Prairie Ridge HS Literary Magazine 2015-2016 by Wolf Prints

Prairie Ridge High School Literary Magazine ~ Winter 2015-16

Artwork by Adalia Fritchley

The Elements of Our Being The Prairie Ridge High School Literary Magazine Winter 2015-16 Edition “E.L. Wire” Artwork by Elliott Wesa THE ROSTRUM – A stage for public speaking Winter 2015-16 – Volume XIV 1

A Poem By: Emily Botto This This is me Standing up at the wall Pushing me down The bricks raining around me Like soldiers in the fight against discovery This This is me Walking away from you There is nothing you can do To stop me I'm free

This This is me Riding away from the home I've never known Hoping to come across Life as it should be Watching the lies duck under the faded sky This This is me Smiling in the face of impossibility I've worked so hard To stop my running mind That walking never occurred to me

“Sunset” by Kira Berndt 2

Table of Contents Front and back cover artwork: “The Elements of Our Being” – Keiashia Moore, Michelle Lee; Inside front cover artwork: Adalia Fritchley

“Letter to an Abandoned Town” – BreAnne Fleer

“E.L. Wire” Artwork – Elliott Wesa

“Hush Chocolate” – Michelle Lee; Artwork – Lydia Noffs

A Poem – Emily Botto; “Sunset” – Kira Berndt

“The Trustworthy One” – Jack Cloyd

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Fire Poetry – Literary Magazine Editors; Blackout Poem – Emily Botto

Air Poetry – Literary Magazine Editors; “The Day the Sky Exploded” – Delaney Watson

“Fire” – Elliott Wesa

“Air” – Abby Klimkowski

“Stardust” – Anonymous author

“Beezlebubs” – Nina Horabik; “US” – Kelsey Zange

Artwork- Rachel Orr

Artwork – Reilly Branson

“For Her” – Anonymous author

“Robin Hood and Samantha” – Dana Rochford

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Artwork – Jackee Schneider

Artwork – Josh Shoufer; Photograph – Kelsey Zange

“American RAFT Assignment” – Marcos Perez

Artwork – Anna Gehring

Photograph – Kayla Nicole Meadows; Photograph – Alex Johnson

“Who Is Jack the Ripper?” – Michelle Lee

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“At the Botanic Gardens in Chicago” and “At the Botanic Gardens, Chicago” – Stephanie Mullen Artwork – Nikki Eckland; “Illuminati Goddess” – Michelle Lee

Photograph – Wyatt Prather

Water Poetry - Literary Magazine Editors

“Anthy Himemiya” – Michelle Lee

“Water” – Abby Klimkowski

Earth Poetry – Literary Magazine Editors

“Through the Lens: Failure” – Daniel Bruce

“Earth” – Keiashia Moore, Michelle Lee

“Fantasia” – Michelle Lee; Artwork – Josh Shoufer

Photograph – Kira Berndt; Artwork – Natalie Mustea Artwork – Michelle Wasilewski; Artwork – Keiashia Moore

Artwork – Jackee Schneider; “If I Stay” – Emily Dillon Artwork – Krysta Lawrence; “Chicago” – Emily Botto “Hannah” – Kayla Nicole Meadows Artwork – Abbi Witt; “Portrait of Halle Baldwin” – Stephanie Mullen; Poem – Nikki Kelley “The Garden” – Jack Cloyd

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“Gone But Not Forgotten” – Tyler Lentz

“Antebellum” – BreAnne Fleer

“Liberum” – Jackee Schneider

“A Melodramatic Poem About Running” – Katie O’Malley Photograph – Jennifer Angeles; Artwork – Allyson Akerberg Artwork – Michelle Wasilewski; “Bebe” – Abbi Witt “Rose” – Elliott Wesa; “Ethereal Beauty” – Michelle Lee “The Next Stop Will Be: Addison” – Jack Lotito “An American Poem” – Brittney Aldape; Artwork – Marissa Pollastrini Acknowledgements Inside back cover artwork: “Tangled Storms” – Abby Klimkowski 3

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FIRE I fly with burning wings, my veins are laced with kerosene, and there are sparks behind my eyes. We all have a dragon living inside of us, stoking the fire that resides within our hearts. She is on fire, and I willingly relinquish myself to the flames. -Written by the editors

Blackout Poem by Emily Botto

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“Fire” by Elliott Wesa

Stardust By an anonymous author Constellations trickle across the midnight sky Lay down, look up. Breathe in all the blues and purples That this world has provided you. You feel so small, so helpless. For those stars shine brighter than all the power of darkness that the night has smothered the earth with. You're just a child, 1 in billions, Just a face with a name. So you wish on lucky stars and every 11:11, to match the beauty of those stars. But every star you look at is 100 million years old, and 100 million miles away. And every human on this planet is 93% stardust. So with stardust rushing through your veins, start wishing on yourself because you. Are out of this world.

