eunoia | Fall 2017 by PACT EUNOIA

eunoia PACT Charter | Volume 3 | Issue 1 | Fall 2017

eunoia Vo l u m e 3 | I s s u e 1 | F a l l 2 0 1 7

Creative Staff Editors Christal Ruppert Anita Douglas

Cover Art: McKenna Lee. Elephant. Drawing.

eunoia is the literary journal of the language arts department at PACT Charter School.

Ramsey, Minnesota

Table of Contents Poetry Seasons | Uncultured Elephant…….. …………...………….………..…..6 Mirror | Anonymous ……….. …………………………...………..………14

Fiction My Mistake| Belle Narragon …………...………………………………..10 Record Time | Christal Ruppert ………………………….……..………..16 Arktos | Aliyah Givand …………………………………………………..20

Personal Essay Books | O.A. ………………...……………………..…………...…………..9

Visual Art In the Eye of Nature | Aliyah Givand …………………………….……..7 Ronda | Jayme Lisell ……... ………..………………………..……….....8 Cat| Candice Brumm ………….……………….……………………….15 Wild | McKenna Lee ……. ……………………...………………….…..21

Seasons Uncultured Elephant Poem

The Flowers start to bloom The lovely bride awaits her groom From the pedals water drips And together their hands grips The colors are quite wild They will have their first child The flowers are collected for medical oils Their child is very much spoiled They colors are all so pretty And the family moves to the famous city The stem keeps growing from the ground While the family grows to be renowned The flower gives off a beautiful smell While the family is doing quite well The children run and the flowers scramble While the husband goes for a secret gamble The pollen helps the bees make honey But the family starts to lose their money The flowers colors starts to turn dark And the madness starts to leave a mark The seasons start to turn But the love starts to burn The flowers are dead it's a shame But was it because of the fame?

In the Eye of Nature Aliyah Givand Drawing

Ronda Jayme Lisell Photograph

Books O.A. Personal Essay

Books. Where do I even begin? They are wonderful, truly magical things. The very thought of them makes me tingle with joy. You see, books to most people are just an everyday, ordinary thing. They can never be more than just stories. Amazing, thrilling stories, sometimes, yes, but still just stories nonetheless. But to me, books are way more. That’s because I’m a part of them. Literally. Perhaps you think I’m a lunatic. Perhaps you are slowly backing away thinking, “Freak. She thinks she’s actually part of a book.” I don’t blame you. I would probably do the same if I were you. But, freak or not, this is who I am. I don’t know why I am like this, and I don’t know if it will ever go away, but I do know that every time I open a book, something strange happens. I become a part of it. I found out when I was nine. Of course I had been reading before the age of nine, but I had never really read a book with a plot. It was mostly just simple words like, “See. Dog. Ate.” My first real book, Heidi, was the one that changed my life forever. I opened the book to the first page and began to read, my eyes eagerly skimming over the words. Heidi was a hard book for a little girl, to be sure, but I was bored with all the children’s books and I knew I could handle something bigger. So I read. And I, like all the other characters in the book, quickly fell in love with the sweet little girl. But about a fourth of the way into the book, I noticed something different. I’m not a very emotional person, but, reading the book, I felt the exact same emotions that Heidi did. She was sad and I suddenly felt overcome by a gloomy mood. She was happy and I too felt excited. She was anxious and I experienced concern as well. But that wasn’t all. She skipped through the glorious mountain air and described the beautiful flowers and fragrant air. I suddenly saw with incredible clarity the picturesque mountains with its many lovely flowers. I sniffed crisp, cool, clean mountain air. I was thunderstruck. I literally felt the wind rippling through my hair. It was mesmerizing. And I absolutely loved every second of it. But the sensations didn’t just stop at Heidi. Over the years, I’ve read hundreds of books, some of them sad and melancholy, some happy and cheerful. I’ve read adventure books, science fiction, non-fiction, romance, dystopian, fantasy, mystery, horror, historical, and so many more. But none of them come close to Heidi. Those first few moments were beautiful. And I’ll treasure them forever.

