, waiting for the pain, but it never came. It was replaced by shocking cold. Tito opened his eyes. He was underwater. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he needed air. He swam for the surface. Once he reached it, he swam for shore. As he crawled onto the lake bed, he looked back at what he could have sworn was grass. I turned out to be a reflection of the canopy. Tito was tired now and this search no longer seemed like a good idea. He lay on his back in defeat, exhausted from the trip. He began to close his eyes and drift off.

Tito heard a loud screech and opened his eye. The sound came from a nearby tree. He cautiously made his way over and peered into the vegetation. There was a bird as bright as fire tangled in vines. It was frantically flapping around. Tito felt sorry for the creature, so he decided he’d help it out. He scrambled up into the tree and started untangling it from the vines. As Tito finished, the bird immediately flew away, shooting into the night sky like a comet. Tito watched transfixed.

The higher the bird flew, the better he could see it, almost as if it were carrying a torch. Suddenly in an explosion of blinding light, everything disappeared: the bird, the night, and the stars, all gone, replaced by beautiful sunshine.

By Javier Molina, 10th grade

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One, Two, Three One. Two. Three. That’s all it took. Within those three seconds, my world was flipped upside down, turned inside out, and life, as I knew it, would never be the same. Granted, I should have known that Catholic school wouldn’t last forever: eventually I’d have to grow up, move on, and start my life. Unfortunately, my only life for the past ten years had been Sacred Heart. I’d had the same classmates for the past ten years and the idea of moving on to high school, let alone public school, shook me to my core.

I can remember my first day at Tabor like it was yesterday: I wore a teal-colored tee shirt over a white, lace camisole, mid-rise jeans, a pair of black converse, and a silver, heart-shaped necklace I had swiped from my grandmother’s jewelry box. My hair, normally semi-curly and three times the girth, was somewhat contained (after a three hour fight with the blow dryer and straightener). Looking in the mirror that morning, I thought I looked amazing. My mother rambled on that my sister would pick me up after school in front of Tabor, while all I wanted to do was crawl back into my uniform and march into Mrs. Yann’s eighth grade classroom. I wasn’t even out of the car and I already missed the security of my middle school. One. Two. Three.

Mom kissed me on the cheek, told me to have a good day -“Call me when you get home and tell me how it went!” - and pushed me out of her car before speeding away. I stood there, culture shocked, for about a minute. A million thoughts ran through my head as I slowly walked to the door.

This was it? Where was I supposed to go? Homeroom? The cafeteria? My first period? Who would I sit with at lunch? My head was spinning with all these nauseating questions, and I wanted to run. I wanted to run away from Tabor, away from Northside and into the familiar arms of Sacred Heart. I wanted my old school back; I wanted my old friends, my teachers, my classes. I wanted to run after my mother and go home. The first day was a blur. I felt invisible, like I was standing in the middle of a room in front of everyone, crying out for help only to have my voice left unheard. I was drowning in a sea of angst and wanted someone to come rescue me or at least teach me how to swim. Yet, no one noticed: I was sinking while everyone else seemed to float. My first week was miserable: I had no friends (I was fresh off the bus from Catholic School and knew no one), I couldn’t tell the main building from the Career Tech building, and had to deal with the bus driver driving by my stop every day. I hated high school, and I was sure to make it known. My mother still held onto the notion of “Spirit Week” and “Football season” while my father assumed I’d just get over it. All the while I wanted to yell “I don’t care!” because I just wanted my old life back.

It took me almost a whole month to realize that my old life, no matter how much I missed it and how much I wanted it back, was over. I had to move forward. My attitude the first few weeks was: I hated my classes and felt rushed tying to get back and forth between bells. Every day at lunch was a struggle, and the list went on and on. Yet all the faults I saw in Northside soon came to be my favorite things: I came to love my classes (whether it be the teachers, my classmates, or the subject itself), realized that by taking a different route to class could take a little more time to chat with my friends (because by then I actually had friends) in the hallway, and my only wish to find people to sit with at lunch came true.

If I could go back in time to redo my freshman year, I wouldn’t. Of course I might tweak a few things (avoid a few people, fix my hair to avoid the disaster that was picture day, actually attempt to exempt biology), but in the end it was the choices I made that made me who I am today, and I wouldn’t change any of them. I was a scared little girl on the first day of high school. I didn’t realize that there were other people like me, who didn’t have a clue what they were doing. I realized that by using Sacred Heart as an excuse to hide, I was only hurting myself.

Now, Sacred Heart isn’t a crutch: it’s a memory. As silly as I seems, I always thought it would

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be the only place I could truly be myself. I was afraid that by moving on, I’d lose a part of my identity in exchange for someone who I knew I wasn’t just to please other people. Pubilius Syrus said ,“No one knows what he can do until he tries.” If I hadn’t taken the plunge and just went with it, I wouldn’t be the person I am today, and I’m thankful for that. Northside used to be an ocean of neverending worries and fears. Now, I can float.

By Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

13 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Who Do You Think You Are to Judge?

Who do you think you are to judge?

Why does it matter so much to you?

Is it really such a big deal?

Is it really so different?

Can’t you just try?

Can’t you give it up?

Do you need to say those things?

Do you need to spread those lies?

Am I so weird to be alright?

Am I wrong to hope for the best?

I refuse to let you affect me, I am stronger than your lies.

by Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

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Task Deception What’s in my head I’ve come to dread Taunting me with all my dreams And all of my schemes Making me see people I’d like to meet Seeing foods that are oh so sweet From my work it drags me away On task it seems impossible to stay Holding me accountable to all my greed Never knowing where my thoughts may lead Logic rewritten, and reality bent This certainly was not my original intent In complete comprehension I undoubtedly see Why in the world you’d be mad with me I apologize for not doing as you say Because I wrote this instead of the essay.

By Clifford Patterson, 12th grade

15 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Why Me? Why would you leave me so young?

Why can’t I remember you?

Do you ever think of me?

Have you ever been near me without me knowing?

Are you proud of how I’m growing?

Do you ever watch me perform?

Do you hear me when I say your name in my prayers?

Are you my guardian angel?

Even though you’re not near me, do you still protect me?

Have you ever tried to talk to me? Is it really you I see in my dreams?

By Felicity Watts , 12th grade

16 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

This Stretch of Beach The waves crashed. The surf boiled as the tide receded, leaving the sand smooth and unmarred. As the sun rose over the water, the waves flushed a golden red, greeting the day.

The stretch of sand started to dry, and a lone crab scuttled across it, dancing its awkward dance. The beach showed its passing in the little dots and dashes, the Morse code of its footprints.

A seagull landed on the stretch of beach, picking at the sand, looking for the tiny crab that was long gone. It started and took flight.

“Bird! Bird!” The little boy that startled the bird chased after it, his small bare feet leaving tiny marks in the sand. “Look! Look! Look…” His voice trailed away on the wind as he continued his chase.

“Look how he runs. He’s getting so big!” his mother thought to herself as she added her footprints to the collage of prints on the stretch of sand.

“He used to be so little…”

“Little bit farther!” the jogger panted, pushing herself, disappearing down the beach and past the mother and child. “Then I can pause to…”

“Catch it! Catch it!” A group of teenagers with a Frisbee ran across the stretch of sand, their shoes leaving signs in the sand. The disc fell to the sand, leaving its story, and one of the kids scooped it up as they ran on.

“Don’t drop it again! Look…”

“Look how the light catches your hair. You’re beautiful,” the man whispered to his bare-footed fiancé, intertwining his hand with hers, as together, they left their footprints on the stretch of sand. They quickened their step, just avoiding the chilled water as the tide rushed in, then receded, leaving the sand smooth and unmarred.

By Shannon Adams, 12th grade

17 Photo by Shannon Adams, 12th grade

Fortune Favors the Brave Climbing shakily up the steps of the stage, I frantically hummed the melody of my tryout song. I stepped onto the duct-tape X on the center of the floor, wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, and looked out into the audience. People stared back at me. Some cheered me on with encouraging smiles, some didn’t even pay attention. But still, this was it, the moment I’d been practicing for. I opened my mouth, sang in a high, squeaky voice, and scurried off the stage. “Wow, way to blow it,” I thought. It was actually pretty traumatic.

I felt like all my hard work was for nothing. Once I got onstage, I was so nervous, I forgot everything, and my voice got pinched and wobbly. I was still proud of myself for building up the nerve to get in front of eighty people and sing, but my voice was nowhere near as good as the other kids trying out for One Act. I would never make callbacks.

Imagine my surprise the next day when I saw my name on the callback sheet for reading a part for dancing. I nearly passed out, and seriously, was giddy with relief and amazement. It was weird, but things got weirder. Later in the week, I landed an actual speaking role in One Act. Never, in my wildest dreams, had I thought I could do that.

On the day of tryouts, I had the notion of not being good enough to be in One Act. I had debated taking the bus home, like I would have any other day, and forgetting the whole thing. But I pushed that out of my head and tried out anyway. It took a lot of courage, knowing that I wasn’t really that talented of a singer. And look where I am now. I really can say I believe that “fortune favors the brave.” I think that if you really truly want something, and you have the guts to go out and get it, there won’t be much stopping you.

If I hadn’t tried out, I would be coming him after school every day, do homework, maybe try and get a job. But now I get to spend after school with my friends, practicing for something that is a huge part of Northside. I thank God for giving me the bravery to get up and sing, so that fortune would be in my favor.

By Allison Broeils, 11th grade

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19 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

The Ghost of 318 A chill wind passed through the trees on Highland University’s campus, showering gold and burgundy leaves down onto the cobbled walkways. The warm red buildings that normally looked so alive and inviting were cold and foreboding in the autumn light. Students hurried along the paths, shoulders hunched, shrouded in blacks and grays, some pale and drawn, others red-eyed and sniffling. A funeral had taken place that morning. A funeral for a young man of 21, taken from life too early.

That man was me.

Or should I say is me? The body of me at least. I was hit by a drunk driver walking back from work one night. I remember seeing the lights, hearing the screeching tires, and then there was pain.

Shouting broke through my foggy mind. “Need an IV….broken….name, Alec Hart….not gonna make it….” Then blackness took me. I didn’t relive my life in some dreamy procession of scenes; there was no warm light or tunnel, just darkness, darkness and silence, all around, consuming me. And then the clarity came, clarity like I’d never known before. I was dead. I was really and truly dead, and though it was odd to think of, I wasn’t sad or scared, it felt right, like I knew it was my time. The next thing that came was a sudden weight and I felt like I was dragged down and down, through endless time and space until I found myself at my own funeral, watching it not from the air, but from the empty space beside the preacher.

I have to admit, I was touched by the number of people that came, many of whom I hadn’t realized felt a connection to me in any way. Right in front of the crowd was my family, all silent and crying, holding onto each other like they’d blow into dust with the next breeze. My heart ached for them, but I was distracted by an obvious absence. My best friend since first grade and current, or maybe former now, roommate at the university, Louis Ross, wasn’t anywhere in the crowd or the cemetery. He was supposed to be there, we’d known each other too long and been too good of friends for him to not be.

As soon as the service was over, I left to find the man I’d thought was my friend. Every one of his hang outs were dead ends though: the pizza parlor that we worked at was closed today, the college commons was almost empty, he wasn’t under his favorite shade tree, not that the bare branches offered much shade now, the library and dorm lobby were also almost empty. I finally went to check the dorms. I found our room, 318, much the same way it was before my death. My half of the room was littered with band posters and instruments, a stack of blank music sheets still on my desk, Louis’ side held an odd collection of book and movie paraphernalia, though it was much more organized than my side ever was. Curled up on the narrow bed was Louis, his lanky form twisted under the covers, face pale and sunken under his auburn hair. To my shock a needle sat on the night stand and as I looked, I saw tell-tale bruises on his arm.

Stepping back as the realization settled over me, I looked him over sadly. My closest friend, the wonderful kind man I’d known so long, was doing this to himself? I’d thought he’d be smarter than this. Approaching carefully, I tried to touch his hand only to see my fingers pass right through. This did elicited a reaction however, Louis shivered and cracked open a vacant grey eyes to scan the room, he paused to look at my bed a moment before rolling away and putting his back to it and stilling once more.

I could only watch him sadly and watch I did. Over the next few weeks I witnessed my belongings being removed from the dorm, I saw my other friends coming to terms with my death, even my family beginning to smile and laugh again after days of mourning, but Louis only got worse.

With each day that passed, he sank further and further into his depression and into drugs. He was soon skipping classes, he stopped going out with friends, it became rare for him to even leave the

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lonely room 318 in fact.

On one of his rare outings to do the laundry, I followed him as always, keeping a worried and stressed eye on him, but I noticed a heat on my back. At first I thought it was someone gawking at Louis yet again, but when I stopped, the heat stayed on me, not on Louis. Turning fully, I saw a girl sitting across the lobby watching me intently. It was Marie Jenkins, a self-proclaimed freak and eternal pessimist. I’d never talked to her much before, but I’d heard she did séances and other weird and creepy things. Figuring that it couldn’t hurt to try, I walked toward her, amazed when her eyes followed my every step.

When I was standing right in front of her, I couldn’t help but tilt my head curiously. “So the rumors were true, you can see me….well, ghosts at least, not just me.” I said slowly, half expecting my voice to crack from days of silence, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore, having no physical voice box to worry about.

Marie tilted her head as well, but nodded slightly. Standing smoothly, she motioned for me to follow as she headed outside. I didn’t pause more than a second before walking along behind her.

I was dead already so there was little more that could be done to me. Not to mention the fact that Marie could be my only shot at fixing things.

Once outside and walking along a nearly empty path, Marie began to talk, eyes glued to the bricked walkway before her. “You’ve been here almost a month now, what’s making you stay here Alec? You can’t possibly want to stay her for all eternity can you?”

A small bubble of rage rose in my stomach at her words. Had she really known I’d been here for a month, and only now that I approached her was she even acknowledging me? Swallowing down my anger, I slowly shook my head. “I have to set things right with Louis before I move on. You know him, my roommate, Louis Ross.”

Marie was silent a moment. “You’re worried about his addiction aren’t you?” she asked softly, when she received no reply, she could only sigh. “I’m not sure that there is much that can be done for him.”

“Of course there is something that can be done for him!” I shouted. “He knows what he is doing is wrong, I can see it in his eyes every day, he’s just stuck. He needs someone to help him.” I knew Louis could beat this, I knew he could pull himself out of this rut he’d gotten himself into, but he couldn’t do it on his own. “You have to help.”

“I don’t have to do anything Alec, and don’t you dare assume otherwise.” She snapped, turning toward me with a glare. “You never did anything for me in your life and I have no connections with Louis.”

“Exactly, I didn’t do anything to you! I left you to your own, I was never cruel or cold to you and I know for a fact Louis has tried to befriend you before, yet you were the one to push him away.”

I shot back coldly, effectively shutting her up for a short time.

Pausing, she fidgeted with the sleeves of her jacket, seeming to try and figure out exactly what to say. After a long silence, she looked up at me, nodding slightly. “Fine. I’ll try to help, but if it doesn’t work, I’m going to stop and you will leave me alone, no matter if you can move on or not.”

She whispered.

It took all my strength not to show my relief as I nodded my agreement. Leading her back to the dorm and the laundry room that Louis was using, I had to keep stopping to wait for her, having grown so used to walking right through people that I got several yards ahead without any effort.

“You should invite him to a movie this weekend. Maybe the Friday the Thirteenth marathon at the old town theatre. He’d have trouble turning that down,” I said slowly, looking back at her expectantly until she nodded her assent.

When we got to the laundry room, I quickly came to Louis’ side, looking him over quickly to see if he’d done anything he shouldn’t in the short time I’d been gone. He sat in a chair by the

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window, staring out the window absently, seeming almost zombie-like. Looking between him and Marie, I frown. “Well? Go ahead.” I say quickly.

Glaring at me a moment, Marie slowly stepped forward. “Hey Louis…” she said lightly, sitting on the edge of the table in the center of the room. “I heard that you like movies and I won two tickets to that marathon in town this weekend….Maybe you could come with me?” she said smoothly, seeming completely innocent in her words and actions.

Louis only turned his grey eyes onto her, expression not changing for a long time, though a spark of recognition lit in his eyes at the mention of the marathon. I had planned on taking him as a surprise before my death, so I knew he’d love it. Finally a small hint of a smile pulled at his lips.

“That….that would be nice…” he whispered. This alone floored me. He actually gave her a real reaction.

Marie nodded and told him where and when to meet her before turning on her heel and leaving without a word. I wanted to follow and thank her, but I doubted that she’d appreciate that much, so I stayed by Louis. I stayed by him the next two days and was losing hope that he’d pull himself together for the ‘date’, but early on Saturday, he woke up and got ready to go to the movie marathon. If that wasn’t miracle enough, the fact that Marie was actually waiting there with two tickets almost made me feel like I was dying a second time.

Louis was completely unresponsive to her at first, but as they walked to the theatre, he began to give her short responses and even make an effort to ask questions every now and then. Marie was clearly unhappy with the whole situation initially, frowning at him and rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking, but after a few responses from Louis, she seemed to relax. By the time they made it to the theatre, Marie seemed completely at ease and Louis was showing more life in him than he had in a long time.

This left me almost feeling like a third wheel. I had already fallen far behind them as they walked and when they sat in the theatre, I decided to sit in the projector room instead. Watching them from the little window, I was honestly surprised by how well it seemed to be going. Louis even managed a chuckle or two at Marie’s jokes! Who knew that she could be so good for him?

The rest of the day flew by as I watched Louis continue to interact with Marie and by the time we got back to campus, they’d already decided to meet again for the sci-fi marathon next weekend.

And so the next two months flew by, Every weekend Louis and Marie would meet up to go to the theatre, even going out to lunch with each other every now and then, every weekend I’d watch from a distance as Louis smiled and laughed. Through the week he seemed to be a little more active, going out of the dorm more, attending classes again, hanging out on the lawns with friends.

By the time winter set in fully, Marie came to seek me out and pulled me aside to a private study room. “How is he doing?” she asked slowly, something more clearly on her mind.

“He’s doing better. He’s not shooting up as much and he’s awake a lot more than he used to be.” I answered, almost sounding like a proud mom or something. I knew he could do it and she hadn’t believed me. I almost wanted to say ‘I told you so’.

“Good, good.” She mumbled distractedly. Finally looking to me, she frowned. “He’ll continue to do better from now on Alec….so I think it’s about time you consider moving on, going where you belong.” She said quietly, eyes not leaving mine. “You know you don’t belong here.” She added.

Pausing in shock, my mouth fell open before I looked down at my hands. I knew I didn’t belong, I could feel it, but I didn’t want to leave either. I’d grown accustomed to my life as a ghost, as the ghost of room 318, as the phantom of Highland University. It felt like giving up on life almost, even if I was already dead. “I’m not sure I know how any more.” I admitted.