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Artwork by Rachel Orr

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For Her By an anonymous author Do you know his favorite candy? It’s skittles.

Does he kiss your nose? It’s cute, I know. I started that, too. You’re welcome.

Did you notice that he’s a picky eater? He orders chicken fingers a lot.

Does he stare at you with a goofy smile? I bet you ask him, “what?” I also bet he says, “nothing,” flashes a bigger smile, and follows that with a kiss. That’s one of his favorites.

Does he listen to Macklemore? That’s how we met. Does he have a firm handshake? That’s thanks to my dad.

Does he write you little notes? It’s because he regrets never writing back to mine and doesn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

Are there scuff marks and a little bit of dirt in front of the passenger seat of his car? That’s from my boots.

Does he treat you like a princess? He believes you are one.

Is there a canvas consisting of John Green and Chipotle in his dorm? I made that.

Is he good at keeping secrets? He still has all of mine and will forever. I hope he never tells you them.

Does he talk about Georgio’s? That’s where he asked me to be his girlfriend.

Does he ever talk about me? I was his “everything” for 659 days.

Does he call you sweetie? I thought it was peculiar the first couple times, but it ended up being my favorite.

Are you doing everything you possibly can to make him the happiest he’s ever been? You better.

Does he call you “babes” instead of “babe”? I started that after I heard my cousin say it to his fiancé.

Be good to him. I know for a fact he’ll be good to you.

Does he say “stay perfect” to you every night before bed? He said that to me 659 nights straight.

Have you fallen for him yet? Don’t fall too hard. It hurts like hell when he’s gone. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt.

Does he turn his head to the left when he kisses you? He’s used to it. We only tilted our heads right a handful of times.

Artwork by Jackee Schneider

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American Raft Assignment By: Marcos Perez Role: Myself Audience: Students in this class Format: Poem (Not a rap. Raps are cringe-worthy) Topic: A Few Things You Should Know I am part of an American family The kind that is not actually from this country From one where they were not safe at night From one where every day was a fight But why is having more like them a problem we face? Why do we see them as another race? It seems that everyone is making the same assumption But that’s the mindset that leads to destruction I used to think like that the most I thought being born here was something to boast When I showed my true colors, my mother scolded me That was when I realized that I had no empathy These people are all industrious They’re willing to live a life less luxurious They all come from a nation torn Like the patriots from whom this nation was born Now I wonder, what does Lady Liberty’s torch say? Is she like us? Does it say go away? They see its light like a hopeful beacon We see them as moths, causing this country to weaken And what happened to the praises sung by the chorus? Have we really turned this nation into a fortress? And the greatest guilt we should have when we turn them away is when we finally ask, have we even earned the right to stay?

Photograph by Kayla Nicole Meadows

Photograph by Alex Johnson 11 Â

Who Is Jack the Ripper? By: Michelle Lee

Sophie Walpole (Adult Woman Domestic Servant Age 22) Rage. Bloodlust. Murder. I feel the insatiable urge to ultimately kill myself now. But I feel obliged to first explain my story before you judge me. Dear Reader, let’s start from my very beginning.