My Mistake Belle Narragon Fiction

Mine wasn’t the easiest life, it wasn’t the happiest life. It definitely wasn’t the best life. But it was mine. And I had to live with it. I’ve done some terrible things in this life, things that I’ll regret for the rest of eternity, things that I can never take back. I can’t make up for any of it, not anytime soon because what I did was so unforgivable, that it cost me everything I held dear. Everything that once mattered to me was now gone, whisked away like sand on a windy day. Gone forever. I wish I could take it all back, send it right back into the past where it belonged, but that was impossible now. I did something irreversible, something that would change the fates of everything, all that once was and all that will be. The hardest part of knowing what I’d done was that nobody else did. The shock and humiliation were the triggers for my silence. I couldn't trust myself to speak after that because every second of every minute my lips threatened to utter the words that would destroy me, and my legacy thereafter. Of course, I didn’t mean to do it. It was the last thing I’d ever dream of doing. But the powers that be wanted it more than anything, they looked at me, their eyes blazing with desire, threatening to consume me and spread like wildfire. Quite literally. They took me by the hand and led me to my end. The end of everything I’d come to know, to hold close, to adore, And they ripped it away, crushed it like a bug under their shoe, like something that couldn’t be tolerated anymore. “It’ll be ok,” they’d said. “It’s what’s best for you, for the world.” Their voices lured me in like a snake, tightening its grip on me with each second, every word that flowed out of their mouths smooth and silky, hinted with temptation. But they were wrong. They were so, so wrong. I just didn’t have the eyes to see it then, and I wouldn’t. Not for a very long time. I didn’t have the guts to stand up to them, to call them out on their bluff. I sat there like a frightened child, which in all reality, was exactly what I was, what I’d always be. 10

A coward. Naive. Stupid. Alone. The reality of what I truly was, who I truly was, settled in after what seemed like an eternity of denial, a never-ending hole that I couldn’t seem to claw my way out of. But eventually I did, and I realized something right then and there. I was the key. To everything. I was the missing puzzle piece, that when reunited with the others, would set everything into motion. Destruction, Death. Grief. Ash. So much ash. The screams of the dead haunted my dreams for months afterward. They appeared out of thin air as soon as I closed my eyes, and lasted until the sun came up, or until they got so bad that I woke up, looked down at my hands, tainted with the reality of what I’d done, and realized that it was all my fault. Everything that had happened that day was all because of me. Because I was a coward and allowed myself to believe that erasing an entire village from existence, a culture, a community, was ‘all for the best.’ They came to me every day, crack of dawn when I’d usually be awake, when I’d be letting my dark side take over and consume my thoughts, my being, and letting them throw me into a pit of despair that I could only escape from with the help of them. I hated them for it, but I also loved them, God, I couldn’t stop loving them, no matter how sick it was. They gave me everything, and yet they also took everything. It was absurd, but I couldn’t stop myself, I couldn’t allow myself to let them go. They had become my new twisted little family, one that I could never escape from. One that, oddly enough, I’d never wanted to escape from, not until I found out about them, what they really wanted from me, masked by fake love and false acceptance to me, to what I was capable of and what I wanted to be. They never truly understood, I’d realized, and I wanted out of there. I wanted a one-way trip to a new life, devoid of them, now and forever. I wanted to set myself free, after all of those years of being in a cage that only they held the key to. They didn’t care about what I wanted, and they never did. I had to leave. Then, there, and then. No more waiting and stalling and giving them a second chance, more like a fifth. I had to leave. It was now or never. Once I realized this, it was only a matter of time; that and secrecy. I had to be careful. Those people could tell 11