“Talk to Louis….say your last goodbyes to your family, the rest will take care of itself.” She said, seeming to want to touch me, but knowing she couldn’t. And I had to admit that I felt like I need

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a hand to hold at the moment.

Not saying anything to her, I turned and left the study room, passing right through the wall to think on my own. I had to seriously consider if I was ready for this, if I was strong enough to let myself move on. I had no idea what was beyond this, no idea where or if I’d even be going. What if I just faded from existence all together? Would it hurt? Would I even know what was happening?

Despite that, I knew I had little choice. I’d have to move on. I’d have to go on or watch everyone I knew slowly fade away and be left almost completely alone, no one even knowing I existed any more. So with a heavy heart, I went to my home, watched my family and came to terms with leaving them. I knew that no matter what had happened, I loved them and they loved me, so I had no reason to regret leaving them behind. There was nothing to be fixed that wasn’t already understood.

That evening I went back to room 318 and to Louis. Sitting on the desk, I watched him for a long time before letting out a slow breath. “Well, who would’ve thought that it would come to this Louis? Me, trying to say goodbye, and you, unable to hear me.” I chuckled, looking to my hands. The sound of Louis scribbling away on his homework claimed the following silence and then I smiled.

“You’re doing good Louis. You’re doing real good. You’ll overcome these drugs soon and you’ll move on and I’ll watch from wherever I end up. You’ll have kids and a life and when we finally meet again when your time comes, I’ll let you hear it for putting me through this man. You’ll be just fine from now on, I know it.” I nodded, slowly standing. Stepping forward, I reached out, figuring I could stop my hand before it went through his shoulder and fool myself into believing I had accomplished something, but this time my hand actually hit something solid. It didn’t pass through!

Head snapping up, Louis looked around, having clearly felt the touch. Then his eyes settled on me just as I felt the weight I’d felt when I was being pulled back to earth. “Alec?” he asked softly, eyes huge.

Giving him a small smile, I nodded. Raising my hand in a final goodbye, I chuckled. “Ask Marie about everything. I’ll be seeing you.” I smiled before I was finally released from my holds on this world, fading from his sights.

By Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

23 Photo By Erika Campbell, 12th grade

Sylvie “Sylvie, hand me that drop.” Lydia was sitting on a pebble doing her hair. Sylvie scrambled to get the water droplet she pointed at, picking it up between her hands and carrying it towards her sister. She gazed at it longingly, wishing there were enough perfect drops for her to have one. Her sisters, Lydia and Aria, always got the perfect drops, and rarely shared with her. The droplets made their hair beautiful and glossy, replenishing the body of it and filling it out. “Now, Sylvie!” Lydia yelled impatiently, smoothing her hair. Sylvie thrust the drop roughly towards her, feeling insolent.

They sat in a cavern under the waterfall that was their home, but the walls of the cavern were not stone, like those of most caverns. They were beautiful and translucent, made entirely of water, just like the nymphs that lived in side them. The water nymphs, for that’s what they were, had lived in this cavern and the surrounding pools for as long as they could remember. They didn’t know where they came from, only that it was their job to keep things running the in society of the waterfall.

Gazing at the sides of the cavern, Sylvie caught her reflection, and grimacing, turned away.

To her she was hideous, a thought that her sisters reinforced often. She hated her drab hair, never as shiny or luxurious as her sisters’, and she loathed her dark complexion. Her sisters were the most beautiful water nymphs she could imagine. Although, considering it was only the three of them in the waterfall she supposed her experience was limited. She loved Lydia’s crystal clear being with her glossy hair, and she couldn’t help but envy Aria’s coloring. She looked like sunshine sparkling on ice.

24 Picture By Abrianna Shealey, 12th Grade

Sylvie, on the other hand, had a deep bluish color and her hair had the twists and curls of a rough waterfall, unlike her sisters’ hair, which flowed delicately like a calm mountain stream.

It had never been a question of who was the least beautiful of the three of them. The debate had always been between Lydia and Aria about who of the two of them was the most beautiful.

“Sylvie! Now I need one!” Aria screeched. “That one! Bring me that one!” she pointed to where the splashing waterfall left perfect teardrops on the rock floor. Aria was pointing at the most beautiful, round droplet that Sylvie had ever seen. It was perfect. Aria turned away; sure that Sylvie would get her what she demanded. Used to doing just that, Sylvie retrieved the droplet and stared on enviously as it filled out and smoothed Aria’s incandescent hair.

“Perfect, now we’ll both be beautiful for the meeting with Theo,” Lydia said.

“One more beautiful that the other, sister.” Aria replied.

Lydia smirked, “Too true.”

As her sisters continued their snide exchange Sylvie slipped away to her favorite pool. It was small and mossy, on of the few below their waterfall that reached the surface. But best of all, it was deep, So deep in fact, that when she looked down to the bottom, she saw the exact color that she was herself. It was perfect for escaping her sisters and hiding away for as long as she wanted.

She dove deep into the pool, to a small cave in the face of the rock, and tucked herself away.

She thought of the meeting with Theo that her sisters were so excited about. Theo was a gorgeous, alluring earth nymph who took care of matters on the land surrounding the sisters’ waterfall. Lydia and Aria were constantly vying for his attention, and although Sylvie usually attended the monthly meetings with him, she kept it strictly business. What was the point of flirting with him when he could have Lydia, Aria, or, she assumed, a whole spectrum of earth nymphs.

As she thought, time passed and it was soon time for the meeting. Aria and Lydia came looking for her.

“Sylvie! It’s time!” Aria yelled. Lydia swam into Sylvie’s pool, looking around.

Maybe if I don’t say anything they will go away. They can have Theo to themselves. Sylvie thought to herself.

“Sylvie, come on!” Lydia yelled, but sure enough, when Sylvie didn’t come forward, they went away.

She snuggled into her little nook happily, and went quietly to sleep.

When she awoke, it was long past time for the meeting to be over. She stretched, looking upwards. Through the water she could just see the fire of the sunset consuming the sky.

A small smile played on her lips as she slipped out of her little cave and swam to the surface.

She splashed a little at the edge of the pool, playing in the water, and watched as a small school of tiny fish swarmed around her legs. As they swam away she leaned contentedly on a rock at the edge of her pool, and watched the sunset.

“Hello,” The voice came from a spot a little way to her left. With a small sound of surprise, Sylvie looked up to see Theo.

“Oh, hi.” She said, self-consciously smoothing her hair.

“We missed you at the meeting,” he said, slipping his feet into the water as he sat on a rock next to her. An earthy color spread from his legs and into the water. It’s wasn’t dirt exactly, more clean and pure than that. It was more like the essence of nature.

“Oh, yeah, I….uh, feel asleep.” She said, feeling lame.

Theo smiled, highlighting his sparkling eyes. The sunset shining off of his hair and earthy skin made him look even more radiant than normal.

“Well, that’s alright,” he sighed, but his mouth quirked up on one side, “except for the fact that I had to deal with your sisters alone.”

Sylvie couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud.

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Theo laughed too. “You know them!” He said in his defense. “You can’t blame me.”

“No, no,” Sylvie manage between giggles, “I don’t blame you at all. It’s funny,” she took a deep breath, composing herself, “because they argue over which one of them you like better, and you don’t like them at all!” She couldn’t help but grin.

Theo looked taken aback. “No, I don’t like them. Don’t you know that?”

“No, why would I?” Sylvie was still smiling.

Theo’s eyes darkened. “Because Sylvie,” he said, his voice growing serious, “I like you.”

Sylvie was so shocked she slipped off of her rock. Laughing and spluttering, she resurfaced.

“Me. You’re kidding!”

Theo was grinning. “Not at all.”

Sylvie sobered and leaned towards him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” Theo smiled at her bewilderment. “Your sisters are so superficial, not to mention that they look almost exactly the same. But you, you have the best personality. You know how to focus when you need to. You have the most beautiful coloring, like the deepest water, and your hair isn’t flat and boring like theirs. You are beautiful Sylvie.” He reached down and caught her hand, pulling it up to his lips for a gentle kiss.

A drop of water rolled off of her fingertip, pulling with it the slighted brown and green from his skin. It fell to the ground, landing on earth and seeping in. Sylvie watched, transfixed, and as she watched Theo pulled her up and out of the water. Together they watched, and from the very spot the droplet fell sprouted a small green plant, the first either of them had ever seen. Before their eyes, it grew. Taller and taller it grew until before them it stood, a beautiful, living tree, the first of its kind.

And so it was that water and earth combined to create new life, and the very first tree was born.

By Shannon Adams, 12th grade

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27 Photo by Erika Campbell, 12th grade

Incoming!

Prior to the start of this mystical week – known as Spirit Week by the veteran students of Northside – freshmen were anxious to finally witness for themselves what they have heard so much about from older siblings and friends in their middle school days. They came harboring their digital cameras and high expectations for the most anticipated week ahead.

Those expectations were met September 26th.

The rough and tired Tabor carpets are overwhelmed with glitter. Childhood Disney favorites are posted at every corner. Lights illuminate the once shadowy corridors festively. Northside and Tabor alike has been thrust magically into a mystical fairytale realm; the freshmen are especially responding to the change. Mimicking the upperclassmen, these bold batches of ninth graders are celebrating the special week.

Paint brightens their young visages. The festive freshmen bring out their hats, pom-poms, orange, white and blue feather boas. These groups of ninth graders are not bashful in any way.

Other freshmen, who are not as fortunate to dress as ostentatiously settle for simple face paint and temporary tattoos.

Spirit week is not nearly as structured as spirit weeks in middle schools. The leniency, the freedom, the extra excitement… Those are factors that leave the freshmen in awe. High school is a place in which they can roam free. Although they do not always know how to responsibly and maturely harness this newfound freedom, freshmen are enjoying the fact that, for once, they are not shunned but are a part of the blue and white spirit that is Northside High.

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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29 Picture by Lisa Dowden, 12th grade

In This Life...

In this life, I’m a man, but in my next life, I want to be a computer.

Computers are naturally brilliant, having access to info from all over the world. They get to play games all day, and never run out of things to do. Although they sometimes run a little slow, they still process faster than most men. Computers are supposed to get bugs, but never to get flu shots.

They can win at Jeopardy in a second, and proved to you that you’re wrong. The knowledge of a computer is rarely ever challenged. When was the last time you doubted a calculator? Or a phone?

An iPad? Computers are trusted daily, to get the job done, but even when they are wrong, they never get called dumb.

In this life, I’m a man, but in my next life, I want to be a computer.

By Bobby Dominy, grade 12

In this life I am a human, but in my next life I’d like to be a safe.

Safes hold on to valuable things. Who wouldn’t want to have fine jewelry, money, or top secret information? Safes, unlike humans, will always hold on to your secrets, they were made to be trustworthy. Also unlike humans, safes never lose things. They either have them, or they don’t, and it is someone else’s fault if something isn’t there that should be. Safes also have locks, so they don’t open up to everyone, or to the wrong people. With safes, what they look like doesn’t matter; it is what’s on the inside that is most important.

Yup in this life I’m a human, but in my next life I’d like to be a safe.

By Bri Felder, Grade 12

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The World Is an Oyster The world is an Oyster Open Before Me And I, a grain of sand That sits upon its Tongue.

Will I unite with my Quartz Brothers And I become a Pearl?

Or will tide and minute efforts Bring me to the crustacean’s edge?

My friend, do not fret That we specks cannot wrest from the tide.

Does not the pulsing beat of Quartz Mark time for man himself?

And though we call this shell our Home Is there not an Ocean waiting Those who accept the Light, Piercing the edges of our realm’s Darkness?

So yes, accept your dusthood And know that there is so much more, But never lie to me and say That a Grain of Sand does not matter in our Oyster.

By Thomas Ray, Grade 12th

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32

33 Photos by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Answers

Yes, I’m from Puerto Rico.

Yes, I have a lot of vans.

Yes, I know my father; he is a stand-up kind of man.

Yes, I have siblings, a brother and sister I can’t stand.

Yes, I play instruments.

No, I’ve never been in band.

Yes, I make music; almost 1,000 followers listen for my songs.

If you’re okay with all of this, then we could get along.

By Lawrence White, 12th grade

No, I’m not black at all.

Yes, I do smile.

No, I don’t play basketball.

No, I don’t speak Puerto Rican; that’s not a language.

Yes, I’m always this sarcastic.

No, I won’t speak Spanish for you.

No, I don’t know why I’m so tall, didn’t really have a choice.

Yes, my hair is naturally curly.

Yes, Spanish is an easy A.

By Javier Molina, 10th grade

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35 Picture by Amanda Geiger, 10th grade

Of Remote Controls and War (Somewhere in Wisconsin) News Anchor: “The President of the United States has just signed an official peace treaty with the Russian ambassador. This promises to prevent any future war between the two countries. As a part of this treaty, both countries will fully disclose the locations of all nuclear warheads. In local news, the police are hot on the trail of a missing piece of military equipment. It is thought to have been lost in….”

Bill: (Swigging a beer while scratching stomach) Well that’s a load of crap, no paper prevents war idjits….

Lily: (Walks in with house robe on) What you complainin’ about Bill?

Bill: Just politicians and them thinkin’ they can fix the world with words and paper. (reaches for remote) I’m tired of this.

Lily: That the new TV remote? Don’t it look kinda weird?

Bill: (Shrugs) I think it’s just one of them new fangled things. I think it’s supposed to control more than just the TV and cable. (flips channel) (The whole house starts to shake) Lily: (Nearly falling over. Woah! Bill, is that a quake? We ain’t supposed to have quakes!

Bill: (Shrugs) I don’t know, it’s not that bad though. Think of it like a big massage. (Flips channel again) (A large hole opens in the yard and the tip of a missile can be seen) Lily: (Runs to the window) Bill, Bill! Look at this!

(Bill gets up to look and drops remote in shock, smashing a button and missile launches into the sky) Lily: (Silent for a moment) What was that? (looks to remote on floor) Bill, this says top secret….Bill, this ain’t no remote, this launches missiles!

(Bill passes out) Lily: Look what you done now Bill…. Look what you done now….

By Lyndsey Shelton and Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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37 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Be Led By Your Dreams “Don’t be pushed by your problems, be led by your dreams.”

114th Martinez Avenue, located in uptown Guaynabo, Puerto Rico. That location may not sound like much to you, but anyone who has lived in the Eastside or Westside of the city understands how serious of a situation it is. Just a mention of the road can turn a happy smile into a stone-face stare.

114th was not a good place to be at whether day or night. It had become so bad, businesses refused to open on the road because tension was riding to a dangerously high level, and nobody wanted to be there when the boiling point finally was reached. Police were positioned 24/7 on the road but that didn’t stop anyone. In fact there were numerous incidents in which police were attacked and injured.

The Eastside/Westside drama started over the death of a guy from the Eastside named Remy.

Word was Remy was jumped, robbed, then killed by the Westside. When the Eastside found out about Remy’s wrongful death there was nothing but bad intentions on their mind, which resulted in the death of Anajandro from the Westside. Anajandro was one of the many people believed was the main culprit involved in the Remy killing. Just like that it was all out war, and nobody was safe.

At this point I was 15. I had already moved from Puerto Rico, but I was back visiting during the summer. It had been about 3 years since the Remy/Anajandro killings, and although nobody else had been killed, the situation wasn’t getting any better. If you were from the Eastside you knew better than to go to the Westside and vice versa. But at this point I started getting serious about making music. My cousin owned a studio and he told me I could come record whenever I wanted. I was elated with joy that I was going to record. I asked him where his studio was and guess where he told me…114th Martinez Avenue. Not only that but it was far down 114th, so far in fact that to get there I’d have to cross the imaginary line that separated the East and Westside, and unless you had a death wish, that is something you never did.

I went home angry and disappointed about the fact that I wouldn’t get a chance to record. As I sat wallowing in my self pity, my grandma walked in and asked me what was wrong. She thought I’d come home happy after my cousin said he’d let me go to his studio.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go with your cousin tomorrow?” she asked me.

“I’m not going,” I replied back.

“Why not?” she said. “ ‘Cause then I’d have to go to the Westside and I don’t have a death wish,” I responded. What she told me after that I will never forget.

She said “Boy, you sound like a coward right now. So what some punks might mess with you, hell they might jump you, but if I’m not mistaken you’re the same one that used to fight anyone, anytime, no matter what whether you thought you’d win or not. What’s the difference now? Because they live in a different place? I’m not gonna make you go, but I will tell you: don’t make a decision by fear, don’t be pushed by your problems, be led by your dreams.” Then she walked out, and when she left she took my fear with her. After that I had no doubt in my mind. I was going and nobody or no side was gonna stop me.

By Lawrence White, 12th grade

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Picture By Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade39

Homecoming Music blaring to people dancing on the floor, the bass so loud it rocks me to my core. Laughter excitement, and joy fill the air, reminiscing and memories being shared everywhere.

I did not come here to just dance. I came to remember the best times of my youth. I came to feel the way I did many years ago.

This is a way to celebrate how far we’ve come. We never let go, we never gave up, we never gave into the pressures of life. We have persevered and conquered all that’s come our way.

I am here to think back and laugh on some good times. I am here, not only to party, but to remember reasons to live.

By Javier Molina, 10th grade

Homecoming Queen Elegance. Compassion. Loyalty. Smarts.

All of these make up a homecoming queen’s heart.

A dream most wouldn’t dare to dream to achieve.

No one has the heart and the love, to believe.

Attention all on her as she glances around the center of the stage.

She knows shes broken out of her locked cage.

Dreams break free and become reality.

She’s the one with the crown: the homecoming queen.

By Alexis O’Brien, 11th grade

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41 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

The Indecisive Queen Listen to me ramble on about the color It looks better on me than on others Look at the structure; how does it feel?

Is it heavy? Is it real?

What am I going to wear?

How will I do my hair?

Should my jewelry be silver or gold?

Did everyone vote that I told?

Will my gown be short or long?

Will I dance to my favorite song?

Who will be my king?

Once I get the crown, will there be a ring?

Should I give a speech and thank them all?

Wait, some didn’t vote for me, so should names be called?

So much excitement I think I’m going to scream!

I just want to be your HOMECOMING QUEEN!

By Ashunti Williams, 10th grade

Homecoming Here we go again.

I’m back where I started, Although it feels like only seconds since I departed.

It’s sad because what happened is exactly what we feared, That we’d go our separate ways and lose touch thru the years.

But alas,the time has approached to come together for a reunion.

Relationships put on pause can finally start resuming.

Maybe we can all connect again.

At least for a night we’ll channel the “past us.”

You know, hone something.

The past is now the present again.

Welcome to homecoming.