Dunkshire, England 1864 Like any other ordinary English child, I was born with the slight irregularity of somehow contracting smallpox shortly after birth. Obviously, I fell gravely ill...my pink, rotund cheeks turned pallid and sallow, my miniscule body slowly became covered with red blistering pustules. The wet nurse tried explaining what a hopeless waste I was. “She’s a lost cause tha’ one, don’ bothar savin ‘er.” Heroically, my persistent parents chose the exhaustive option to keep their only child alive. But with that awful decision, they naively sacrificed a great deal of savings for a proper vaccination by Doctor Jenner. I miraculously survived the traumatizing ordeal and was nicknamed the so-called “Miracle Child” in this ever-growing city of demoralization, poverty, and cholera. Even the deadly disease left me a permanent reminder, an oddly heart-shaped scar on my left cheek. Although my parents were absolutely relieved with my initial presence, they still had to endure the heavy burden of poverty. Even as their beautiful “Miracle Child”, I became more of a stranger to my parents. Each time they looked at me, all they would remember was the day they recklessly drained their life savings. “Mama!” I would exclaim, my tiny, outstretched arms ready for an embrace. All my mother would do was look at me with her cold, vacant eyes and allow me a momentary touch. As you can tell, our conversations didn’t last very long, and every year, the rift between my parents and me widened, especially with their clock-making business declining. My mother and father were traditional wood carvers specializing in clocks, but as I mentioned earlier, time quickly passed, and our lives became less and less fortunate. “Papa, why ‘re you givin’ someone the clock shop...” No answer. “Papa, I’m ‘ungry...” “Shu’ y’ur mouf...it was bad enough that you were born a girl...” If only I was a boy. I could’ve possibly helped my family by climbing my way up into labor aristocracy or maybe worked as a scientific surgeon, but alas... I was born a girl.

Dunkshire, England 1872 When I grew to the age of eight, I finally discovered someone who actually enjoyed my existence. Phillip was his name. Phillip Ackerson, a lanky boy of nine with short, black hair like the night’s darkness and eyes as blue as the cracked robin eggs we found in the parks. After a scarcely sustainable midday meal, I would leave the dark, dreary place I called home to meet with him in the back alleys of England. (Continue on page 14…) 12

Photograph by Kira Berndt

Artwork by Natalie Mustea 13 Â

Whenever Phillip had the chance, he would always get into multiple brawls...he’d try teaching me some tricks, too. “‘Ey, that boy o’er ‘here looks like a figh’er. Do ya dare me to go ‘hrow a few punches, princess?” Phillip quickly tried jabbing the air for emphasis. “Phillip, you’re just lookin’ for ‘rouble,” I beamed while letting the exasperation drip from my voice. “Aye! My paps ‘aught me to always go fer the back of the knee!” he continued, trying to impress me with his amateur techniques while grinning ear to ear. “That’s ac’ually quite back-handed of yer fa-,” I chuckled, but he interjected. “And then ‘hrow y’urself on ‘op of the fellow un’il he’s gives out!” Phillip jumped in the air and injured his arm while trying to elbow the nearby feline. Phillip gave my life adventure and free-spirited fun...until an interruption stumbled into our daily routine and gave us a glimpse of reality. Literally. A prissy, aristocratic boy stumbled into our lives. After falling into one of the alleys, the boy spotted us trying to stifle all kinds of snorts and snickers. “Bugger off, you fiendish commoners!” the arrogant boy screeched. The whaling whines of the powdered anomaly caused us to chortle even more so. “You deserve to di-,” the boy’s voice trailed off after staring at me. “Why is such a beautiful girl with a peasan’ raised by the irrespec’able sluts and drunks of England!” He straightened his collar, apparently trying to impress me with his manners. “Sorry, but I don’t ‘alk to arses tha’ insul’ my friend!” I yelled. The prissy boy’s jaw fell open with disbelief over my statement. “Fine, you...you...whore!” he tried countering and spit on the ground. “Well, whoop-de-doo, sir Pouf, she doesn’t like you,” Phillip shouted with glee. Being insulted as a homosexual was enough to set the white-wigged boy’s anger aflame. “You are the filthy scum of the streets! Your idiocy matches the rags you wear!” he shrieked while running at us with his bloated stomach, shaking every step of the way. Although I urged Phillip to walk away, this clever boy wouldn't back down after being repeatedly insulted by a prudish imp. Surpassing the god-forsaken child’s speed, Phillip ran full force and delivered his signature kicks of justice. The piggish boy fell to the ground, writhing in pain over the blossoming purple bruises on his leg. “You both are the trash of society! I’ll have you both arrested and thrown into the Bloody Tower! You are both slags!” Even on the filth-encrusted ground, the boy kept muttering. The furrow in his brow grew steadily larger. “I’ll have your heads!! My father will ‘ave you thrown in the factories until the day you die,” the pig boy sputtered. “Oh, yeah? Says the boy lyin’ in the trash of society’s dung,” I nonchalantly answered. We ignored his weak warnings, and Phillip continued to sit on the pig until the aristocrat's white blouse became as filthy as the excretions in the alleys. Slowly walking down the alleyways, I asked, “Did we go ‘oo far with ‘hat one?” “I ‘hink so...but he’ll proba’ly forge’ abou’ us,” Phillip waved his hand as if he brushed the topic aside. Forget us he did not. The next evening, the smug boy stood next to a giant, mustached man. It was the Constable; the god forsaken aristocratic boy had called in the police. 14