if you were lying before your eyes met theirs, before you could utter a single word. They knew everything, simple as that. They would definitely know if I was thinking about leaving, especially if I was making plans to do so. I had to be extra careful. Leave no evidence behind. Getting out wasn’t the solution; it never is in situations like mine. It almost made it worse. To realize you were completely alone with your secret, in a world with millions and millions of people, people that would never, could never understand, it was overwhelming. Heartbreaking. I’d been lonely before, almost isolated. I had tolerated it for years, seventeen to be exact, but the pain seemed fresher than ever. It was unbearable to lose every sliver of human contact again, no matter how much I told myself it was better to stay away, for everyone’s sake. I was dangerous. I was lethal. I was to be feared. Knowing this had become a part of me, ordinary. Something as normal as the sun rising and setting each day, but deep down, I was afraid. Of myself. Of what I could do to others, the damage I could inflict at the simple touch of a hand. I had no control over my power. I had no control over anything. I was a sitting duck in the world, cold and alone, and I could barely handle it. They tracked me down eventually after that, which I guess was only a matter of time, but it came out of nowhere. One minute I was eating an apple I’d found in a dumpster, shiny and red. So shiny I could see my own reflections. The contours of my face, the golden flecks in my deep brown eyes, and then the next, I could see theirs, shiny and new, like an old photograph come to life, the black and white image replaced with color so vibrant it radiated across the land blanketed in white, taking my breath away and catching the eye of every single person in the village. They loomed over me, asked me why I’d left them so long ago, as if they really cared, as if they’d ever care. They bombarded me with all sorts of questions, affection fake enough that I could tell for the first time what they really thought of me. They didn’t even try to hide it from then on, the way they spoke told it to me straight. I was nothing more than a pawn in their sick, twisted little game, and I would never be anything more. I was a worthless little girl, one that could never be loved, by anyone. I already knew this to be true, but them confirming it set something off in me, ignited a blaze so strong it would take more than water to put it out. I looked up at them with a gaze of stone. Cold, hard stone as I spoke to them. “You wasted your time coming here. I’m not coming back with you,” I’d told them with a steady voice as I stood up slowly, letting my words echo across the now empty square. A ghost town. They laughed. A light laugh, filled with insanity and indescribable madness. They had the nerve to laugh. That alone stoked the fire inside me, made the flames of rage burn brighter and higher, reaching new heights that I hadn’t known possible. 12

They looked down at me with narrowed eyes, ice cold eyes that told me I was coming whether I liked it or not. But I wasn’t going. Not with them, not with anyone. They didn’t hold all the cards this time. They were missing the most important one, the ace of spades in the playing deck, the one that decides what happens. Who lives, who dies. The card that made all the rules, decided every decision to be made. I held all the power this time. I smiled slyly at them, looked up, and walked away. Simple as that. I walked away, leaving them and the fear behind. I was done being afraid. They couldn’t decide my fate, my actions. Not this time. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Mirror Anonymous Poem

I can’t wait until someone notices notices how much pain I'm in. Notices how much words can hurt Oh. Wait…

But I know my limits

Never going to happen

I know when it ends

My hopes and dreams

I know there's no point

Are like the crumbs from the

I can't make amends

Birthday cake a child wished upon

All of these thoughts surround me

Waiting and waiting

Telling me I can’t do it

Until you finally lose hope

But I'm starting to think otherwise

I know I'm not the only one

Why can’t do it?

I know I'm not the only one hurting

Why can’t I fix it?

I want to tell them

Who says I can’t ?

I notice you

It's my time, it's my time to show

I notice how much pain you're in

That I'm worth something

I’m sorry for your pain

Worth living, worth being someone in this world

I'm sorry for your empty promises

Happiness is as wonderful as food

I want to fix it

And It's my time to eat.

But i can’t, I'm just me A nobody A darkness in the blackest of night A needle on the biggest of pines What could i possibly do? People say I have potential