By Lawrence White, 12th grade

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43 Picture by Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

Dreaming to dream is to escape to escape is to relieve to relieve is to be yourself to be yourself is to achieve what you dream is up to you so what you achieve can only be true to who you are and what you do my dreams are wild my dreams are free my dreams show who I am and who I want to be whether they’re dreams at night or during the day let your dreams take you far, far away let them make you feel like you can do anything let them show you the joy that they can bring when you dream relief is increased secret thoughts and feelings are released problems of the world are ceased and an escape is found at the very least so dream many dreams and have fun for when you wake, your peace is done

By Angeline Eugene, 11th grade

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45 Photo by Krista McDonald 12th grade

New Beginnings Never have we had to face the challenges, and pressures of the new world, but now it’s time to face the music.

Over the years we’ve grown as a unit, never to be denied our opportunity at success.

We were given the tools to lead; will we fail or succeed in our quest to a better life?

We’ve started a new path, with past encouragement, we will see through.

Our life lessons of yesterday, are our backbones for a brighter tomorrow, here’s to new beginnings.

Every reason for living, is every reason for succeeding, they go hand in hand.

You are never in this world alone.

By Le’Paris Hall, 11th grade

46 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Telling the Story

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Picture by Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

The Dolphin’s Ode to the Sea Waves of magic, luxurious power.

Caught in a great blue realm of fantasy.

Something I can’t control comes over me.

I dive into your gold any hour.

Never to be mad and never sour.

Laying in you, a blanket of pure glee.

Covered in safety and serenity.

Desired like soil with no flower.

Given such a precious gift, life within.

So enormously vital to my being.

I pray to the gods I am not dreaming.

I give all in honor of your waters.

Ready to ascend and commit myself.

With never ending love that can be felt.

By Felicity Watts, 12th grade

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Photo by Shannon Adams 12th grade

Acta Non Verba I’d decided to walk to school that morning. The bus would’ve been more convenient but the walk helped clear my head, and I really needed some clarity. I was having problems in school again, and this problem had a name: Francesco Castello. People say that bullies are just insecure. Well, I disagree. Francesco was not some kid who took out his frustrations out on others. He was just a jerk.

Ever since I could remember, Francesco was making life miserable for his peers. Whether he was pushing someone around or degrading some poor kid in the most elaborate way possible, he was always starting something. Conflict was a way of life for him, and I was no stranger to conflict.

Nathan had been in his share of fights. He’d given beatings, and taken them too. In all his life Nathan had never seen himself as a violent person. Sure, he enjoyed a good old-fashioned fist fight, but was there something wrong with that? The way Nate saw it, fights were good. They taught lessons, helped build character, and showed you what kind of person you truly were. Because how much can you really know about yourself until you’re in a fight? The answer is nothing; one can only assume. With that in mind, Nathan evaluated himself. He came to the conclusion that he was a fairly decent person. Aside from the fighting, Nate was a pretty good guy. He was easy going, funny, and bold. That doesn’t mean he didn’t have his faults, though. Nathan was stubborn. He didn’t like being wrong and always had something to say. His mouth had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but what could you expect from someone like Nathan? Conflict was in his nature.

Today went by like a blur, up until I was leaving school. I was walking through the parking lot when Francesco blindsided me. He came out of nowhere and pushed me to the ground. What was this guy’s problem? He was unprovoked, and yet here he was shoving me. The only time other than now that I could remember someone wanting to fight me for no reason was in second grade.

This kid had been making fun of my shirt so I told him if he didn’t shut up I’d punch him in his face.

It only shut him up for like five minutes, then he was at it again. I soon realized if I didn’t actually do something, he’d never leave me alone. So I punched him, right in his face. It may not have been the best way to resolve things, but it worked. He didn’t say anything else. I’d never learned such a valuable lesson: Actions speak louder than words. I was still thinking about the fight when Francesco interrupted my thoughts.

“Get up!” he yelled.

I stood up. I was looking at Francesco now, and I couldn’t tell who was madder between us now, not that I cared why he was so angry. He hadn’t gotten knocked down. Not yet…

“Don’t look so surprised,” said Francesco, “you’re the one who—” I didn’t let him finish. I kicked him in his stomach, and Francesco doubled over. I took this opportunity to land a solid punch on his jaw, which knocked him on his back. I don’t know what’d taken over me. It was like someone had flipped a switch from average teenager to Jean Claude van damme. I didn’t stop to question it. I proceeded to wail on him, and I didn’t stop until I felt better. I went home that day, thinking about what Francesco has started to say. What had I done? I couldn’t think of anything. I eventually just fell asleep. The next day I got a serious lecture from the principal. I didn’t see what I did wrong. Francesco had started it. It’s not my fault that I had to finish it.

And what did Mrs. Blackwood expect? Conflict was my nature.

By Javier Molina, 10th grade

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Why Won’t She Listen?

Why won’t she let me go?

I’ve told her a thousand times already.

It’s just a party.

No matter how much she asks, my answer is still the same.

All my friends are going.

Why can’t I go?

She knows full well why she can’t go.

So what if everyone else there is in college?

I don’t want her to be hanging around those sharlatons and I don’t want her staying out that late.

So what if the party lasts till One O’clock.

I don’t want my little girl to get hurt.

I’m in the seventh grade.

I’m not a baby anymore.

I don’t care if she gets upset, I make the rules in this house.

This is just not fair.

Why won’t she listen?

By Taylor Nix, 12th grade

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51 Picture by Nicole Monserrat, 11th grade

Sugar High Super green cherry pop, Looking at the candy store Eating chewing Om nom noming On that sugar sweet.

I’m sugar high, I won’t lie I’m candy crinkle crackle crunch I’m stealing every sweety sweet Munching on Mandy’s Icy pop Donuts only make me high, Higher than the blue sky high I’m sugar high, I won’t lie Lolly olly wally pops And stuffy uffy cotton candy Makes my world so bright and dandy Here me now I say it loud!

I’m sugar high, I won’t lie Feeling tired is not my standard Sugar-free have no excuses Settle down? I run around!

Cuz no one likes a bitter clown.

I’m sugar high, and I won’t lie!

Breathing panting panting breathing Finding every crystal candy To make my tongue go purple berry.

Stop

By Marlon A. Billups, 12th grade

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Mind’s Loss I can’t think of what I know.

I can’t find what’s in my hand.

I can’t say exactly what I feel.

My consciousness is falling like sand.

I don’t have what I own.

I only know what I have shown.

But still I write, My mind is turning bland.

The darkness is beginning to land.

My hand, my hand, From its tips, the fog nips, The black sips from the grey And it lays to this day.

And it’s to my dismay, I forget, I forget, I forget.

by Dylan Treend, 11th Grade

53 Picture by Leonardo Ortiz, 9th grade

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55 Photo by Krista McDonald, 12th grade

Fire Treason, three point word, noun. Definition: the offense or acting to overthrow your government. Heretic, four point word, noun. Definition: a person who goes against “the” church.

Those were the charges placed on my life.

But I left, left to get away from the corruption that had cradled baby England, that slowly consumed her. I left because I believed that religion should have been free, not what the priest told me to believe.

Isn’t man easily corrupted, isn’t this what our Holy Men preached, and yet they, next to our King Henry VIII, were the most influential and powerful men in England. Power corrupts, and when you have that much power, you thirst for control. Who else better to control than the easily manipulated minds of the layman citizen?

I asked for permission to translate the Bible, still firm in my belief that every man had the right to read the Bible for himself, was unsurprisingly declined. My dear mother had always told me I was too hardheaded for “no”. That is why I left my homeland.

I spent many years translating the holy book from Hebrew and Greek. You’d think I would come home a hero, not in chains, betrayed by a man I called a friend.

Coming home, I was laughed at, and was frowned upon. Why were they not as ready as I was?

William Tyndale, 1494 – 1536. Executed by strangulation by hanging, followed by burning at the stake for what we take for granted.

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by Virginia Buzzell, 9th grade Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

League of Overactive Imaginations “LOI does have a lot of oddballs,” admits senior, Shaun Walds, “but you can express yourself freely. It gets the image as just a ‘video game’ club, but it’s not just that. You find people who have similar interests to yours.”

With origins at Macon State (where its sister club, SOI, was founded) not many people realize that there is more to LOI than just “video games and oddballs.”

“It all started about 10 years ago,” says Brandon Kilgore. “A bunch of Northside students had friends at Macon State who were in SOI-the Society of Overactive Imagination. Eventually, the idea for the club made it to Northside and LOI was formed.”

LOI (League of Overactive Imagination) is open to everyone, and there’s no limit to what you can, or can’t, do.

“It’s the only club where you can do whatever you want,” says Summer Holliday.

Filled with artists, video gamers, and overall nerd-enthusiasts, LOI is “not just a club,” says senior, Thomas Ray. “It’s a family.”

By Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

57 Picture by NHS Yearbook Staff

She’s Changed I loathe talking to her now.

We don’t talk anymore.

It’s always the same thing over and over.

I told her all of my problems…

I hate hearing her complain; that’s all she ever does.

Now who am I going to tell them to?

She wasn’t always like this.

She used to be genuine.

She used to laugh with me.

She used to not care what others thought.

She used to listen.

Now I can’t stand being around her.

She doesn’t even want to hang out with me anymore.

Why is she behaving like this?

It’s like she’s a different person.

I barely recognize who she is.

I can’t remain friends with someone like this.

She’s found other friends now.

I’m slowly drifting away from her.

She’s slowly drifting away…

She’s changed.

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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59 Picture By Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

Man Weds 20 Women in One Year Most people see a wedding as a joyous occasion, filled with cheer and heavy drinking.

Sixty-two year old Leroy Tantum is no exception. The native Floridian loves weddings so much that he schedules them regularly, averaging a new wedding every two-and-a-half weeks. Within the past year, Leroy has had twenty wives, each a resident of a different country across the globe.

Mr. Tantum, an avid vacationer, insists that his frequent nuptials are part of a ‘cultural learning experience’ which he began six year ago while he was hiking up the Dunakku Mountain toward Lake Tibadabo.

“It’s all about learning, really,” laughs Tantum, as he recalls where his six year journey has led him. “There is no better way to understand a culture than to become a part of it. With each wedding I learn something new of the people of that nation, their customs, and their traditions.”

Tantum’s wedding frenzy has carried him across the globe, having married in places as exotic as the Maldives, and as plain as Wyoming. Tantum’s most recent wedding, on the twentysecond of January, was held at the Reichmahn Casino in the Principality of Monaco. The bride, Mrs. Alexandria Grimaldi Tantum, is of royal lineage in the country, and insisted that the Monacoan traditions of marriage be followed down to the last slot machine.

“It is very important to my people that we keep our cultural center as a focal point in all ceremonies, especially marriages,” says Mrs. [Alexandria] Tantum. Mrs. [Alexandria] Tantum insists that their marriage will be a happy one, but acknowledges that all relationships have hard times. “It won’t be easy while Leroy is on his eleven-month hunting expedition across the globe, and I will miss him so much!” cries Mrs. [Alexandria] Tantum, who will only see her husband for two weeks out of the year.

Tantum, when asked about his future plans, hinted that he might be interested in settling down. “I think that I might stay for a month or longer with future wives. Who knows? If I find a culture I like enough, I might just stick around, at least until my checks start bouncing.”

Although Tantum has twenty lovely wives and three current brides-to-be, not everyone is having a good laugh. “It is a serious issue that we must address,” says detective Fulough Meeshelf of INTERPOL, “Mr. Tantum is wanted for charges of falsifying documents, lying to federal investigators, and attempting to cross the Demilitarized Zone [DMZ] between North and South Korea in order to wed.”

Tantum insists that although he is wanted by numerous international crime organizations and seven estranged wives seeking his signature on divorce papers, he will not be deterred. “I will not stop until I have learned of every culture on Earth.”

By Bobby Dominy, 12th grade

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Draped Model Who am I? A woman? A mother?

Or just another person.

Just another face in the crowd, Drowned in the sea of human simplicity.

I feel lost, unloved, and discouraged.

I feel unprotected and open to the world around me, Bare, Afflicted and damaged.

I can never be whole again.

Maybe someday the world can see me for what’s real, Not only for what’s outside But much more than that.

After all, isn’t beauty supposed to be skin deep?

That’s what I learned As a person, A mother, A woman.

By Jay Robinson, 12th grade

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My Name’s Javier My name’s Javier, I’m 16, Hispanic, and tall, but there is more to me than my race and height.

My personality and my character define me. I’m very laid back and easy to get along with, But I’m also very sarcastic and it bothers some people. And there’s not much I can do about that; I’ve always been sarcastic and it just naturally flows out of me. It’s nothing personal just the way I am. People who can’t deal with it just aren’t my friends, simple as that.

I think I started to develop my dry sense of humor back in 6th grade. I’d always liked to make people laugh, but somewhere during the transition to young adulthood, jokes started being made at the expense of others. Being a guy I was used to rude jokes, it was how guys socialized: by insulting each other and not really meaning it. Middle school was a whole other story, kids were rude, for no reason, and they meant it. And even though I was funny, I didn’t have jokes for every person.

Eventually I’d run out of comebacks for these dumb jokes and then I’d be looking stupid. That’s when I found out about sarcasm, the bodies natural response to stupidity and ignorance. At first, I wasn’t sure if it would be a good self defense in the many verbal conflicts I dealt with, but it never failed.

Eventually though, kids started growing up, probably realizing they could catch more flies with honey. By that time, it was too late for me though, sarcasm had stuck, and it wasn’t going anywhere. I was always up for a good argument, I enjoyed arguing and since I was a pretty smart kid, it was easy for me, mix that with my sarcastic demeanor and you had a world class jerk. it continued to be that way until high school, when I reached ninth grade I had a solid maturity level. And then I was only sarcastic to people who deserved it. So there you have it, that’s who Javier Molina is, a nice kid with a smart mouth. If you don’t like my dry sense of humor, I’m not sure what to tell you… its mine, deal with it.

By Javier Molina, 10th grade

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63 Picture by Lisa Dowden, 12th grade

What You Do Not Know If you’ve been around me for at least five minutes you will see how open I really am. I just love to talk and if no one is talking I just start babbling about anything. I talk about stuff like my relationship status and what me and my family discussed during dinner the night before. I always ask people their opinions on things even if it is something that I should be asking my mom, sister, or best friend about. I am always talking about my diabetes mainly because I want to educate people about the struggles with it and how we get through it with a smile. People tell me sarcasm is my second language. I am always saying a sarcastic joke or messing around with someone about something they asked or said. I am also a very optimist girl. You never know what I’m going to do next you just know something is going to happen soon enough. I am always up to something if I am bored. But there are some things that I keep to myself.

I am very insecure about my mental disability. I am bipolar depressed and have ADHD. It is really hard when I go through a phase of depression. There is nothing I can do about it except try to adjust my medication. Unless you have it, you do not know how hard it is to be depressed and have no actual reason. I don’t know when I’m about to go through it but when it hits me, it just stinks. I don’t know how long its going to last or how long until it comes again. I get really upset about little things such as if the opponent football team is losing, I cry right there at the stadium. Totally crazy but it is true. There are some people who say ADHD is not a real mental disorder but it really is.

Saying ADHD isn’t a real mental disorder is the same as saying we aren’t all human. This may not be that interesting to you but it is dear to my heart. Think of others and consider what they go through before you judge.

By Ashlynne-Kate Chadwick, 11th grade

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Split in Two I should be able to write this But why can’t I do it?

I have a left side I have a right side This should be easy…

I can see the words clearly, I can’t write it on paper.

I think I’m writing this right.

I think this poem is bad Why is this so difficult?

Is it because I have two personalities?

Do I know what I’m doing?

I think I got it.

I have no clue.

This should be easy…

I have to keep writing.

I have to write this I have to do this before it’s too late.

I don’t want to do this at the very last minute I need to let it out of my mind.

This is hard…

I’m going to write whatever.

I need to take my time.

We need to finish.

We need a good grade.

Write this down.

You need to slow down.

You’re my right You’re my left We need to be able to write this down.

This is going nowhere.

We’ve gotten somewhere Where? This isn’t even a poem anymore.

We did the opposite when We should’ve done the same Format.

Instead of coming together We split in two.

By Ausirus Billups, 12th grade

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My View Of Reality The reality is that the world is not the nicest place. My reality is that the world is a pretty spiffy place. A pair of gloves was stolen from me, along with a phone. I looked at it as people just waiting on a good time to return my lost items. There was a kid that picked on me all the time, but I just figured she wanted some attention I would play along. My parents got a divorce the year before I went into 6th grade and my dad and sister cried. I, however, laughed and thought “oh well, too bad”. Over the summer before my senior year, I was slapped by someone if no relation to me. I still feel no amiability towards her. But, I bear her no ill will. The world is said to end in 2012, December 21st. I’m assuming that there will be balls of fire, ridiculous flooding and holes opening up in the ground. I however, think that if the world really does end it will probably be a really pretty end to life as we know it.

Fire balls that could be likened to fireworks, floods that would make on reminisce about a water park in summer. And who knows- there could always be magical adventures waiting in those deep, dark holes…. Maybe my reality is a little warped, but hey- whose isn’t?

by Kierra Powell, 12th grade

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Ghostly Hobbies An abandoned house has many stories to tell about the people who lived there before it was abandoned. However, maybe it wasn’t abandoned, maybe it’s haunted. Miss Turner, our administrative technology specialist, searches for paranormal activity.

Miss Turner doesn’t search alone, she joins with the GPI (Georgia Paranormal Investigators).

They debunk anything unnatural, but they don’t just do it for fun. “We don’t go in there thinking ‘Oh boy a haunted house!’ we go in there to find out what maybe causing these things.” Miss Turner stated.

Many devices are used to track down ghosts, but not like the ones on Ghostbusters. They are similar however, “We have electrical dots, that fill the room with dots and if something were to walk or move across the field and disrupt it, you can see them.” The other device they use is a digital recorder to collect EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon), infrared cameras, a laser grid, and other devices.

The spark of being a paranormal investigator started out as her interest, “I have always been interested in paranormal, even when I was like in middle school when I grew up interested in it, and Just little things like the dog would stare into space and there wouldn’t be anything there, which is uncommon for pets.” Miss Turner stated. Miss Turner enjoys what she loves the most from visiting historical places, to contacting the unknown. We all have hobbies that we loves the most, and searching for paranormal is her way of enjoyment and excitement.

By Ausirus Billups, 12th grade

67 Photo by Scarlett Peterson, 12th grade

Actions and Pens Have you ever heard someone say that “Actions speak louder than words” or perhaps “The pen is mightier than the sword”? Don’t they seem to contradict each other? I pondered that fact for a long time and have decided something: actions do speak louder than words and the pen is mightier than the sword no matter how much they seem to interfere with each other. This, in my opinion, is due to the situations these sayings apply to. Because there are separate time frames and different goals that apply to each saying, they are unable to negate each other and are then true even when compared to each other. When speaking of actions and words, one is more often referring to a recent or ongoing situation with immediate results or goals. However when one talks of the pen and the sword, one may be pointing to a long term goal, one that may be many months, years, or even decades away.