“Shite. Run, Sophie!” We sprinted down the familiar alleyways, avoiding all dead ends. But we were mere dwarfs running away from a titan of the law. The Constable grabbed us by our rags and bellowed, “What‘re your names and ages, young ones? Speak up and don’t shy now!” Out of sheer “respect” for the “justice” occurring before our eyes, we stated our ages. “Sophie W-walpole, sir, e-eight, sir,” I nervously piped. “Nine,” Phillip spat. Angered by the action, the Constable glared at Phillip. “What in the name of hell were you doing to this fine man yesterday?” The Constable pointed towards pudgy. “Beating his arse, tha’s what.” The Constable’s teeth grinded. “Go home, girl. And you,” he said, pointing to Phillip, “are coming with me.” He started dragging Phillip. “What’s going on? Phillip, wh’re are they takin’ you?!” I cried out frantically. My best friend was being unfairly blamed for the crime we somewhat committed. I tried to hit the officer, and Phillip tried to escape from his captor, but his efforts were in vain. Frightened and unsure of the recent events, I rushed home as soon as I could. But instead of my monotonous mother and father preparing a drab supper, I perceived my Auntie’s red hair conversing with them. She seemed to have the appearance of a maid or a working woman...not that I’d care. “Mama! Papa! Phillip is goin’ to be ‘aken away!” For some strange reason, my parents were shuffling around, digging their feet into the ground and avoiding direct eye contact. “Wha’ is goin’ on?” “...Sophie. Our funds...’hey’re gone’. We can’t ‘ake care of you anymore, so Aun’ Chelsea will ‘ake you...you’ll be educa’ed and learn how to be a servant girl,” my sunked-eyed father answered gently. The first time in ages. “You’ll be under my wing in two days time,” my Auntie abruptly answered. Betrayed and heartbroken, I ran to find Phillip the next day. “Phillip...are you okay? Did the Constable hurt you?!” I whimpered. “Yeah, I’m okay, bu’ I did ge’ a whooping from my pa...Sophie? Why ‘re you crying?” The tears welling in my eyes broke their dam and rushed down my face as I hugged my friend. I slowly drew back. “I’m leaving, Phillip...I’m leaving the tenements to become a servan’ like my Auntie,” I wailed. Phillip embraced me and wiped my tears. “It’ll be alrigh’, Sophie...jus’...jus’ promise to visi’ me in the fac’ory!” I promised, but my heart still ached for my best friend as the horse-driven carriage trotted all the way to London.

London, England 1875 Time had passed, and the world around me grew tremendously. Everything eventually changed from a court of cholera, rotten sewage, and contaminated water into a more health-driven city packed with health regulations, and the streetcars are convenient on my way to work as well as the privilege to ride a railroad every three years back to London where I would go and visit my old chap. Every time I visited, Phillip got older and inherited a manliness in him that I had never seen before. His previously lanky frame gave way to a broad, sturdy physique with a firm jaw and a masculine aura. Definitely handsome. He also started coughing more often than usual, but his blue eyes always twinkled with childish delight when he saw me.