Cat Candice Brumm Watercolor

Record Time Christal Ruoppert Fiction

Mom's hands were warm. Gabe liked a lot of things about his mom's hands -- their soft texture, the smooth, stately fingernails, the way she wore a ring on the thumb of her left hand and one on her middle finger of her right hand, the way they smoothed his head or tapped a pencil -- but his favorite thing was that Mom's hands were always warm. As a naturally cold person, Gabe loved to take his mom's hand to warm up. He liked to hold Mom's hand when they said prayers at dinnertime, and when they went to run errands. If they were driving on the interstate, Mom would sometimes drive with one hand and reach over with the other to hold his. Sometimes, if Mom had been holding a cup of coffee, her hands were extra warm -- that was the best. He liked waking up in the morning to sneak downstairs and watch the sunrise with his mom because she always ran her hands through his hair. He loved when she tucked him into bed, too, because those same hands would rub his face before she planted a good-night kiss on his forehead. Mom's hands were so different from Granddad's. Granddad had rough hands, with lots of calluses, and they usually smelled like cow. Not that cow was a bad smell -- Gabe found the scent comforting and homey -- but Mom's smelled like peaches, which always reminded Gabe of peaches and cream and summertime sunshine. Granddad's hands were also bigger, with fatter fingers and shorter fingernails. Granddad's hands were good at fixing fence and wielding tools and hauling hay bales; they were strong, working hands. Mom's were good at drawing and mincing vegetables and tickling him; they were graceful hands. Gabe was glad of his mother's warm hands now, and he gave them an extra squeeze as the two of them walked down the sidewalk. The rain-streaked shop windows made Gabe's reflection look warbled and bent, and his wet shoes and socks made him shiver. He'd tried to be good and stay out of puddles, but it was really hard. "This one's a big one, Mom!" He eyed an upcoming puddle with a frown. His mom frowned, too. "What's our strategy, cap? Is it too big to hop across?" Gabe sized up the puddle. "It's not that wide. I think we could go around it." In one fluid motion, as if they had practiced, the two of them split around the puddle, their joint hands swinging above the shallow water. Gabe loved that -- he loved being connected to his mom even when they were on opposite sides of the sidewalk, and he loved the reflection of their hands in the puddle: his little hand tucked safely in his mom's graceful one. 16

Just as soon as he'd enjoyed the moment, though, there were more puddles to watch for. As he and Mom came back together, walking close again, Gabe's eyes turned to the sidewalk before them. "This one's a doozy, Mom!" In truth, Gabe didn't know exactly what the word doozy meant, but he'd heard Granddad use it for a particularly large calf once. Granddad said lots of peculiar things, but Gabe liked the way it sounded. "And it's pretty wide," Mom commented. "I don't think we can split this one." Gabe grinned up at her. "I think we just have to hop across the pond!" His mom's warm laughter made him grin a little wider. He'd read that expression once in a book - "hop across the pond" - and again wasn't sure what it meant, exactly, but it had made Mom smile, and she had a great smile. "Ready?" Mom tightened her grip on his hand, preparing to help him jump. Gabe squinted at the puddle, brows furrowed, mouth set. He nodded. "Okay," Mom said. "In three... two...one!" With all his might, Gabe jumped. Mom, still holding tight to his hand, helped swing him over the puddle. For a magical micro-second, Gabe caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water blow him: Knees high, arms wide, like he was flying. Smack! He landed on the sidewalk at the edge of the puddle. "Did you see that, Mom?" he cried. "That was so cool!" His mom's bright eyes twinkled with delight. "That was amazing, buddy!" "Best puddle yet." Gabe settled back in close to his mom's side, content with holding her warm hand and trying to keep up with her long-legged steps. He sure did love his mom. Who else would have helped him fly over puddles? Granddad would have splashed through them with him, but not fly over them. After another half block, a torrent of rain started to pummel the sidewalk and its inhabitants. Laughing, Gabe and Mom ducked into a little shop with a black awning. "The Green Door An..." Gabe read from the window. "Anti cues?" "Antiques," Mom corrected. "Like Granddad's old Coca Cola collection in the basement. Antique is a fancy word for old things." "There are lots of old things in here, Mom," Gabe said, looking around. "It even smells old!" "Shh!" Mom's eyes sparkled with laugher, even as she shushed him. "Not so loud, buddy. Some people don't like their stuff being called old." "Ooo, cool!" Gabe let go of Mom's hand and stepped over to a vintage fire truck toy. "Who do you think owned this, Mom? I bet he could tell stories about it." His mom only shook her head and smiled at him - that smile she only used when she was thinking and her eyes were full of love. He didn't know why she shook her head, but she did it pretty often. 17