The saying, “Actions speak louder than words,” is often said by someone eager for results or change. Some people use it to chastise someone, others to remind themselves to do something rather than just talk about it. In this way the saying is a call to take action and get results, usually to better the situation. In general, this is a good thing because the idea is to get things accomplished rather than to just sit around and argue about it which works to the advantage of everyone who is affected by the situation. On some occasions this action without prior discussion, can lead to undesired consequences, because a person can go into the situation without a plan and ultimately mess things up.

On the other hand, the saying, “The pen is mightier than the sword,” applies to more long term situations. Things such as treaties and claims to independence are all written in ink and tend to have a much more profound and lasting effect with fewer unwanted results and unintentional changes than violence does. Ideas written in books can last through centuries and be repeated and memorized by untold numbers of people without losing their meaning or impact. Those who write the books can be immortalized for exactly what they said. It’s not the same for someone in a battle or war, however. These people can be fighting for one thing, it might not be accomplished, and no matter if it is or not, their actions can always be twisted into something else by people they do not know or with whom they would disagree. Their efforts can be associated with something completely different and that person has no say or defense against such things, sometimes leading to radical results inspired by the initial violence.

Just because someone puts these two sayings together and they seem to cancel each other out does not automatically make that true. These sayings are completely separate and should never be compared without the knowledge that they have different meanings and do not apply to the same things. This distinction can be seen even clearer if one actually witnesses situations in which these sayings are used or apply to before trying to compare them. When analyzed in this way, one can prove that actions do speak louder than words and the pen really is mightier than the sword.

By Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

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Bodybuilder Explodes There is typically no such thing as “too much muscle” to a bodybuilder. Bodybuilders actually strive to have every one of his -or her- muscles protruding from their flesh in an attractive and ostentatious manner. Perhaps those aspiring bodybuilders should think twice.

As of Saturday, January 21st, Vladimir Moskov—a world-renown bodybuilder from Russia— died of a very unusual cause at his private training gym early that Saturday morning. Accompanied by his long-time coach, Coach Ivan, Moskov ventured to his gym. It was a very routine venture, one made every other day of the week. They began, as always, with bench presses. Moskov—whose veins even the most nearsighted of beings could effortlessly count—was not pleased with his current physical appearance. He had been demoted from “Most Attractive Bodybuilder in Eurasia,” now in second place behind rival German bodybuilder Jorge von Haven. Some would be pleased about this, or not as upset. Being second is not as bad as being fourth or fifth. He clearly was not pleased. Itching to regain his title, Moskov benched twice his usual weight that morning. Coach Ivan advised him to ease up. “‘It would be added stress on your body,’ I told him,” said Coach Ivan, “but Vlad never listened to a word I said.”

Coach Ivan recalled leaving to fetch a bottle of water for his trainee. He received the shock of his career if not his life when he returned after hearing the most abnormal sound any human could ever hear. Vladimir Moskov—or what was left of him—seemingly… exploded. His chest cavity was completely exposed as were his entrails. The gaping hole it created dribbled with bright blood.

Moskov’s biceps and triceps dangled from the meaty slits formed in his arms. The coach immediately dialed the infirmaries. He was ruled dead at the happening of the event.

There are many lessons that can be learned from this event: Always listen to your coach, for they are called “coach” for a reason. Also, getting in second place does not mean that it is the end of the world.

Vladimir Moskov has something to be proud of, at least: He is the first bodybuilder to have his - or her - body literally explode.

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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70 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Microphone My spaceship is a microphone.

My universe consists of the mic stand that holds the mic into place, making sure everything works properly like a sun.

The stars in the universe are my thoughts that surround me as I prepare to start recording.

When I record I’m an astronaut, going to destinations I could never reach away from the mic.

This has always been true to me, my microphone is like my best friend at moments and worst enemy at times I have writer’s block. Recording music may be the only way to get pleasure from the same thoughts that could have destroyed me.

By Lawrence White, 12th grade

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I Love Her How could he do this to me? We’re supposed to be friends.

He shouldn’t be so mad; a real friend would want you to be happy.

He knew how I felt about her. Why would he go after her.

Why is he so mad at me? He didn’t even appreciate her.

My best friend is a jerk.

I’ve never met someone so selfish.

Is there something wrong with me? Why’d he end up with the girl?

He’s such a little brat. He could have any girl he wants, but as soon as I want her, she’s off limits.

He doesn’t get why I’m mad. I have a good reason!

If only he knew where I was coming from.

I love her

by Javier Molina 10th grade

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73 Picture by Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

The Female Language (Narrator enters and moves to center) Narrator: Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight the UGA school of Linguistics has released findings to suggest the discovery of a new language, a language only understood by women. Tonight we will present evidence to prove that when your man doesn’t understand you it is not his fault.

(Narrator exits to side) (Boy and girl enter from opposite sides) Girl: Oh thank God you’re here! I’m so worried about the thingamagigger and the whatsamawhoseit!

So much could go wrong! The watchamakallit and the thingamahoosit could break! What if the whooseywhatsit messes up? What are we going to do?

Boy: Uh…What?

Girl: You never listen to me!

(Girl exits) Narrator: Often the translation barrier causes women to misunderstand what men are saying as well.

(Girl enters) Girl: Hey baby, can you grab me deh coke?

Boy: sure, you said diet coke right?

Girl: No I didn’t say diet! Are you calling me fat?!

Boy: No! I meant- (girl exits angrily) (Boy picks up a book and begins to read) Narrator: Occasionally, even nearly-inaudible sounds are mistakenly translated into womanlanguage.

(Girl enters) Girl: Hey do these pants make my butt look big?

Boy: (not quite looking up) eh…

Girl: Oh my God is it that bad?! How hard is it to lie?

Boy: (looking up) But baby I didn’tGirl: Don’t lie to me!

(Girl exits) Narrator: It is obvious that, although men can try, only other women will ever truly understand.

(Girl enters on the phone) Girl: Hey Julie? – Have you heard about the thing? – Yeah I know! It’s so cool but what if- I know you’d understand, but you don’t think…- uh-huh- yeah- oh good. – sure- Well I’m sure it will be fine then!

(Boy, looking confused, throws hands into the air and exits. Girl, still talking, follows)

By Bobby Dominy and Shannon Adams, 12th grade

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Adrian’s Adventure In a horrid storm full of shaking trees, no one was outside, not even blood thirsty fleas. Adrian was hungry, starving indeed. It was of McDonald’s he was in need. He got his jacket and headed for the door, but little did he know he would see his house no more.

He crawled and crawled upon the ground. He knew that he was McDonald’s bound. Through the storm he began to slow. He stepped into a puddle and began to flow. The storm didn’t let up, not even a little bit. Poor Adrian began to have a fit. He was starving, dying of hunger. His destination was right around the corner, so he took a piece of his leaf and started marching towards her.

When he arrived it was 9:30. The lines were long and he was wet and dirty. He snuck in through the back because that was the only way he knew. He went in search of food, which is what he came to do. He crawled across the floor looking for a bagel. He came in contact with a bag that was fatal. He crawled in the bag and ate a grain. All of a sudden his energy drained. He began to feel sluggish that’s a first! On his way home he grew weary and burst!

By Ashunti Williams, 10th grade

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76 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

I Like Earlobes I like earlobes. I like to fondle earlobes, and I have since I was an infant. Whoever put me on their hip was either knowingly or unknowingly subjecting his- or herself to a very vigorous round of ear tugging. If I could give you a clear explanation as to why I like to do this, I would. But I cannot.

Whenever I am near my brother—his earlobes are delightfully “thick”, which are why his earlobes are my favorite to fondle—I subconsciously reach over for him, extend my thumb and index finger and clasp them around the lobe. Then I would perform this motion with my fingers as if I were rubbing grease between them, adding pressure. I would rub my lips together and bite down on them softly. I would do this until he either one, swatted my hand away, or two, grew so tired of my energetic yanking on his poor earlobe and then swatted my hand away.

One person that does not so rudely deny me of my feel for earlobes is my cousin Tyler (and I am four months older than he is; I always remind him of this in spite of his towering height he inherited from my uncle and his intimidating physique).

We’ve grown up together with visits to our grandmother’s house when we were youngsters before the military had my family and I scurrying around the east coast. Tyler’s earlobes are magnificent. They are like cushioned pillows of flesh. I have played with Tyler’s earlobes so much throughout our childhood and adolescent years that he doesn’t even bother pushing me away. Or maybe he doesn’t mind. I haven’t asked him, but my brother is often annoyed.

“Since you like earlobes so much, do you ever fondle your own?”

Never.

“Why?” First, I’m usually wearing earrings, and earrings don’t allow that perfect grip. They get in the way. Second, and again, I don’t know why, I’ve never fancied my own earlobes. They are fairly plump, too. I suppose I’ve never really took interest in them when I was an infant.

I do have one rule: I do not fondle my friends’ earlobes. I never have, because I don’t want them to think of me as some “weirdo,” because I am weird enough as it is. You don’t necessarily hear of someone being obsessed with touching another person’s earlobe every day. It’s downright creepy, actually. Not even my best friends—ones I’ve known for years—know about it. It’s just my immediate family that holds this secret. I can, however, recall a moment some time in middle school where I did touch one of my friend’s earlobes. I believe I was in a trance, and she flinched and flashed me a bewildered expression when I started feeling them. I’ve never even thought about touching another person’s earlobes since.

I’ve done some searching around on the internet, and I have found others that also have this obsession of mine. Grown people and children alike. So I do not feel entirely alone and awkward in this.

I actually feel kind of special.

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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Dreaming I like to dream. I dream about many types of things, from the weird and extreme to every day things. In my dreams I twist and bend everything to my will, but my dreams aren’t completely mine to control. And I tend to day dream more than I dream while sleeping.

The subjects of my dreams vary between what I’ve seen, heard, talked about, and anything else that has happened to me in the waking world. Once in my head, my knowledge, ideas, and imagination collide to form my soon to be made dreams. But sadly, not all of the dreams I make last long mainly because of the piece of junk known as my memory. These lost thoughts are doomed to float around in my head until I can remember them.

The dreams I can recall run wild through my brain until the time I fall asleep that coming night. Once asleep, the dreams come alive with whatever idea that forms said dreams. Most of the time I don’t really remember what the dream was when I wake up the next morning, other times I don’t want to remember. But, even still I love to dream.

Aside from my night time fantasies, I mostly day dream throughout the whole day. The subjects of these random thoughts vary just like my nightly illusions, but they can be very troubling at times. Since I can’t just fall asleep during the day it’s hard to find the time to create and gather my thoughts. It’s also harder to hold on to my ideas since I can be very forgetful.

I really love to dream and I never want to stop dreaming. I can’t even imagine my life without my crazy and wild delusions. I will always dream for the rest of my life, and I hope to make a couple of my dreams come true.

By Taylor Nix, 12th grade

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79 Picture by Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

Love Is this what love feels like?

The butterflies The flying pulse I’m constantly awkward I can’t talk straight When we’re together I don’t know if he likes me I don’t know if she likes me But I’m a nice guy I’m okay looking I’d be nicer to her than her last boyfriend What if he treats me like my last boyfriend?

She laughs at my jokes He’s really funny She smiles when I say ‘hi’ He’s got a great smile I can’t stop thinking about him I can’t stop thinking about her I can imagine our future I could see this going somewhere I’m scared out of my mind I like him I like her Is this what love feels like?

By Shannon Adams, 12th grade

80 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

A Warm Winter Afternoon As I sat by the pond, I watched the breeze ripple the water into little waves. I laid myself down on the grass near the tall fronds and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I savored the fresh and uncharacteristically warm winter air. It was February, and I was lying by a small pond near a church that was about a three minute walk from my house. After a few more inhalations of the slightly humid air, I opened my eyes and stared at the cloud-filled sky. The clouds moved majestically across the blue canvas, slowly changing their forms. The contrast they made against the blue of the sky was stunning and made me feel like I was in a completely dierent world. My three strenuous AP classes, my undecided plans for college in six months, my responsibilities to my family and job; everything seemed to disappear and there was nothing. Nothing but this quiet serenity. And him. I turned my head to my left and saw him sitting up beside me, looking at the giant shape-shifters. Upon feeling my gaze he looked back at me and smiled. I returned the gesture and sat up to face him. We just sat there for a moment smiling sheepishly at each other, until I eventually leaned in a bit, tilting my head as though I wanted a kiss. I waited until he leaned in as well and then I playfully pushed him down.

We laughed and stared at the sky some more, joking around, until the sun finally set and nothing was left but the stars, the moon, and a fond memory.

by Bri Felder, 12th grade

81 Photos by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Facebook Good or Bad? Before the 21st century, you could separate the jocks from the nerds, the cool people from the lames, the people outspoken from the shy, and the bullies from the victims. It was known that jocks had muscles. Nerds wore glasses and high pants, but every since the invention in 1973 called networking the world seems to be prone to change.

A lot of kids hide behind the use of social networks. Pictures are constantly being taken off of Google to reflect a person the teen dreams of being. Information is being stolen to make the person real and ¡voila! New people are born! Facebook is one of the social sites where these techniques are used a lot. Fake pages are consistently being made.

In today’s society a lot of kids have adapted to depending on Facebook for everything.

Some use it for good like making homework groups and uploading pictures of good times with friends and family. While others use it for Facebook “thuggin” or “popping” and cyber bulling. The term Facebook “thuggin” refers to a person who constantly talking trash or slandering someone’s character. The most common type is tagging someone’s name in a post and saying things like,” I’m going to get my one with you” or “You don’t want these hands.” Sometimes it even gets more personal. In the summer of 2011, fake pages arose on Facebook calling out teens on their private lives.

These pages were outrageous and created a lot of controversy. Although the slandering is a form of cyber bullying, another form is taking pictures of other people and posting them to the website. A lot of pictures uploaded contain terrible hairstyles, clothing dysfunctions, and other things that don’t belong on the internet. Back in the day, it used to be the bigger children being the bully, but behind the computer is a whole different story. Most cyber bullies are just kids who have had enough of being pushed around at school, and since the identity will never be known; this is the perfect plan.

Kids today rely too much on Facebook. Facebook has everything from the news to games. It was originally created for college users, but somehow it was opened to high schools and then middle schools. BIG MISTAKE! This social network has now went from being about school lessons and chatting with friends to being about who is sleeping with whom, who is dating whom, who won the fight, and other pointless drama. Studies are showing kids so much time on Facebook that grade point averages are falling. It has even gotten to the point where the small city Warner Robins has split into Northside and Southside. Mostly all posts say “Northside Hood life! 812” or “Southside deuce deuce” There has to be a point where the drama stops. It used to be just a school rivalry, but now it has turned into full violence. Guns are being pulled and teens are getting arrested. The malls are no longer open to children under 17 and parties are no longer being hosted because everywhere you turn there are fights. Where did it all start? FACEBOOK! It always starts with two people then it grows into four or five then before you know it everyone is involved.

There is no privacy on Facebook. You can not go a day with seeing a thousand and two updates from the same people. Some things are better left unsaid. No one needs to hear you are going to take a shower. No one really cares if you just woke up, and who cares if someone took a bath or brushed their teeth? It’s not YOUR body! You don’t even know have your friends on Facebook, so why should you care what they do with their free time?

Facebook does have some great qualities as to doing work and making friends, but if not used properly it can turn into something bad. It could lead to success in life or failure; if you use it to study the results should be good, but if you use it for gossip and drama, your results will definitely reflect it.

by Ashunti Williams, 10th grade

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War Throughout the passage of time, humans have advanced their society and have found many wondrous ways to help others. These ideas are constantly being discovered and changing the way humans live, but one aspect of humans will never change: war. From the age of the caveman to modern times, humans have fought over everything. From money and land to religion and freedom and everything in between.

War is a wave of misfortune that brings with it destruction, pain, and ruin where ever it goes.

All that is enveloped by this deadly swell are affected in some way, whether it’s a small country swept up in a civil war, world nations fighting over resources, or the families of soldiers lost in action.

Despite all the suffering, all of the pain and anguish, war is a part of human society and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

By Taylor Nix, 12th grade

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Alternate Endings

84 Picture by Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

The Light The door snapped shut, and I could hear Jason stumbling to reach the couch. I could tell from his disoriented grunts that he was drunk again, but to be fair, saying he was ‘drunk’ didn’t do him justice. “Drunk” was lowering inhibitions, lack of decision making skills, and the complete obliviousness of you to your condition. Jason was not drunk; he knew what he was doing. He may have had alcohol on his breath, but he knew his condition, and he knew he was going to hurt me.

“Chelsea where arrr- you?” Jason grumbled, stumbling over his own words. I tried to stay quiet, trying not to breathe as I cowered beneath the bed. He stumbled his way into my room, paper sack in hand. “I know yurrrr in heeeer” he taunted as he held back a belch. He stepped toward my bed, his work boots still caked in the red clay from the bridge he has been working at the past couple of weeks. As he searched through my room, and peered into my closet, he tripped over his feet, and fell to the floor.

We were staring at each other eye to eye. I could see the glazed-over shell encasing his bloodshot eyes. We stared in silence for a moment, giving him time to orient himself, and giving me time to make a decision.

“Come eer ya liddle varmit!” he shouted as he dove his arms beneath the bed trying to grab me. I quickly rolled out from under the bed on the opposite side, sprang up, and made a dash for the door. Knocking over tables, with knick-knacks strewn abroad, I barreled through the living room, gunning for the yard. As I slammed the storm door shut, and tried to catch my breath, I heard Jason slip and fall, as he screamed for help.

Without doubting for a second, I took my only chance. I sprinted down the street, veering at the stop-light. I made my way down to the park, where I planned to hide. I sat in the play-tunnel, trying to catch my breath. I had only a minute to relax. I soon heard the stuttering and the familiar backfires of the old Datsun Hatchback.

I could hear the car door slam shut, and it was too late to run. All I could do was sit and cry, trying to hide away. I curled up in a little ball, and closed my eyes to pray. He searched around the sandbox, the swings, and the merry-go-round. I just wanted to be left alone, but then I heard him crouch. He was crawling into the tunnel; I could feel that he was near. His breathe reeked of alcohol, and you could tell it wasn’t beer. I wanted to resist, or maybe just to hide, but my body wouldn’t let me, as I sat frozen in fear.

His hand grabbed my wrist, and I really wanted to scream. For some reason I couldn’t force it out, and he pulled me out of the tunnel. His fist was cold and hard, as he bloodied up my face. I could feel my nose snap in half, as my tears mixed with blood. He only laughed maniacally, beating harder with every swing.