The rain continued to pour outside, but the antique shop was cozy and warm, filled with soft amber light from old lamps around the store. The two wandered around, looking at all the antiques and speculating about the stories they could tell. "What do you think, Gabe?" Mom asked, picking up a weird-looking hat with a netting attached. "Can I pull it off?" Gabe giggled as Mom tried it on. "No," he said honestly. "I bet the lady who owned that hat couldn't even make it look good." "Don't you?" Mom asked. "Oh, I do. I bet she was a classy lady. Maybe the wife of a doctor or a lawyer. High society. She wore this little hat to many galas and parties." "It looks weird! It's so small and stuff." Mom grinned. "You're so small and stuff." She tapped his nose, and he giggled. "Hey, Mom, what are these?" He pointed to a box just behind her, filled with thin, rectangular cardboard boxes. "Those are records," Mom answered. "Before CDs, there were audio cassettes, and before that, there were 8tracks, and before that, people played music on vinyl records. Nana used to have a record player; I don't know where it ended up." She said this last sentence almost to herself as she began to browse through the stack of record sleeves, her long fingers tipping them back one by one. Gabe watched her, fascinated by both her fingers and the records. "Mom," he asked, "what's a CD?" Mom stopped flipping records and looked down at him, this time not smiling or shaking her head. "I have failed as a mother," she muttered. Gabe giggled. "No, you didn't! I'm just teasing you!" "Did I miss the joke?" Gabe turned to see who was talking to him. His face lit up. "Uncle Jack!" He ran to hug his favorite not-uncle. (Mom had tried to explain it once, but it was confusing. Jack was like an uncle, but not related to Mom or Uncle Mike, but Gabe got to call him Uncle Jack anyway.) "Hey, buddy!" Jack scooped Gabe up in a bear hug, his favorite kind, before returning him to the ground. Mom tipped her head to the side and looked at Jack. "Fancy meeting you here." Jack shrugged and gave her a hug from the side. "You know I live for china teacups." Gabe giggled. "You do not!" Mom just raised her eyebrows. "I'm trying to find a collector's item for my mom's birthday," Jack explained. "What are you two doing here?" "We got wet!" Gabe volunteered. "Caught in a rainstorm," Mom supplemented. "We've been adventuring." 18

"Yeah, and we've found some really cool stuff," Gabe added. "Like this box of velvet records!" Uncle Jack chuckled. "Velvet records, huh? They must be pretty rare." "Vinyl," Mom corrected Gabe. "See?" She pulled a record from its sleeve. "Not velvet." "Velvet is the fuzzy stuff on that chair in the other room," Gabe concentrated to remember, "right?" Mom nodded. "That's velvet." "Donny Osmond?" Jack asked. "Let me see that." He pulled the record case from Mom's hands to study the cover. "My mom loved Donny Osmond when he was younger. I can't believe they have this in vinyl." "I bet it's a collector's item," Mom grinned, "for your mom's birthday." She snatched the case back and returned the record to its sheaf before placing the cardboard back in the box. "Ha. What else do they have in here?" Jack started to flip through the cases just as Mom had done. She joined him, their fingers moving in tandem. Gabe was fascinated. Jack's hands were different from Mom's, but they were a lot the same, too. Mom had long fingers, but Jack's were longer. His fingernails were flatter, wider. Like Granddad, Jack's hands were strong and steady, but they were also precise, like Mom's. Jack was good at building things and putting things together. When they got to the end of the box, Jack looked back at Gabe. "What else did you find in here, bud?" "Oh!" Gabe's eyes lit up again. "Let me show you!" Caught up in the excitement of showing Jack around The Green Door, Gabe forgot about hands until the three of them stepped out into the wet but bright day outside. Cars whizzed by, splashing water onto the saturated sidewalk, but the clouds were clearing to reveal a bright blue sky. "Mom!" Mom and Jack looked down at him expectantly. Gabe grinned up at them. "The puddles are even bigger now!" Without even saying a word, Mom and Jack reached for Gabe's hands. Gabe grinned wider and squeezed them both. These were two of his favorite hands in the world, and they belonged to two of his favorite people. "We have to stay out of puddles," Gabe explained to Jack, "so you might have to help me jump..." Together, the three of them walked down the sidewalk, hand in hand.

The prompt for 9/10 Languageâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Journal #4, assigned October 2016, was to start by describing two hands. This is the piece I wrote from that journal prompt.