The pain grew unbearable, but as I mustered up a scream, he swung his fist harder than before. I knew of nothing I could do but sit there in fright. After a few minutes, I began to see the light.

By Bobby Dominy, 12th grade

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Hill Harper For some, the road for life was paved from childhood, a kind of predetermined path; for others, it was more of a winding road, ending up unexpectedly in front of the rest of their lives.

Now I fell into my life after pursuing a sort of Renaissance-man existence, with a distinguished education and a string of outside accomplishments. When I began my road, education was the most important thing in my life. I graduated magna cum laude from Brown University in 1988, as well as earning a J.D. from Harvard Law School, and a Masters in Public Administration from the Kennedy School of Government.

After studying law for several years, I decided that the only thing I had been doing my entire life was for me, acting. Now since I have made that decision, I have been in films and shows such as The Nephew, “Married with Children, CSI: New York, and more.

I have also written many inspirational books that help people define their destiny and help their day to day lives, the number one selling book being The Wealth Cure: Putting Money in Its Place.

These achievements were possibly due to the support and drive my family provided, including my father Henry Harper, and my mother Marilyn Hill.

My name is Hill Harper and I formally thank you for having me at this meeting.

By Bradley Morgan, 12th grade

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87 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

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89 Photos by Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

Unintimidated “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.”- Theodore Roosevelt Fear is a consumer. It is a consumer of dreams, a consumer of hope and a hindrance to progress. Fear is an unshakable aspect of every human being’s life. Fear, too, are the tight shackles bound to the ankles of success. Fear is the wispy voice that immediately shoots down every newly sprung vision with its “What If”s. Fear does not want one to try. It does not want one to take that chance of obtaining success. To try is a single step in the direction of success in itself, but I have always wondered why we as humans fret over matters we cannot see. The future is unseeable. That is both beneficial and, at times, frustrating but true. Thus, is it fair for he or she to say that they will not try because the future holds failure? I believe one cannot accurately base an outcome of a goal on a claim that has yet to be proved. How are you to know for certain that your dream will never transpire because of this or that factor?

Understandably, no one person enjoys being hurt or devastated. Dreams are cradled in the core of the heart. The outward layer of that core is made entirely of emotionally and mentally sensitive fibers that shrouds and protects our dreams. Exposing our aspirations calls for the opening of that sensitive core. Now these aspirations are vulnerable to attack from the outside. Those foreign pathogens could be statistics, peers, and even parents, all bearing the intent on destroying our hopes. But the bulk of the attacking comes from within ourselves. We are indeed our worst critic.

We unconsciously find thousands of our own flaws and use them against ourselves. This gradually downgrades our worth, which, in turn, affects our views on our personal capabilities. The ability to succeed, for example. These self-inflicted tactics are used to keep from damaging that precious core; Consequently, the dreams are kept inside and dreamt about, but not acted on. That is the major hurdle in attaining success. That is why there must be risks.

Risk is a close relative of Fear, but Risk differs in a distinct way. Risk knows that failure is always a possibility. That is a law of life. But Risk takes that fact in one hand and grasps determination and faith in the other and sprints towards its goal with a fixed mind and heart. Risk does not allow the dispiriting claws of probability to distort its plan, in spite of how high the odds, how plentiful the obstacles or how strenuous the journey.

Failure should never dwell on one’s mind, for one does not purposely plan to fail. Being afraid of failure is learned. Failure should be learned from. Perhaps there have been failures in one’s past.

They should in no way distract him or her from moving forward, nor from trying again. The past is the past and it should be left there. A different attempt births a different result. Oftentimes this is forgotten, as previous experiences tap us on our shoulders and remind us that we are doomed to repeat the same outcome, especially if it has happened several times. But bold is the one who leaps forward when taken two steps back. Bold is the one who knows that rising again and again only draws them nearer to that personal destination. This fearless individual lives in every one of us, though there are very few that ever surface. It is time to stop suppressing this spirit, but award its tenaciousness for standing nose to nose with that dream-eating beast called “Insecurity”.

Life spares no one from its stark, undiscriminating lessons. It is up to us whether or not we allow life to intimidate and determine our success. We will all at some point experience a moment where the world tells us “No” and discourages us, but there are examples of those who have triumphed over the voice of fear and nestled their faith close to their hearts. Those inspirational figures teach us an ageless message: If we remain intimate with our faith, no goal, dream or aspiration is unattainable.

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By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

Picture by Brad Morgan, 12th grade

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BODYBUILDER EXPLODES

By Tabitha “Tabby” Loiter Bodybuilder Sheeba Lewup died Sunday afternoon when she exploded during her usual weekend intensive training session at Needlepoint Gym. “I was just jogging on a treadmill when, like, all of a sudden I heard a loud bang and then a hand just, like, landed on my water bottle,” said Sterra Roid, a local who witnessed the eruption.

“One minute she was just, like, lifting weights and the next she just… blew up. It was crazy. It took hours to clean the blood off the treadmill so I could jog again.”

Autopsy specialist Dr. Anita Bettajob had difficulty in determining the cause of death. Dr. Bettajob states, “When someone gives you a garbage bag full of body parts – a finger here, clumps of hair there, an extremely toned chunk of thigh somewhere else – it’s pretty much impossible to figure out what happened.”

Sheeba’s closest friend Noah DaNoher had his own theory about Sheeba’s sudden detonation.

“I believe it was just stress,” DaNoher said. “She had a big competition coming up and was worrying about it too much. She was a ticking time bomb, really. I know because I’ve seen this kinda thing before. One of my girlfriends blew up a couple days after I popped the question. I was devastated; the jewelers wouldn’t even refund me for the ring.”

The official cause of Sheeba’s explosion remains unknown.

by Bri Felder, 12th grade

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93 Photo by Jessica Furney, 10th grade

The Terrible but True Case of Sir Theodore and Mr. Ted My eyes close. I could hear the jeers and vile comments from outside the “sound proof” walls.

No it was just my thoughts, but I knew they were out there.

My thoughts, that’s what got me in this. The provocative images that floated in my mind as a young lad; those beautiful girls, their feather-like hair running through my fingers. The smell of their fruit-scented shampoo. Them powerless against my will, I loved it!

I shutter. “How did it come to this?” I verbally question myself. My voice! It seems so strange, like an old colleague of yours from high school that you were good friends with. Then at your thirty year reunion, you both are balding, fat, have five kids, and you both come up with an elaborate life to cover up the failure that your life is.

I hadn’t always been like this. I once had potential, a career, and a fami… no. I wouldn’t tear open that scar. My life was a façade, a lie, a dream within a dream.

Why did I let Ted in? Why did I let Ted, the man filled with hatred and a dark past get into my head?

The screams were deafening. I lay down on my bed. Finally I open my eyes. I was enclosed by three snow-like floors, and a white iron barred door, padlocked from the outside. My stone slab of a bed slightly yellow from his previous master, but still was no escape from the claws of purity that crashed down on my shoulders; my tweed sheet, white, my ugly jumpsuit, orange. Seriously. Did they not know orange went out of style back in ’64?

Click, click, click. My guards were coming, presumably to escort me to my last meal. I sighed.

“You can still kill them, go out with a bang.” Ted whispered in my ear.

“Shut up, look where you got me.” I said hotly.

“Morning Ted,” the grungy guard spits out his grainy tobacco. He is six foot seven, has a tight, black buzz cut, is about 200 pounds overweight, and tiny, beady coals that are set too far back in his skull for eyes. He fiddles with his keys.

“I want Dobson,” I sputter to the very attractive female next to him.

Butch did something that i guess was a laugh. “Better ain’t get too close to this one Lady.” He unlocks the gate. “Theo-dorko over here is a murderer.” He places a beefy hand on my shoulder and rips me of my bed.

Lady walks ahead of us, her hips swung in small circles, her auburn hair cascades down her back. Light spews out of the corridor window. It reflects off the white and blinds me. I begin to feel him over power me.

My mind plays its cruel tricks on me. Soon I will have no power, this I know. The scene changes to just Lady and me in a room, her beaten body cuffed to a bed post. I try to hide as Ted began to manically laugh, the craze look in his eye seem to be gone today.

“Poor Lady,” he cackles, “poor, poor Lady.” He drags the tip of his knife over her body. Scarlet tear drops roll down each cut.

Ted drops as I did, and the entire vision fades out.

My conscience awakes in the same bland cell. I have new bruises, and a band aid. I try to get up, immediately topple over. I fell like I was hit by a freight train. My vision was stained with splatters of red.

Was it possible? thought I. My ponderings were interrupted by a masculine voice.

“Well, we would not want you to die yet, not so easily anyway.” A clean, shaven old man stands at the gate. He has large, round, thick glasses, and his gentle, thinning, blonde hair was swept to the side. He was very attractive for an elder, as once wished to be.

“You almost killed Lady Erins,” Mr. Dobson stated more than asked.

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I glumly shake my head. “That wasn’t me.”

He took some polaroids from his briefcase. “Who was it then, Theodore? Looks like you in the picture.”

“I was turned into a fool.” I talk as Ted instructs me. “There is this voice in my head. When my first love broke my heart, he said ‘Kill her. She’ll never regret it any other way. Eye for an Eye you know.’

That was Ted.” James Dobson stares at me through his thick glasses. “Why did you really start killing?”

“Mr. Dobson, sir, never touch pornography.”

Had the hallway always been this long? My feet feel like lead blocks. My self pity of being caught is like the water, and I am drowning.

“I didn’t do it!” It is my last attempt to become a free man. “It wasn’t me.”

This was a lie, I knew it, and they knew it, too.

They should be glad I killed all those brats.

They began strapping me in.

Women are all the same: self-centered, egotistical, waste of spaces.

The clicks of their shoes become faint.

Ted held onto my hand. “We are in this together.” His snake-like voice seemed to calm me.

There was a one way screen.

Kenneth Misner, Chris Hagen, Richard Burton, Officer Roseland, Rolf Miller, Theodore Robert Cowell all were shared by one man… Ted Bundy.

They would enjoy seeing me die.

Salaam, peace be to you.

The Hum of electricity.

I close my eyes.

And smile.

By Virginia Buzzell, 9th grade

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96 Photo by Erika Campbell, 12th grade

97 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Avery Avery smirked to himself as he stood inside his new apartment for the first time. The room was empty, as expected, but it was not a prison cell and it was isolated from other people, and that was all that mattered to him.

People often asked Avery why he did what he did to little Darla Kingston. Avery never confessed, but everyone around him knew that it had to have been him. According to the security camera at Avery’s shop, he was the last person to see her, but since that was all the defense could find, he was found not guilty due to lack of evidence. Avery never confessed to the deed, but still everyone often assumed the usual reasons: for money, insanity, or that he was just a sick old man. The real reason however was simple to him – Darla Kingston disgusted him beyond belief.

Avery was always an odd character, even in his youth. He was never a case of good kid gone wrong, he was a bad kid gone even worse. It wasn’t that he was shunned by his peers; Avery isolated himself, purposefully and often violently. Loud, obnoxious, violent, and rude, Avery had no respect for authority or anyone for that matter. His parents and teachers told themselves that it was some clinical problem, maybe a hormone imbalance. But in reality, Avery just did not care about people. In fact, it was more than that. Avery hated people. He was revolted by them. The more he learned about and experienced humanity, the more his disgust grew. That’s why he didn’t think twice that humid evening when he first saw Darla.

Avery was forty-seven on the night of the event. He was walking home from his job at the local butcher shop when he saw Darla across the street. She was fifteen, short, and lanky. She carried herself with the confidence of a beaten stray cat. Avery looked at her and was immediately sickened.

So pale looking, so skittish and meek, Avery gagged just looking at her. She didn’t deserve to be seen by anyone or anything. She barely deserved to live. That’s when the thought really struck him: why was she still alive? She didn’t deserve life! Not only was she human, she was an inferior human, which appalled him even more. Avery made up his mind that this girl was definitely, and completely unworthy of having lived to this point.

He planned to fix the problem.

Avery crossed the street and followed her a few paces before calling out, “Hello there!” in an obviously forced and almost painfully awkward greeting.

Darla stopped and slowly looked around. Upon realizing they were alone on the street she turned slowly, head down, and mumbled, “Wh-wh… what d-do… what do you w-want?”

Avery smiled the best he could while trying not to vomit, “I just… I need help with something in the shop… I uh… The freezer. The door to the freezer shuts by itself and so I need a spotter… you know, just in case the, uh… the door shuts. I normally have a worker to help me, but George he um…

He left sick, so I was wondering if you could spot me. If this meat spoils my boss will kill me.”

“Well… my m-mom… my moms’ expecting me so I-” “It will only take a couple minutes I promise.”

“Oh… I… I guess that’ll be ok.”

“Follow me.” And with that Avery led the way to his shop.

He unlocked the door and escorted her behind the counter and through the door that went to the back. The room they entered was basically a narrow hallway with three doors: the first directly in front of the entrance was a bathroom, the middle door led to a truck dock, while the freezer was situated at the opposite end. First he took Darla to the truck entrance where the meat was sitting in the corridor. He told her that the meat needed to be taken directly from this spot to the freezer while someone held the freezer door.

“Why not invest in a door stopper?” Darla questioned.

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Avery clenched his fists and gritted his teeth together. Who did she think she was? This weak little excuse of a life form was questioning him. He quickly realized his inappropriate reaction and calmed himself. He forced another painful smile and in a flat tone said, “What a clever idea. I will have to tell the boss to get one. But for now would you please carry these heavy boxes for me? My back is not what it used to be.”

Without a word Darla picked up the boxes he referred to and followed Avery to the freezer.

He held the door for her and she walked inside the cold icy grey room. She noticed something odd as she walked through the doorway. Darla couldn’t see clearly, but it looked as thought the door might have a handle on the inside. She opened her mouth to question it but remembered his reaction to her last question and halted her query. She shrugged it off and thought that maybe he was just going prematurely senile. She set the boxes down and as soon as she straightened herself back up she heard the freezer door shut behind them. She wheeled around and gasped into the dark cold room.

“You dirty, pathetic, little thing. You insignificant worm. You do not deserve to live. Humans are nauseating enough, but you with your skinny, weak frame, and no backbone, you make me even sicker. It is a sin for someone, no, for something so disgustingly inferior to continue living. But now you can pay for your sin. You are going to get what you deserve you insolent, disgusting bitch!”

Twenty-five years after that night, Avery smirked to himself as he stood inside his new apartment for the first time. The room was empty, as expected, but it was not a prison cell and it was isolated from other people, and that was all that mattered to him. Avery had bought a small apartment above a hardware store in a remote part of Michigan. It was hell dealing with the scrutiny of his small town while trying to save up for a big move. It was a long couple decades but finally he could live out the remainder of his life in peace.

Avery walked around to take in his new place. He strolled through his small kitchen that was connected to his living room, and then made his way to his soon-to-be bedroom. He walked over to the window opposing his bedroom door and peered outside. He saw nothing but trees and mountains. No homes for miles, no cars, no people, just nature and solitude. Avery was watching a squirrel scurry from tree to tree when he heard his bedroom door close behind him.

He spun around to see someone wearing a hooded sweatshirt. The figure leaned against the door almost casually as if it belonged there. Avery was immediately furious. He wanted all his life to get away from these creatures and now one was calmly standing in his bedroom, breathing his air?

Before Avery could object to the person’s presence the figure stood up straight, took a few steps toward him and pulled its hood down. Avery staggered backward from the shock and horror.

“No! No, it can not be. I… I killed you! I killed you years ago!”

“Twenty-five years, Avery, and I never forgot.”

By Bri Felder, 12th grade

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Defense Against the Dark Arts Physics “Wingardium Leviosa!” exclaimed physics teacher Tom Stahl, as he raised a feather into the air with the flick of a wand. Mr. Stahl, who has been a long-time Harry Potter fan, was asked to join the “Hogwarts Students of Northside” group for Twin Day of Spirit Week. He gladly accepted, taking the position of Severus Snape. His incredibly convincing costume included a duct-taped wig, black cape, and a slight hunch of the back.

The Wingardium Leviosa spell performed by Mr. Stahl was created by attaching a feather to a piece of fishing line with a weight at one end. As he moved his wand, he dropped the weight to raise the feather. He followed up his spell by asking how much force the magic must have to raise the feather and counteract gravity. He then passed out a worksheet titled “Defense Against the Dark Arts Physics” with questions about quidditch and spells used regularly at Hogwarts.

For many Northside Students, Spirit Seek is a time to goof off and ignore their schoolwork, but Mr. Stahl was able to keep all of his student’s attention with his different take on physics. It goes to show that not boring students to death can lead to learning in interesting and humorous new ways.

By Jessica Causey, 12th grade

100 Photo by Jessica Causey, 12th grade

Search for Knowledge “Philip! Philip, look! The sun is out today!” a young blonde man grinned, shaking his friend’s shoulder as they stepped out of the make-shift hut they called home.

His friend slowly looked up and smiled slightly at the sight, closing his eyes and pausing. “It’s been a while since it was that bright hasn’t it Aaron?” he asked, looking toward the blonde.

There was indeed a smudge of brightness high in the sky hidden away by the thick blur of grey that stretched from every horizon, the warmth unable to make it down to the earth below.

The heavy grey clouds hung low over the dark landscape below, blacks, browns, and charcoals dominating the world in every direction, only a few dark green or yellow plants poking up in the barren soil, struggling to survive in the environment they were not meant to survive in. Most of these plants were clustered around the buildings and shacks that the group of some 50 people now resided in, providing just enough nutrients to give them something to live off of.

It was cold, almost bitterly so, but people were used to that by now. It had been over three generations since the last warm day on the planet. That was the day of the explosion. Humans had finally grown too corrupt with their power and after some meaningless debate one group had released its deadliest weapons on the earth and all others had followed suit. Now the world was left with this nothingness, only eternal clouds across the sun and fruitless soil to live with.

The small colony, as they had come to call it, had only two great possessions. One was a brilliantly colored cloth, soft and warm. It was the color red and its hue was one that was very rarely seen in the dark world. The other was a book. It was small and lightweight, yellowed with age and its pages full of pictures of animals no longer seen and children that were clearly of unrealistic proportions. The story was read once a year to the colony and it told of many things, from a woman who rode on geese, to three mice that were blind, to a girl called Muffet who was scared of spiders.

There used to be other books, hundreds, maybe even thousands, the elderly always told of hearing about them from their parents and grandparents. The books were supposed to be stored in great buildings, places called ‘Library’, and they told of everything ever thought of, both imagined and true. They explained things that we couldn’t even imagine, like how the sun warmed the earth back in those days or what a human was made of. Rumor had it that some even spoke of what caused the explosion and how to reverse the damage done to the planet and even save a person’s life.