Arktos Aliyah Givand Fiction

Long, long ago, there was a bear, Arktos and a leopard, Pardos. They both thought themselves fit to rule the forest. The two quarreled for many years, when finally they came to an agreement to decide the king. There was to be three tests, a trial of smarts, of a respectable heart, and last of all, the test of dauntlessness. Whoever excelled in all three trials would become monarch. At the first test, Pardos triumphed. For he was of a clever mind, as the cats of his order most always are, and Arktos just could not prevail against a mind such as Pardos’. In the second test, the rivals tied, for neither thought much of being kind or caring. The day before the third task was to take place, Arktos walked indignantly back and forth in front of his cave. He resented the outcome of the past two trials. He had been deceived and shamed in the first trial. In the second, he’d hardly done better. Winning the next test was compulsory if he wanted any sort of promising future, or so he told himself. And so, He came up with a crude plan that completely reflected his detestable character. It is this; He would get up early in the morning and slip poison into Pardos’ breakfast. When Pardos ate it, he would not be able to think clearly, and in effect, he’d fail the task. The next morning, Arktos set out for Pardos’ tree. He arrived and poured the poison onto of the leopards meal. But as he was doing so, a pair of yellow eyes appeared inside the tree’s foliage. To his downfall, Arktos did not look up. When the time of the task arrived, Arktos was there, looking smug. Soon after, Pardos arrived, and to Arktos’ delight, the leopard had an uncommonly blank look in his eyes. The test was to cross a fallen log that was propped precariously on the very edge of a waterfall. Arktos volunteered to go first, confident he’d win, and pleased with his cunning idea. As he stepped on the log, he realized it was quite wet, soaked from the continuous spray of the waterfall not far below. He plowed ahead anyway, and reached the middle of the log with little trouble. Right when Arktos thought he had the victory, he felt something big and sharp crash into his back. Pardos had been faking the effects of poison, he’d avoided eating the poisoned food for breakfast. Now he took out all his fury on Arktos, who’s cheating had almost cost the leopard his life. He pushed the bear down, till only his paw remained holding him to the log, to his life. Arktos begged and pleaded, but Pardos’ heart was stone. He pushed the bear off the ledge into the roar and spray of the falls. As Arktos fell, the gods took pity on him, or perhaps they thought he ought to have more of a punishment for his crimes. Either way they took him as he fell, and placed him in the stars, to fall forever, for everyone to see.

Wild McKenna Lee Drawing

Contributorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Notes

McKenna Lee is a junior at PACT and loves to do pencil sketches as well as water color art. She likes to spend her spare time playing volleyball, drawing, and spending time outdoors with her family.

O.A. is too cool to have their full name published. They enjoy lots of things such as reading, writing, watching the newest Marvel movies, and eating ice cream.

Belle Narragon is a sophomore at PACT who loves anything and everything to do with storytelling, whether it be books or writing itself. She writes pretty much anything that comes out of the depths of her creative imagination, and can usually be found in the pages of her current book, being whisked away by the words on the page, and tuning out everything around her.

Uncultured Elephant doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even go here.

Candice Brumm is a Special Education Para at PACT. She minored in Art in college and has taught classes on photography for several years. She is now creating PACT'S first afternoon Art Club.

Christal Ruppert decided that sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never make it writing stories and was juuuust crazy enough to be a language arts teacher. (All of her English teachers in high school were, so she figured it was a prerequisite for being a teacher.) She started eunoia to give other writers a chance to share their art, an opportunity she never had.

Aliyah Givand is an 8th grader who doesn't like all this being said from 3rd person so... Ok that's better. Hi, I'm Aliyah Givand and I like a lot of things, including drawing, painting, reading, writing, soccer, cats, football, and history. I hate being like other people and my worst fear is to be called normal.

Jayme Lisell is the 8th grade and high school Spanish teacher at PACT. She enjoys spending time with friends and family, reading, photography, travel, playing Nintendo and speaking Spanish on a daily basis. Many of her photos hardly ever include people; rather she focuses on the beauty and culture of the world around her, which means she's usually gallivanting around somewhere in Europe.

Belle Narragon McKenna Lee Aliyah Givand Candice Brumm O.A. Jayme Lisell Christal Ruppert