That very rumor was what brought Philip and Aaron out on this day. The colony was dying off slowly of severe sickness and something needed to be done. The two had decided to volunteer themselves to go to the long forgotten towns and try to find one of these places of knowledge in an effort to find something that could help save everyone. There had to be some way to help them. The people of the past had been able to save others from everything, things that meant certain death now had been nothing to them.

So off Aaron and Philip went, nothing but a small bag of rations and an even smaller amount of water between them. They made their way across fields and through perilous areas of broken ground where the years had left the great stone paths of the past broken and uneven, dangerous shards occasionally poking out of them, threatening to cut the two travelers. They passed the areas where colonies used to live, either dying off, or moving somewhere else with more promising resources. They spent nights in the remains of huts that had been abandoned, few words exchanged between them until finally, on the horizon, tall buildings loomed.

It was one of the forgotten towns.

As they came closer and closer, the monoliths looked more and more threatening in their broken twisted forms. Large gaping holes glared down at them from high up in the buildings.

Nothing was whole here, everything broken; large masses of metal were twisted and heaped along

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the stone paths, looking grotesque and scary like monsters ready to spring.

As they ventured deeper into the town, things got worse and worse and Aaron began to wobble on his feet, seeming dizzy. Suddenly he fell to his knees and could barely get up.

Turning to his friend, Philip gasped and knelt beside him. “Aaron, what is it? Do you need some water?” he asked, trying to offer up what remained of the precious water. The blond simply shook his head and pushed the water away and moments later, he began to heave, throwing up what little was left in his stomach.

Seeing that, Philip began to feel bad himself. Trying to do what he could to comfort his friend, he watched as soon blood came up with everything else. When Aaron finally stopped, his body trembled one last time and he fell to his side, eyes glassing over. He was dead.

Sitting there for a moment, Philip felt a wave of dizziness, but pushed it aside. Climbing to his feet, he forced himself onward, ignoring all of the warning bells that went off in his head for him to stop, to turn around. It was hard to breath, to keep standing, but he did.

Finally he came across a sign that was barely hanging any more, burnt and covered in dirt. It held the letters ‘R-A-R-Y’ on it in bold red writing. Could it be the fabled Library?

Climbing up the broken hill of stone before the building, Philip stumbled through the gaping hole in the front of the stone wall. Inside it was almost completely dark, but a few brighter spots were scattered around, near, and under the holes in the walls and roof. In every bright spot there were books….exactly what he was searching for. Grinning and hurrying in an awkward falling gait toward the nearest books, he fell to his knees before them. Opening the first one, he looked at it and found nothing that could help. That’s when the nausea hit, he leaned forward and got sick. As he gained his strength from that, he moved on to the next book and saw something about sicknesses. Flipping through it, the book seemed to fall open to exactly what he needed to see.

In bold letters at the top of the page was printed ‘Acute Radiation Syndrome’. As he read the page, he could feel himself growing weaker and weaker, a tiny string of blood slipping from the corner of my lips as I coughed. The radiation from the explosions all those years ago, it had poisoned the earth and he and everyone he knew was slowly getting sick from it. Laying his head onto the book as he felt himself slipping into the darkness, he almost cried. It was all doomed. With those last thoughts, he passed on.

Just beyond the library a huge crater sat, nothing grew and the soil was blackened. Right in the middle was a large piece of metal. In bold letters the word ‘Nuclear’ was written.

By Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

102 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Why Why did you even think you had a chance?

So much hope— Wasted.

So much pride— Obliterated by your stupidity.

Why did you walk so blindly?

Why did you wish on stars that cannot hear you or see you or care about you?

Why did you dream so big and reach so far?

Why did you change— and change some more and change again— for someone who does not see you to begin with?

Why are you so delusional?

Why are you so stupid?

Why are you so self-centered?

Why did you even think you had a chance?

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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Champion Bullfighter Killed by Bulldozer Champion bullfighter Frederick Garcia lost his life on August 1, 2004 at the young age of 25.

Known far and wide for his skills in the ring, Mr. Garcia had exceptional talent when faced against his four legged opponents. “He could tell exactly what the bulls’ would do with just a twitch of their tails.”, says one of the champ’s many fans.

Mr. Garcia was run over by a bulldozer at a construction site in New York City. He came to the “Big Apple” to celebrate his second bullfighting championship. While touring Time Square one morning, Mr. Garcia stumbled upon a nearby construction site for new office buildings when he was hit in the head with the crane arm of the dozer, and then the machine backed up over his mid-section.

Paramedics soon arrived to take Mr. Garcia to a nearby hospital. Police questioned the operator of the bulldozer and were told that he “couldn’t control” his machine. The hospital later reported that Mr. Garcia lost his life on the operating table. The official report of the champ’s death says that he died from massive internal bleeding caused by multiple broken ribs sustained from being run over by the bulldozer.

Crime scene analysts later confirmed the dozer operator’s story. After inspecting the bulldozer they found that there was a malfunction in the machine’s control system which led to the bullfighter’s death. The family of Mr. Garcia has stated that they won’t press charges against the operator or the construction company.

by Taylor Nix, 12th grade

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105 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

Dinner It’s quiet.

Painfully quiet.

Darker than night.

Darker than the deepest pit of hell.

My imagination escapes my mind & dances around me.

My fears surround me, constricting my breathing.

I shut my eyes but the nightmares keep coming.

My mouth permanently shut.

My legs won’t move.

A rope horridly secures my arms behind me.

Completely paralyzed.

I can not move but I can feel.

I can feel everything.

The hairs on my neck stand & tickle me.

A breeze grows bigger & bigger.

They’re no windows, cracks, holes but there is wind.

A bunch of tiny little legs begin crawling all over me.

Not being able to move, I let them take there tole.

My mouth is like the strongest still bolted together.

I can not scream.

I try to stop myself from crying trying to find familiar landmarks.

It’s so dark.

Are my eyes even open?

Something breathes heavy on my neck.

A sharp instrument of terror pierces my side Not being able to scream my eyes grow big.

Still darkness…

It is no longer quiet.

A laugh trickles out like a drippy sink.

A voice. Thank God, no more silence.

There is a shing of two blades rubbing against each other.

Smell…I can still smell A piercing cold liquid splashes all over my body.

Oh god it burns so much.

I scream but all I taste is apple.

I smell something vinegary and spicy.

I’m lifted up by something The hands are rough and crusty I think it’s a man.

I’m thrown into a small space and I hear a door shut.

I’m starting to sweat Everything turns red. Am I dead, am I in hell?

What sin have I created to send me here?

My skin begins to tear and blister.

The liquid on me begins to sizzle and seep into my skin.

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I here something slam open.

“Freeze you sick freak police!” I hear in the distance.

“Oh my god the ovens on someone get her out!”

Cries a voice in panic.

The tiny door swings open & someone pulls me out brushing parsley & vinaigrette off my body & pulls an apple out my mouth.

Police surround me, a man in hand cuff walks out.

But before the man walks out he stops & looks at me & says, “Well, there goes my dinner.”

By Felicity Watts, 12th grade

107 Photo by Olicia Lovelady, 12th grade

Experiment 2866 It’s dark in here. The table I’m strapped to is burning cold. The aliens; they took my suite. At first I couldn’t breath but my lungs adjusted to their strange dry air. With nothing else I can do I replay my strange journey to this planet over and over again in my head…

Chapter 1 Aug, 78th 3095 “Commander the ship is ready, shall we bring forth the prisoner?... I mean test subject?” says a male in a stern voice.

“Oh-uh yes bring him forth and let me have a few words with the prisoner.” Said the commander with a smirking grin. A few minutes passed and the male came back clutching the arm of another male dressed in unique clothing chained and shackled all the way up to his shoulder.

“Leave us…” whispered the commander in an eerie tone to the male. The male then walked the prisoner to a chair in front of the commander and sat him down. The male then unlocked some of the chains then left the room. “You’ve had a glorious run as a villain here you know that? You have killed 12 government officials, assassinated the highest in command, and…”, the commander lifting the prisoner’s head up from his slumped posture and grabbed him by the throat, “ and my wife.” Whispered the commander as he shuddered and pulled back from the prisoner regaining his composure. “That’s why I picked you for this journey. You’ll have cameras all around you… everywhere. We’ll be able to watch every minute of your journey to the new planet we discovered.

Yes you should make it to the planet, but we don’t have enough funds to send you back so it’s almost a guarantee you’ll die. That is… unless you find life or something on the planet you could use to sustain you.” Evilly chuckled the commander as he paced the room with his hands behind his back.

“What if I say no.” mumbled the prisoner.

The commander shot back across the room kneeled down to where they were face to face and said “Fine by me. You can stay and let each body part slowly be ripped from your limbs as your execution, you know the punishment!” grunted the commander, spitting a little on the prisoner. The prisoner sunk his head down and said no more. “Load him on the ship!” demanded the commander.

The male came back in, released the chains that bound the prisoner, and painfully grabbed his arms tight.

They stripped the prisoner and put him in an astronaut-like suit. The male looked the prisoner up and down before putting his helmet on him, smirked and said,“Test animal…don’t touch anything, I will work all the controls from down here on this computer. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty,” the male laughed, “you get out of the ship when you land put the flag on the ground, collect a rock, and take pictures. Then you get back in the ship and I will drive you home.”

Instructed the male, while helping the prisoner on to the ship. The prisoner rolled his eyes knowing that he wasn’t coming home and that it was a lie.

“Wh-w-wh-what if I find other life?” stiffly stuttered the prisoner. The male buckled him in, closed the spaceship door and busted out laughing snorting the whole time. The man hit a button on this huge never before seen computer and the prisoner took off.

“Testing communication lines hey bird brain can ya hear me?” Teased the male into a microphone.

“Loud and clear jerk.” Said the prisoner into the head mic built into his suit.

“Watch it before I lead you off course… going into light speed moron. Time for a nap.” Said the male as he hit a glowing blue button on the computer. The prisoner instantly fell asleep.

Chapter 2 I awoke with the deep nasally voice of the male in my helmet. “Wake up dummy your there.

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Now get out and do your job!” Sternly said the male. As soon as I stepped out the ship (flag in hand) my suit lighted up sending all types of data back to my own planet. Like temperature, climate, atmospheric pressure, and what kind of elements make up this strange new planet’s atmosphere for examples.

“You getting this data crap yet?” I smirked while my suit made strange beeping sounds.

There was no answer. Just a gasping big breath. “Th-th-th-there’s life on that planet… now shape up and look presentable you’re now representing our whole planet.” Whispered the male sounding as if he’s in an astonished daze.

“What oh-uh okay.” I nervously said now scared out of my mind. “I really hope their nice aliens and easy on the eyes.” I mumbled trying to relax my nerves. Then I heard rattling in this weird plant like circles I’ve never seen before. Panically hoping they speak my language I recite a line from every alien movie… “Hello I come in peace.”

I then felt a numbing pain in my neck and as I’m slowly falling to the ground feeling sleepy I hear the male’s voice softly in my helmet… “Hey prisoner? 2866? You okay kid what’s going on your vitals are down? Oh no they’ve ambushed him! Hang in there kid!! Oh they’re hideous looking!”

Chapter 3 And that brings me back to where I am now. Feels like I’ve been in here forever… hours…days… weeks… month… years. Then I here the big silver door open the horrible creature steps in. They’re so disgusting looking and they have so many different shades brown, white, and red. They have toes and fingers like animals and no tentacles. There are no blue or green ones. Two or three of them walked up to me with a sign poorly written. It almost looked like they tried to decipher my language.

The sign read: IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE WE WILL SEE WHAT MAKES UP YOU. DO NOT WORRY YOU WILL NOT FEEL A THING; WE WILL PUT YOU TO SLEEP. EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY. Upon reading the sign I panicked forgetting I couldn’t move. They try to calm me down. Then they administer the anesthesia I think they called it. Forgetting our different body types I feel every cut, incision, and every organ they poke. I can’t feel my tentacles and I can’t move my beak. I can’t even cry. They sew me back up, and the alien looks at me and says, “Now was that so hard?”

By Felicity Watts, 12th grade

109 Photo by Jessica Furtney,

Power Hungry It was a story that started out with a guy, a hungry guy in fact. He was rich and talented. He was Tony M. Pete. Pete prefers to call himself ‘Tony Macaroni’ because of his love for pasta. Tony is just an Italian player, a loving father, and the businessman.

Tony practically runs the big city when he breathes his big luxurious Cigar, puffing the city’s problem away. With him and his mafia around, no one, not even the city’s mayor could stop him… until it happened.

Salavesta Calavari was an outsider, but not an ordinary outsider. He was an underground sky liner raised by Strawbear, a beautiful woman who’s just as deadly as her sweet looks.

He came into town, and did his job. Salavesta killed the big cheese.

Why? It wasn’t for revenge, not even for money, but it was because Tony was hungry for something that he had too much of. Not Pasta, but power.

By Ausirus Billups, 12th grade

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The Death “It can’t be!” I shouted as I read the sign on the medieval-looking gate. “This must be a mistake!” I thought as I slowly began to take in the meaning of the six newly painted black letters.

“Closed” it read, but how could that be so? The so-called happiest place on earth was closed? I had flown across the continent in search of any place that had not been overtaken by the Death. After my home town had been wiped out by the Death, I, the lone survivor, took what was left of my belongings and fled. With little more than my broom, my wand, and a one size too small top hat, I made my way across the provinces, finding each to be in an even more devastated state than the previous. Sadly, it wasn’t simply the outsiders that were affected by this tragedy; the entire magical world was affected as well. Left with few choices, I made my way into the states. I made my way southward, checking off the places as I went: “Bar Harbor, gone; New York, destroyed; Richmond, in ruin.” Even the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta was all but obliterated. If Disney World was gone, could any true refuge exist? If there was any safe place left on Earth, it had to be in the happiest place on earth.

With a flick of my wand, the gate swung open, granting admission to the ‘Magic Kingdom’; frankly, there is little magical about it. I glided across the park, from the Dueling Dragons to the Tower of Terror. While other places had been destroyed along with its people, the park seemed to be frozen in time. Without anyone to run the rides, and no one to ride them, each attraction remained stationary, appearing to be in the same state as they were in the days before the Death.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice something moving off in the distance. As I turn around, I see the movement coming from the ‘Wizarding World of Harry Potter’, about a quarter mile in the distance. It appears as though something is flying around the top of the castle. I instinctively hopped on my broom and began to dart toward the highest window on the tallest tower from which the distractions were emitting.

I soon discovered that it was owls that had caught my eye as they weaved in and out of the Romanesque columns supporting the tower. As I drew closer to the owls, I noticed that all of the owls featured striking red eyes, and had shed many of their feathers, giving the owls a mangy look.

Once I reached the highest window, I looked in horror to see over 100 dead owls, and one dead man, hunched over in his long white lab coat. At this site, I directed my broom towards the window and glided into the room with ease. After a bit more examination, it became clear that the man had been a victim of the Death. The man’s chilling corpse was grasping a half-full vial of a green liquid. Seeing this, I felt I should investigate further. I began to search through the room, cautiously relocating the dead owls as I went. In the room I found little of interest, with the exception of a large three-ring binder that had been overfilled with notes. On the front of the binder there was the inscription “Qx-347” followed by “dosage and observations” in smaller type. As I flipped through the binder, I found many answers concerning the Death that had been hidden from the world. It made sense now, after months of searching for a safe place, I found the exact opposite, the place where it all started.

As I read on, I discovered that what the world knew as the ‘Death’ was originally a chemically altered owl feed known as ‘Qx-347’. As my eyes rolled down the page, I felt a cold, crackling sensation in the back o my throat, and my vision began to blur. It was a symptom of the Death. I had never felt it before, but it was exactly as my parents had described with their dying breaths. The Death was fast acting, and I knew I didn’t have long. I began flipping through the three-ring binder, hoping to find some sort of help. In the later half of what was at least 300 pages, there was a ‘Warnings and Procedures’ page. In small type in the lower left-hand corner of the page there was a small warning that read, “Do not ingest Qx-347, and do not inhale fumes. Failure to

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abide by these warnings will result in suffocation, paralysis, and eventually death.” As I read these words I could feel my throat muscles contracting, limiting access to the air. Time was running short.

I flipped two more pages to find the “In case of emergency” page. It stated that only one ‘Cure-Vial’ existed, and in order to access it, you must have an official ‘Disneylabs’ keycard. I immediately ran back over to the dead body in hopes of finding such a card. I saw a small portion of the plastic keycard due to some light reflecting off of one corner of it. As I lurched downward to remove the keycard from his lab coat pocket, I felt my thigh muscles contract completely lock-up. I fell to the ground; I had, at most, 5 minutes to live. I muscled my way toward the emergency box designated in the ring-binder. I finally reached the wall and was using my faltering strength to climb to me feet via my arms. I slid the keycard into the locking mechanism and heard a metallic click.

With that, the compartment door swung open revealing the antidote inside. I grasped the syringe, and brought it toward my skin. As I injected it into my skin, my ability to see vanquished. I quickly pressed the syringe as I was drawn closer to the light. Just as I was almost to the light, it rolled away, my vision started being revived. Then out went the lights.

I woke up what must have been hours later, judging by the dried antidote on my skin, and the bruising below the skin. I was alive.

Although the rest of the world was still in trouble, the Death didn’t kill me.

By Bobby Dominy, 12th grade

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113 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Tacgnol Strikes Legends tell of a mystical tacgnol, a vicious and vile creature known for stealing milk and ending lives with one mew. Is it true? Few have lived to tell the tale of the mysterious tacgnol, and those who die within seconds of the story’s end. My name is James Voinovich, and this is my experience.

Heavy breathing, Heart pounding, Sweat pooling along my forehead I hear the sharp break of a twig I instinctively dash for the nearest exit I can’t possibly live through this I told myself with a tinge of pain It is faster than anything I have ever imagined And it’s coming after me A flash of dark fur I sprint across the clearing Hoping with all of my luck that the tacgnol has not seen me.

Stories have been told of horrendous torture and pain if caught by his foul beast; I would not be one to tell that tale, I will escape.

I take a moment to rest And catch what little breath I have left How did this happen?

Why me?

Did I remember to turn off the oven before I left?

These questions flew through my mind And as I picture my house going up into flames Stupid me, that oven will be the death of me But not this creature Seconds tick by Feeling like years Am I really going to live?

I question all chances of survival Then I shake the negativity off my mind What about the others?

Have they survived the wrath of the tacgnol?

I hear a scream of terror, followed by a fit of coughing Hairball.

The most gruesome of its tactics.

One down How many more alive?

From the looks of it, not many What do I know about the tacgnol?

Other than it being a killing machine Absolutely nothing.

I can feel the amber eyes piercing my cover

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The intense heat blazing through my defense And there’s no way to stop it I close my eyes Doing the only thing I know to do in times like this Wish.

What am I? A hopeless cartoon character?

No, I am James Voinovich And I will not lose this fight I decide to do the impossible I will attack the tacgnol I hear theoretical and metamorphical gasps No, I’m not crazy But I am senile Knock it off with the jokes and funny business I mentally slap myself and get re-focused I can do this, I can do this I swallow the lump in my throat And I run headlong into the carnage I see little (if any) remains Of any friends, I used to have I fight back tears and vomit That immediately comes to mind Bile fills my mouth and I feel disgusted I can do this; I…can…do…this…

No, I can’t I CAN’T!!!!!

I run toward my previous safe haven and close my eyes Trying to wake up from this horrible nightmare All went black.

I wake up Wet and sticky from seat My covers and pillow are thrown about And my floor is covered in blankets It was all just a dream None of it happened I close my eyes And try to be subject to slumber I feel a prickle on my cheek I open my eyes. Amber Fire.

One sound. Meow.

And it’s all over.

By William Crouch, 9th grade

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Scarecrow Thunder shook the house as the rain crashed down on the thin roof above my head. My family’s large farmhouse was over a century old, and the rain and wind from the heavy storm turned it into a noisy, unsteady shell of what it used to be. I lay in my bed, shivering, in my second story room. Storms freak me out to begin with, but it wasn’t the thunder that scared me like it was with most people. All of that noise was just a side effect. It was the lightning that scared me. In the middle of our farm, our house, surrounded by a few trees, was the tallest thing around. My room was at the highest point in our house. That meant, one of these days, the chances of my room being hit by lightning were, in my mind, great.

Another peel of thunder shook the house, making the windows rattle. Tired of pretending that I might be able to sleep, I got out of bed and padded to the window.

And screamed.

A scarecrow stood out in the yard just below my window, leering at me from below. Anger coursed through me. My brother must have put it there, knowing how much the thing freaked me out. I hated that it, with its rough burlap sac face and ragged holes for eyes. In daylight I could convince myself that it was just a bag and some of my brother’s old clothing thrown together with some hay from our barn. It couldn’t hurt me. But the few times I saw it in the dark it transformed into a lurking beast with gaping holes for eyes and a tattered, yawning mouth that hung at a wrong angle.

I just knew that if it were alive it wouldn’t be going after crows.

I turned away from it, not wanting to freak myself out anymore. Just as I began to lower my blinds to block out its hideous form, the yard lit up, brighter than daylight. I closed my eyes involuntarily, unable to help it as the light blinded me. Then the loudest thunderclap yet shook my house, rattling me to my core.

Shakily, I opened my eyes to see my yard, just as it should be, except the scarecrow was smoking. Had the scarecrow been struck by lightening? Sure enough when I closed my eyes a jagged line was imprinted there, proof of what had just happened. Scared, I looked down into the yard again. To find it empty. No scarecrow.

I closed my blinds, freaked out. Maybe I was imagining things. It was really late, and I was tired. I glanced at the clock. 12:00 AM. Creeped out, I crawled back into bed and pulled my covers up around me, forming a safe, warm cocoon.

And that’s when I heard it. A shuffling in the hall. A slow, scraping shuffle, like shoes that couldn’t quite lift off of the ground with each step. And a rustle of clothing, and something else. I slid lower into my sheets, trying to convince myself that I was dreaming.

I heard my door creak open and imagined I was somewhere, anywhere, else. The shuffling was in my room now, getting closer, but the storm was loud again, and I could barely hear it. Thunder crashed as I felt a slight weight press down the edge of my bed. My scream was lost in the next boom of thunder.

The last thing I knew was the smell of hay.

By Shannon Adams, 12th grade

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117 Picture by Brent Sappe, 11th grade

Stranger Things Have Happened The little girl was playing in her usual shady spot near the cemetery when she stumbled upon something that hadn’t been there before. Behind the blueberry bush was a beautiful china doll with neat blonde curls and an expensive blue dress. She brought the beautiful doll home, being cautious not to rip her dress or damage her pale porcelain skin. “Mama! Look what I found!” the little girl announced excitedly as she ran in the house. Her mother studied the doll.

“She’s very nice,” she said warmly.

“Who would leave such a pretty doll outside?” her daughter asked.

“I’m not sure, but stranger things have happened,” replied the mother.

A few days later, the mother saw her daughter taking her newest doll outside. “Mary and I are going to play by the cemetery Mama,” she told her mother.

“How nice, you named her Mary?” her mother replied.

“No, Mama, she told me that,” her daughter replied, sounding a little annoyed. She ran out the door to go play. Her mother shrugged and continued washing the dishes. All children have colorful imaginations, she though. Besides, stranger things have happened.

But things became stranger. One night, the mother awoke to the sound of shattering glass. She ran into the dark kitchen to find her prized china dishes in ruins on the floor. The mother began to weep over her destroyed treasures when she saw her daughter standing in the corner, holding the pale China doll by the hand. “I’m sorry Mama, but Mary told me to,” she whispered. This wasn’t the only disturbing change in her daughter, though. Her behavior became increasingly strange; she became quiet and reserved instead of talkative and energetic. Her dace had turned pale and her eyes turned blank and lifeless. She stopped playing in her normal spot outside and remain inside her room, , talking to the strange doll as if it was alive and adding to the conversation. Was it? Probably not, the mother thought, but stranger things have happened.

The next day, the mother walked into her daughter’s small bedroom to find an awful mess with her daughter and that strange doll sitting in the corner. “Why don’t you go play outside?” the mother suggested warmly. “You’ve been cooped up in here an awful long time,” her daughter turned and faced her. But she was almost unrecognizable. The little girl’s face had gone from pale to the color of fresh snow. Her pupils were almost black with no childlike shine left at all.

“Mary doesn’t think that’s a good idea,” stated her daughter in a dead, monotone voice. The mother walked out of the room and gently shut the door; something had to be done with that horrible doll.

That night, the mother slowly crept into her daughter’s room. Her daughter was sleeping peacefully in her small bed. The doll sat on the end of the bed facing the sleeping girl. I’m not so sure that I’ve known of anything stranger than this to happen, the mother thought as she studied the rest of the room.

When she turned back to her daughter’s bed the doll was facing her. The mother slowly backed up, then bolted out of the bedroom. Things were no longer strange; they were borderline disturbing.

The next morning brought a pleasant surprise. Her daughter was in the living room. The doll was on a stool, and the daughter was brushing its hair. Not all was right though. As the mother examined the toys face, her jaw dropped in surprise. Instead of the expected rosy cheeks and warm blue eyes, the face was scrunched up in a horrific, angered face that couldn’t possibly be human.

“W-w-what’s wrong with Mary’s face?” the mother stuttered. Her daughter’s white face turned to face her.

“Mary’s upset that you tried to get rid of her. She thinks we should get rid of you,” she replied.

“I’m really not sure what could be causing this… Has your daughter ever been diagnosed with

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any psychological disorders before?” asked the confused psychiatrist.

“Not that I know of… I’d really appreciated it if you could fit us in as soon as possible. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid someone might get hurt,” replied the worried mother.

“All right,” said the psychiatrist. “I’ll see you at 9:30 tomorrow morning.” He hung up. The mother glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It read 11:17. Just a little less than 10 hours and this nightmare would be someone at the ward’s problem. The mother turned down her bed and slid into it. It’s a sad thing when you begin to fear your own young daughter, she thought.

Her sleep was very fitful. The mother kept trying to stay asleep, but she was awoken by vivid nightmares and strange noises, coming from her daughter’s bedroom. Her daughter’s bedroom door opened slowly and then slammed shut. The mother gave it little thought and went back to a halfsleep, half conscious state. She could just barely hear the rummaging through kitchen drawers, Soft, carefully placed footsteps followed. The mother’s bedroom door creaked open. All that came next was a well-placed stab, an ear-splitting scream, then silence.

Two men were walking to work when one pulled a freshly printed newspaper from his briefcase. “Did you see today’s headline? ‘Local Woman Murdered by Schizophrenic Daughter,” he read. The man skipped a few paragraphs and began to read again, “‘Although no explanation for the sudden onset or severe psychiatric issues has been given, the girl is currently being observed at Bird’s Mental Hospital.’” His friend looked puzzled.

“Sudden onset of severe psychosis? Sounds a little fishy to me,” his friend said skeptically. The friend shrugged.

“Stranger things have happened,” he replied. The two men continued on to work.

By Erika Cottrell, 9th grade

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Courage There are no happily ever afters There are no knights in shining armor Every second of my life is a dagger A set we came Four brothers we are Without us, life couldn’t be At age 16 We could do what others dreamed First we could only control those around Everything died when I touched the ground So they all laughed Because I was different from the others Bellum was the worst He could turn two lovers to fight so much Fame was a thief He stole from the rich unworthy He was the Robin Hood Pestis, my favorite He plagued the cruel Yet his heart was gentle For he healed the ones he touched Disease consumed him Instead of them I Mors am simple to know If a Touch a tree it begins to grow Yet I am the reaper of man’s soul The trees are different Since they don’t die They are a barrier between dead and alive They allow the dead to see those who walk But block the sight of man Alone by the fire Maybe she felt bad For the thin slip by the fire Never fearing Never dying Music of fiddle, fife, drum Animus Brothers were proud Little brother lost Now found As time sped on Animus grew weary Barely lifting her feet Pestis tried so hard To save whom I loved

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This disease wouldn’t heal.

Slowly I watched my Animus die Slowly ever so slowly I prepared Cloak on Sythe in hand The reaper of man struck again He did all he could We must set her to sea Now together Never divided Fully matured We rule the world Bellum - War Fame - Famine Pestis – Pestilence And I Yes Death Courage in our hearts Now dead Cannot be repaid I fall not in love Try to stay faithful to the one above It has been ten thousand years May I always be there my dear

By Virginia Buzzell, 9th grade

121 Photo by Jessica Furtney, 10th grade

122 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

The Melancholy of a Misogynist I find the scent of gasoline appealing. There was an abundance of the weighty smell.

It burned the skin of my flared nostrils.

And throat.

And lungs.

And hair.

I have been kidnapped.

My eyes are straining just to see. Waking up from a slumber that I cannot remember taking, I find myself surrounded by a backdrop of onyx-black.

With my remaining sense of touch, I feel a thick shell of what I think is glass encasing my body. It is a glass imprisonment. A glass coffin, if you will, punctured with holes. Apparently I could have been suffocated by my own exhalation, resulting in my death.

But no.

Whoever was doing this wants to keep me alive.

Thousands of possibilities taunt me for the answer.

But I know why I am here. Part of me does not want to believe it. The other part forces me to.

I thought I had been careful.

But I am finally caught.

“Missing Girl: 23, found charred and disfigured.”

“Ex-model, 25, burned alive in home.”

“Young Woman suddenly vanishes, uncovered two weeks later, unidentifiable.”

The numerous article cutouts I have collected and so proudly littered about the walls of my small living quarters came to me one after the other in flashes. And so did their faces.

Darla.

Adrienne.

Eveline.

Gloria.

Beatrice.

Yvonne.

All dead.

All beautiful.

And because they were beautiful— They were dead.

Did they have anything against me?

No. Did I, them?

Yes. Just being beautiful was more than enough justification to take their lives. I had no preference, and I was not in the least bit picky. A beautiful face would suffice.

I made sure to stalk them initially. To my delight, I soon learned that beautiful women often travel alone. This put me off in the beginning, because surely someone monitored their every move.

They were beautiful, right? Irresistible, even.

But there was no one.

This is where I would come in.

As I memorized their daily routines, becoming comfortable in it through thorough studying, I painstakingly planned out my assault and the death that would follow.

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It delighted me even more to know that they knew they were going to die. It made the ordeal easier. I could feel them giving up when we wrestled, but I won’t get ahead of myself.

I attacked when they felt their safest: inside their own homes. But it began at the front porch.

The sooner they opened the door, the better for me. I made sure to give off a casual demeanor, playing as if I were the boyfriend or husband or brother, though I was undetected by the woman.

I pushed her in hurriedly upon the faintest opening made in her doorway. She was screaming by this point. Once in her home, I would slam my hand against the walls on either side, flicking off the porch light switches that I knew were there. It pays to study.

If she were the headstrong type, she would bravely try to wrestle with me. I specifically choose thin women for this very reason. Many put up a good fight, their strength concealed by their frail frames, vexing me. It was something to truly marvel.

However, I do not lose.

I would bind her.

Then gag her.

Then strip her.

I would take my aged, rusty scalpel that had seen better days and made my own improvements to her body in the image of what I believed she should have looked. My special scalpel and I gave her a new haircut with scrapes across her scalp, for beautiful women hate to have their locks trimmed for whatever reason. Things always get messy, so I usually make this quick. I do some work to her face, and I rearrange a few things to my liking. Not much to her upper torso, any excessive scrapes and cuts there and pools of blood would spawn. I preferred them to remain conscious. Losing too much blood would kill her as I have learned in my earlier assaults.

I rid her of the needless things like ears and fingers and toes, and I finally showed her with my blood-spattered mirror, the reason why I wanted to keep her alive.

Thank goodness for gags. My ears would’ve been ripped at her screams.

She didn’t like it, but I thought she looked wonderful.

I repeated this for as many times as I wanted, and I would have continued to do it so long as their were beautiful women in the world.

But no.

I had finally been caught.

Gasoline suddenly fills my glass tomb.

A match is lit and thrown inside.

The heat and light of the fire eats my flesh.

“See you in hell,” I hear the darkness say.

I laugh hysterically.

I hear there are even more beautiful women in hell.

By Bianca Wiggins, 12th grade

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125 Picture by Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

126 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Foreign Wilderness The crunch of snow and dead branches under heavy boots broke the silence of the fragile night air. A lone figure trudged down the path, chin tucked deep into the confines of his collar and scarf. Hands shoved in his pockets, he hunched over for warmth, but also for protection from his surroundings. Jade eyes glittered from over the old wool scarf, never straying from the path ahead, trying not to see the trees that’s bared branches were silhouetted like bone hands reaching for him.

The man had been wandering in the forest for days now, the pack on his back almost out of provisions. He was an American soldier, a tank operator for the army. He’d been sent here to help secure the frontlines, but in a hasty retreat after a surprise attack, he’d been separated both from his brothers-in-arms and from his tank. Trapped in the Black Forest, he had been trying to find his way back to friendly territory, or even just figure out where exactly he was in the first place, but he’d had little luck with either to his knowledge.

As he continued down the path, he soon saw smoke rising up above the trees. Eyes lighting slightly, he hurried onward, pulling a small pistol from his jacket. It wouldn’t do much good in the freezing temperatures, but it might scare someone enough to avoid any real confrontation. The closer he got to the smoke, the more excited he got. He could smell food cooking and see the lights of a fire.

Through the trees a small country cottage came into view. It was old and worn, its brick sides cracked and crumbling in spots, the roof seemed bowed under the weight of the snow on it, the peeling door tilted slightly in its hinges, but there was a cheery light coming from inside and the smoke from the chimney promised warmth that the soldier couldn’t pass up.

Approaching the door, he kept an eye on the covered window, making sure no one was watching. Finally pausing in front of the entrance, he knocked firmly on the door, hearing only the reverberations of the sound echo through the small building, but a shifting of the curtains showed that someone was home. Knocking on the door again, he was cut off by a disgusting hacking noise from within; it was wet and thick, the sound of a true sickness.

Perfect.

Freezing, he watched the entry creak open, revealing a pale old woman. She was bony and bent over with age, skin a pasty white and a fragile mound of white hair sat on her head. She held a cloth in her hand which she coughed into while she studied the soldier with the most disconcerting green eyes he’d ever seen. He pushed his uneasiness away and smiled.

“Do you speak English?” he asked slowly. When he only received a blank stare, he pressed on with a different method. “I’m cold…” he said, rubbing his arms and shivering, “And hungry…” he rubbed his stomach this time, “may I come in?” he finished, pointing in to her house.

Following his finger, the woman peered into her house a moment before looking back at him and then to the house again. Finally nodding, she stepped back and opened the door a bit more for him, slamming it closed right after he made it through, leaving no doubt as to how the door had managed to loosen from its hinges.

The soldier wasted no time in pondering his surroundings, instead, walking right over to the fire and standing as close as he could bare, eager to thaw out a bit. When he began to regain feeling in his fingers and toes, he looked to the woman and was surprised to see her watching him intently from the other side of the small dining table in the cottage, her green eyes dancing dizzyingly in the firelight. She continued to watch him for a long moment before turning away to a steaming pot of something she had set up in front of her. After a moment of fussing over it, she poured two bowls of what appeared to be stew out, pushing one toward the soldier.

Approaching, he caught another whiff of the food and decided that he didn’t care what it was, it smelled good and he was starving. Snatching the bowl up, he hungrily began to gobble it up, eating

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it right from the bowl as he saw no utensils around. He knew he probably looked like a wild man, but it didn’t matter to him.

Slowly sitting in a chair, he put the bowl back down and watched the woman again, who was now smiling despite her episodes of hacking. Grimacing at a particularly bad bout, he noticed that she didn’t seem to be in quite as much pain each time, continuing what she was doing each time rather than freezing like she’d been doing.

That was odd.

Looking around, he spotted a mass in the corner with a blanket tossed over it. It had no recognizable shape, but now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t ignore it. There was something ominous and strange about it. What could it be? Certainly not clothes or pillows, it seemed too hard for that.

Perhaps a doll? But why would an old woman in the middle of the forest have a large doll? It served no purpose.

The scraping of knives drew his attention. Turning slowly in his seat, the soldier studied the woman who now was a little closer, sharpening some knives, smiling softly. On the table in front of her was a mound of onions and other assorted vegetables, probably to put some more flavor and texture in the stew. Very slowly, she began to mince the vegetables, dumping them into the pot as she ran out of room. As the process continued, the wind picked up outside, shaking the small cottage, the bricks groaning in protest. Another snow storm was blowing in.

The constant noise and warmth of the fire finally pushed the man into a daze, his eyes drooping and his mind wandering to a different time and place. And he remained that way for a long time, drifting in and out of consciousness, relaxing, not because of choice, but because he was so fatigued. He just had to take advantage of the peace.

When he woke, the fire had simmered down to a low glow. The pot of stew sitting over the fire was no longer steaming and hot. The storm now passed. Looking around the darkened room, the soldier saw no sign of the old woman. Assuming she was asleep in the next room, he slowly stood and stretched, peering around for a sign of exactly where he was. He saw the mass in the corner again. Staring, he couldn’t help but approach it.

Reaching a trembling hand out, he grabbed the sheet and with a quick yank, pulled it off.

To his surprise, part of what was underneath fell down with the removal of the sheet. It was a pile of body parts, human body parts. Gasping, the soldier jumped back and pulled his gun out. The bloodied parts were clearly hacked off, chunks missing from the flesh and muscle.

Seeing this, the soldier paused. Studying the wounds closer, he gasped, looking to the stew in the fireplace and promptly threw up. When he stood up straight again, the old woman stood in the doorway to the connected bedroom. She no longer stood hunched and feeble, but tall and straight, her hair hanging long and knotted down her back. Lips parting in a sickening smile, she tilted her head. “Found out my secret recipe, huh?” she asked sweetly, green eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“You sick freak,” the soldier shouted, raising his pistol and firing off a few rounds at the woman. The bullets stopped short though and fell to the ground. The woman cackled and took a few smooth steps forward. “You can’t kill me, no mortal can kill me. After all, I am the top predator,” she whispered, eyes flashing before she dived at the soldier. He tried to move out of the way, but she grabbed his legs and despite his desperate struggles and usual prowess in fighting, he was soon overcome.

The war ended three weeks later and all POWs were returned. Every soldier that was found lost in formerly enemy territory over the next months were sent home as well, but Private John Dannings, U.S. Army, was never found and has remained missing to this day, a victim of the foreign wilderness.

By Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

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129 Photo by Lyndsey Shelton, 12th grade

130 Photo by Olivia Lovelady, 12th grade

Sirens I hated him. I hated him more than I’d ever hated anyone, and I wanted him to feel it. I stalked down the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. And my reflection in the mirror made me hate him even more. Stains of purple marred my cheeks, and the outline of his fingers stood out vividly on my throat. My hands curled into fists on the counter.

My brother had always been cruel, putting bleach in my shampoo or glue in my makeup, but after my mother’s death there was nothing to keep his cruelty from becoming pure torture. It started with a punch here and there when he was angry, or a sly pinch when my father was around. But my father was so seldom around, and when he was he was rarely sober enough to question why his daughter was black-and-blue.

So I started staying away from home more. I stayed out late, only coming home long enough to shower and sleep, and sometimes not even that. But he was always there, and, at sixteen, I couldn’t always stay away. I had to come home some time.

I’d dealt with him until now, but this last blow was the last straw. I would no longer live in fear. I heard his door close as I made my way calmly to the kitchen. I wasn’t afraid. A strange calm, like a lull before a storm, came over me. I selected our longest kitchen knife, and turned to see him stalk, smiling, towards me.

“Oh, getting feisty little sister?” his face twisted into a mocking smile.

I didn’t answer. He feinted left and right, playing with me, but I didn’t move. Anger coursed through me, a rage so vivid that when he lunged at me I didn’t hesitate. I plunged the knife into his stomach and twisted. And then I left my brother bleeding on the floor.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of sirens. And I smiled.

By Shannon Adams, 12th grade

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Hanging Heavily Hanging heavily, brittle and brown On lingering branches Like a long lost memory of someone, Stood unsteady Tattered and tarnished A small tree house!

With shattered steps eaten away by termites From many years apart With a floor of bare, broken, beaten boards Being not one to hang onto the past too long…

I couldn’t help but stay and stare.

I glanced at a sign that hung on the tree house, Faded but still legible, “Boys only” it read.

I laughed for a moment and reminisced of simple days No longer could I go in there – No longer was I a boy – No longer did I need a place to hide – I slipped my hand on a decaying handle on the tree.

I closed my eyes.

I turned… and walked away.

No longer was there a tree – No longer did a tree house hang – No longer did a child go on – Only steps to a fond past, Forgotten no longer.

By Clifford Patterson, 12th grade

132 Picture by KC Blackwell, 9th grade

Marlene’s Stroganoff Iris slams the door to her Buick and quickly pulls on her sweater. It was freezing outside this October and Iris could not risk getting a cold hand having to take yet another pill every morning. She slowly shuffles to the gate of the Lynch Cemetery and remembers that she forgot the arrangement for Benny’s grave. How could she have forgotten the most important reason she was here? She walks back to the car and opens the trunk she grabs the arrangement and walks back to the cemetery. As she walks, she can’t help but to remember all the times she had spent here with her beloved husband, Benny. Benny and Iris were married 45 years before he died of some kind of cancer. If only I could bring him back… she thought. It was their 50th anniversary and Iris wanted to bring something very special to her place on Benny’s grave. “Marlene’s Stroganoff.” Marlene was one of Benny’s ancestors and it was a family recipe, also Iris’s favorite meal. Usually Iris would be the one to cook in their home but on special occasions Benny would volunteer and the only recipe he knew was Marlene’s Stroganoff. The recipe had been passed down generation by generation in his family, and the recipe was to be kept a secret.

Iris walked by each grave slowly remembering all of Benny’s family and how she hated all of them. She envisioned what life would be like if they were still around and she shuddered. When she finally reached Benny’s grave she smiled and placed down the stroganoff.

“UNG Stroganoff!” She remembered the excitement Benny had when he had leftovers in the fridge in the fridge and began to laugh. “Oh, he made the silliest…” Iris caught herself talking out loud and turned red in embarrassment. She looked around and noticed in the back of the cemetery, a person walking slowly and as if they had a limp. “Well hello there.” She said. He was getting closer and it was beginning to frighten her. “Ung Stroganoff!” she heard him say. She giggled nervously and looked down at her nails. “Did I say that out loud?” she thought to herself. She glanced up and heard scratching noises coming from the graves so she began to run. She got into her Buick and realized people were following her. She looked out of her window and saw glowing red eyes and torn body parts with clothes on them. “Benny’s grandparents!” she thought. But no, it couldn’t have been. That would be ridiculous! They both had been dead for over 50 years. As she quickly scavenged for her keys, she glanced up. “Benny!” It was her beloved Benny coming after her. “You’re going insane,” she thought. “He’s dead. Now drive home, take your Attivan, and get to sleep.” She was talking to herself now. She was convinced she just needed sleep to forget this whole thing. But no. She looked up and saw Benny’s face in her side view mirror and threw the car door open, “Benny!” she yelled in excitement. It was definitely her Benny. Iris kissed him and jerked awake.

“I’ve been watching too many zombie movies with the kids.”

Iris mumbles to Benny lying in bed next to her. “I had this horrible dream that I was OLD!” she laughed. It was almost 11am on Sunday morning. Iris and Benny had slept in for half of the day.

Benny laughed at Iris and asked “Hon, would you like some of that special stroganoff for lunch?”

“Yes, please,” giggled Iris. “Oh and Iris, we’re going to visit my grandparents today.”

By Laura Dominey, 9th grade

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134 Picture by Abrianna Shealey, 12th grade

Uninvited Guests I shouldn’t have ignored my mother. I shouldn’t have let them drag her away into that shiny white prison they call an institution. Shouldn’t have stood and watched as they threw her tranquilized body into a van and drove away. But I did.

And I’ve always regretted it.

In the week before my mom went away she made a drastic change. The vibrant smile that seemed super-glued to her face was ripped off and replaced with a grimace. Her irises slowly darkened, matching the shade of the deep purple circles around her eyes. She didn’t sleep. She wouldn’t eat. She rarely talked. When she did speak, her voice was monotonous and frail. Burns began appearing all over her body. Ugly, brownish-red scars spotted her skin like discolored Dalmatian print. In only a week my mother had transformed from a beautiful, cheerful human being, into the personification of death.

My mother not only deteriorated in her appearance, but in her mind as well. You see, my mother claimed to see frightening creatures in our basement. They were almost human in appearance, except they had extremely long, dark arms and legs. Instead of eyes and a mouth, they had onyx-black pits that seared deep into the depths of your being. She called them scrawls. I can still hear her shaking voice whispering to me, “Late at night, I can feel their fingers tracing along my face.

They touch my cheek, and then my lips. Then they grab my arms and their fingers… their fingers burn me! Their fingers! I want to open my eyes, but I’m afraid that if I do… they’ll disappear. Then I’d know I was insane. I don’t know if I can handle being crazy. No, I don’t know if I can handle that…”

Four days later, Dad called Dr. Loomis. Forty-four minutes later, a white van pulled up. Four men in white uniforms spilled out of the van and into my parents’ bedroom where my mother had barricaded herself. After some struggling from my mom, a tranquilizer gun went off. The men then dragged my mother down the stairs, and out of what had once been my normal life.

It’s been ten years since Mom was taken away. For the better part of a decade I visited her every weekend, I saw her slowly transform into nothing more than an empty shell – a soulless zombie. I kept the routine up through my first couple years of college. Then the visits occurred every other weekend, then every month, until eventually I stopped seeing her altogether. I could no longer handle watching what was left of her bright spirit vanish behind the sedatives and white walls.

At this time, I was 23, done with college, and on my own. I moved in with my fiancée Nora into an old antebellum house across town. It was a gorgeous house, and being an aspiring artist, I found the scenery full of inspiration. Trees lined the driveway up to the house, and subtly colored flowers surrounded the wrap-around porch. The inside was just as magnificent. The floors and grand staircase were in near-perfect condition. The only down-side to the house was a sometimes leaky ceiling, which Nora and I found to be a miniscule problem. We’d lived happily there for little more than a year before I received the news.

Dr. Loomis called me at 4:44 PM on April 4th, to tell me the news that my mother had died.

Apparently an orderly wasn’t keeping close enough watch over her and she killed herself, having slit her wrists with shards of a mirror she’d broken. I don’t know how long I stayed in my room and cried. I don’t know if minutes, hours, or days passed before I finally stood and dried my eyes. I do know that I never forgave myself for not spending more time with her in her final years.

A couple of days later, I went to my old house, the place that held the last happy memories of my mother. My father still lived there, but he became a hermit once Mom got sent away. When I came, he just sat on his couch and stared blankly ahead, pretending to pay attention to whatever the news anchor was rattling on about. I walked up to my old room and sat on my old bed. I grabbed a

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picture of me and my mother that still stood on my nightstand. I grinned back at her huge smile as she held a younger me in her arms. I felt my eyes begin to water so I reluctantly placed the picture back in its place.

I walked back down the stairs into the living room. Dad was still staring vacantly at the screen.

Just as I was about to go sit on the couch next to him, I noticed the basement door out of the corner of my eye. The same basement door my mother used to go through almost every day. The same basement door that eventually condemned my mother to live out the rest of her days in a psychiatric ward. I felt an invisible force pulling me towards the door. I took one quick glance at my father, who didn’t move an inch. Then, I turned the knob and opened the door.

I turned on the light and took a good look around. There wasn’t much to look at. Our old washer and dryer stood against a wall to the right, while the back wall had useless home improvement junk piled against it. The only thing of any interest was the door that was on the wall directly across from the stairs. I rarely ventured into the basement as a kid, so when I saw the tiny door on the wall I was genuinely curious. I descended a few more steps and then stopped. My heart began to pound. I was sure I had seen the doorknob turn.

I swallowed my cowardice and took a couple more steps… then the door slowly creaked open.

My eyes grew twice their normal size and my heart stopped. My bravery disappeared. I was frozen on the stairs. It felt like a century passed before I really saw what nearly gave me a heart attack.

An extremely slender object protruded from the door. It was charcoal black at the bottom and it progressively lightened as it continued its unveiling. My mouth dropped open and I silently mouthed, “It couldn’t be…”

Next, the bald head came into view. The profile of a powdery white face with no nose emerged. I was still frozen as the rest of the long willowy body came out of the door. It straightened itself up and then dusted itself off. Slowly his head rose and I saw the black pits my mother told me about before she was taken away. The eyes formed an evil glare as the mouth formed a smile.

The scrawl began to advance towards me. Finally, my trance broke. I fell backwards and began scrambling up the stairs. I ran as fast as I could into the living room screaming. I ran to the couch but Dad was gone.

“Dad!! DAAAD!!” I screamed hysterically. I got no answer.

I wheeled around to face the basement and just at that moment the scrawl walked through the door, still smiling. I kept screaming, “Dad! Dad, where are you?! DAD!” My father came trotting down the stairs. He looked at me and with an annoyed expression asked, “What is it? What do you want, boy?”

“Dad! The creatures mom talked about! The scrawls! They’re real! There’s one at the door, it’s going to kill us, Dad!” I screamed.

My dad just looked at me and smiled… the same smile the scrawl made. As my father moved towards me, he began to change. His flesh turned black at the ends and the color began to fade from his complexion. What was left of his hair vanished, and his eyes sunk into the back of his head.

“Boy,” my father scrawl said with a chuckle, “What are you talking about? You sound as crazy as your mother.”

By Bri Felder, 12th grade

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Picture by Robert Gilstrap, 9th grade

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Contributors Abriana Shealey is from Warner Robins, Georgia. In her artwork, she strives to convey to viewers the beauty in everything and express her storytelling skills to relate messages, emotions, or humor in the work. She admires the artwork of many European artists and manga artists in Asia. She will attend Savannah College of Art and Design to major in Sequential Art and minor in Animation.

Alexis O’Brien is from Warner Robins, Georgia. She loves to write – sometimes – and hopes to go to Georgia College and State University and major in elementary education.

Allison Broeils is a junior living in Warner Robins, Georgia. She has recently discovered her love of the stage.

Amanda Geiger lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. She is a sophomore who enjoys the odder side of life.

Angeline Eugene is a junior who lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. She enjoys writing and photography.

Ashlynne-Kate Chadwick is a junior living in Warner Robins, Georgia. She actively educates others about living with diabetes.

Ashunti Williams lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. She first became interested in writing in the second grade after being asked to share her daily journal with friends and family at Westside Elementary. Since then Ashunti has went on to compete in oratorical contests along with many other poetry contests. Ashunti writes to express herself and hopes to become a poet in the future.

Ausirus Billups is 18, and was born in Elgin Illinois. His inspirations are his imaginations, experiences, and other recourses. He would like to continue his career as a writer, and inspire others with his works.

Bianca Wiggins is a resident of Warner Robins, Georgia. She is a deep thinker and daydreamer, whose thoughts and emotions are deeply blended and woven throughout her works. She listens to music fervently, is deathly afraid of bees, and has an unhealthy relationship with sweets. She will be attending Georgia State University in Atlanta, Georgia to major in Nursing and minor in English and/ or Journalism.

Bobby Dominy lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. He is inspired by current events, and often aims to satirize them in his works. Bobby hopes to go into public administration after attending the University of Georgia.

Bradley Morgan is originally from Orlando, Florida. He has always loved art in all forms. Although music is his favorite to admire, drawing and writing are his favorite to practice. In all of his pieces, he tries to capture the topic as it is naturally. He is inspired by things that happen in everyday life. He hopes to attend Mercer University and become a medical researcher.

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Brent Sappe is a junior living in Warner Robins, Georgia, and a player on the NHS varsity baseball team.

Briana (Bri) Felder lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. She generally draws her inspiration from personal experience, though some of her work is inspired by art and dreams. Her favorite book is Psycho by Robert Bloch. She plans to major in Psychology and attend a medical school to become a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner.

Clifford Patterson lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. His writing reflects life in sincere and humorous ways. Inspiration is never a problem, because having family and friends are all he needs.

Dylan Treend lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. He is a deep thinker, a talented writer, and an exceptional doodler.

Erika Campbell is from Jacksonville, North Carolina. Photography is not just a hobby for her, but something she is deeply passionate about. Each picture that she composes tells a story and holds a memory for an entire lifetime. She plans to attend the Art Institute of Atlanta to major in photography.

Felicity Jasmine Watts was born in Fairbanks, Alaska but now lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. When it comes to writing Felicity loves the journey her imagination takes her on. She also loves to take her readers on an adventure unlike any other…

Jai’kel Robinson is from Rochelle, Georgia, and will attend Georgia Southern University. He writes as an outlet for creative expression and emotions that come from friends, family and everyday life. He plans to study psychology and minor in business.

Javier Molina was born in Puerto Rico but has grown up in Warner Robins. His writing style is less than traditional. It’s influenced by his dry humor, extensive vocabulary, and deep-rooted need to voice his thoughts.

Jessica Causey is a senior living in Warner Robins. She is very creative and enjoys a good pen.

Jessica Furtney is a sophomore living in Warner Robins, Georgia. She is an accomplished photographer and creeper.

K.C. Blackwell is a freshman who lives in Warner Robins, Georgia. While a procrastinator at heart, he is secretly a creative individual.

Kierra Powell is from West Point, Mississippi. She will attend Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, Georgia to pursue some major unknown to her. Kierra would like to thank Mrs. Shelley Stahl for forcing her to pick up a pen once in a while!

Krista McDonald is a senior from Warner Robins, Georgia. She will attend North Georgia College in the fall to study herpetology. If you want to know anything about animals that slither, see Krista. She also enjoys photography.

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Laura Dominey is freshman from Warner Robins, Georgia. She is an active member of Theater Troupe 2892 and a sassy redhead.

Lawrence White is a musician from Puerto Rico. He began writing stories and music at age 11.

Known in music circles as LRW3, a simple phrase that sums up Lawrence is “dream BIG or don’t dream at ALL.” Leonardo Ortiz is a freshman living in Warner Robins, Georgia. He is an honors student with a sharp mind, and he enjoys reading about mythology.

Le’Paris Hall is from Warner Robins, Georgia. He plans to go to Fort Valley State University. When he creates his writings he thinks about his family, which provides the inspiration that he needs.

Lisa Dowden is a senior living in Byron, Georgia. She is a talented soccer player, an honor graduate, and a prom queen!

Lyndsey Shelton, from Warner Robins, Georgia, has been toying with writing since she was a child.

Fascinated by exploring unknown aspects of the world, she writes stories that show her obsession with the supernatural and what-ifs.

Nicole Monserrat lives in Byron. She is currently a junior.

Olivia Lovelady is a senior from Warner Robins, Georgia. She has a God-given gift for photography and is an exceptional young woman.

Robert Gilstrap is a freshman and lives in Warner Robins. He is an active member of the Northside Blue Wind Band as well as an honors student.

Scarlett Peterson is a senior at Northside preparing to go on to Kennesaw State University. She loves photography, takes three hours of it with photography teacher Mr. Ron Cowart, and uses her film camera every chance she gets.

Selena Brown lives in Warner Robins. She is currently a junior.

Shannon Adams is from Warner Robins and has lived there all of her life. Her writing is inspired by young adult authors such as Cassandra Clare, Stephenie Meyer, Scott Westerfeld, and Caragh O’Brien. She plans to go on to study creative writing and write young adult novels.

Taylor Nix is an 18-year-old young man living in Byron, Georgia. His writing is inspired by his thoughts, likes, dislikes, family and friends, his beliefs, and much more. With his unique writing style, Taylor is sure to make an impact in world no matter what career his pursues in the future.

Thomas Ray is from Warner Robins, Georgia. He feels writing is cathartic and in his writing attempts to provide readers with both an emotional mindset and a logical solution. He is inspired by personal circumstances and the works of Jack London and J.R.R. Tolkien. He will attend Georgia Tech in the fall, where he plans to study computer engineering.

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