London, England 1886 By the time I turned twenty and Philip aged twenty-one, I went back to visit him. However, this was the first time in nine years that I truly felt confident enough to ask him if he, too, felt something more than friendship between us. I constantly pondered over my feelings on the ride to my childhood friend and concluded it to be love. But my love was easily squandered when I visited Philip’s home for the last time. As I was speaking to Phillip of my new workplace, his strong face appeared emaciated, and the wheezing started. I leaped out of my chair to immediately fill up a clean glass of water, but Phillip suddenly stopped me. “Sophie...I may not ‘ave told you this but I haven’ been feeling well. I’ve been hiding i’ for awhile now, but I can’t hold it in...Sophie, I’m dying,” he rasped. “But you were doin’ fine the last time I saw you, Phillip! I grasped his hand, my heart pounding with fright. “Sophie,” he smiled, “tha’ was three years ago...it wasn’ as bad.” “Bu’ why tell me now?” I asked dumbfounded. “Sophie, I don’ think I’ll be able to say it another time. I...” Phillip coughed. “I love you, Sophie. I’ve been working ex’ra hard to earn money to get married...but tha’s all in vain...” he grinned a weak, childish grin while caressing my blonde hair. Soon, the memories I had with him flooded my mind just as my tears flooded my face. Phillip reached for my left hand and placed a beautiful, simple ring on my fourth finger. “I love you, too.” I kissed him, and he smiled his last. His bright blue eyes faded and his limbs fell to the side as he coughed. Cold-hearted fate was maliciously cruel. Sick and somber, I couldn’t stay any longer without the thoughts of killing myself. I returned back to the Cavendish’s mansion, located around the Whitechapel Road, my fourth place of employment and torment for two years (I had been employed to three previous luxury home owners, but each fired me...well, the women of the house did). The mistress of this house, Mabel Cavendish, a fierce twenty-six year old auburn with a sharp tongue, despised me for some reason. I think it was the looks her twentyeight year old husband, my master, gave me. “Welcome home, sir, ” I’d say every day as Andrew Cavendish would walk through the front entrance. And I’d always see the glaring daggers of Mabel’s jealous eyes piercing my soul after those three words. But what makes it even more ironic is how she appeared kindly to her selfish children, Alice and Beatrice...but maybe she was only being kind because of the book she was reading called Papa, Mama, and Baby by Gustav Droz, a book teaching one how to nurture children...children...my only chance of truly having one with the person I loved was demolished. My heart is heavy... Death. Now I must continue my stoic personality for the sake of my workplace.

London, England 1887 It’s been exactly a year since my beloved’s passing. The world appears as bleak and lifeless as the day I was born. The only unusual event that’s been occurring is my master’s opinion on education. Andrew Cavendish is a professional, well-to-do surgeon who (surprisingly) believes in teaching everyone the education of health. Everyone...but Mabel Cavendish. My master was never interested in teaching Mabel, his hot-tempered wife, the skills of a practitioner. It wasn’t even surprising that he conversed with a few of his fellow gentlemen of how he was never in love with Mabel, the arranged love of his life. (Continue on page 18…) 16

Artwork by Michelle Wasilewski

Artwork by Keiashia Moore 17 Â

I guess that’s why the master has been going off to prostitutes in the middle of almost every night. He tried approaching me for the two years I’ve been serving the Cavendishes, but 9I’ve always declined. After visiting my beloved’s hometown with fresh flowers, I went back to following my usual work schedule; I prepared the evening dinner for the family as always...and cleaned their messes. Since the rest of the staff was off duty for the evening, I was temporarily put in charge of delivering wine to my master’s study. I had heard how there was a substance in the wine called alcohol, which lifted anyone’s worries with a chug. One drink won’t hurt me... Fool. Walking down the long corridor, I already started to feel woozy, and my vision blurred. The alcohol worked a little too well. My steps became increasingly irregular as I pushed open the door of my master’s bedroom. I remember how Andrew Cavendish was sitting in his luxurious red velvet armchair as I stood before him, lavish cup and wine bottle in hand. As I was pouring the elegant drink into his cup, I couldn’t focus my eyes. My unsteady hand slipped, and I collapsed to the ground. Before I blacked out, I remember Andrew’s worried red face as he tried catching me from my fall. The next day, I awoke in my master’s bed with a massive headache. And then I remembered. I passed out...in my master’s bedroom. My head swiveled around to find Andrew, my womanizing master. Surprisingly, he wasn’t in the bed next to me. He was sleeping in the same velvet armchair, the same clothes. His usually combed, lengthy hazel hair, however, was in disarray. I swiveled around to check my chastity and clothing as swiftly as possible. Did he do anything to me? I patted my work clothes in an orderly fashion and disrupted my sleeping master. “Andrew?” My warm breath gently coaxed him awake. “Hmmmm? Ugggg,” he groaned while stretching his tense muscles. My eyes enlarged, and my heart trembled with just the slightest bit of worry. “Wha’ exac’ly happened last night?” Andrew’s face transformed into a bright crimson, and he nervously brought his hand to the nape of his neck. “I swear I didn’ do anything! I jus’ was makin’ sure y-you weren’ injured...” I noticed how he started stammering. Not quite the lady’s man I was expecting him to be. I envisioned my master wooing every beautiful woman he laid eyes upon or visiting every brothel... Well, he did have a reputation for visiting prostitutes. “Thank you, sir, for watching over this ordinary servant,” I answered politely. A screeching voice wailed throughout the entire house. Mabel was calling. A bit fearful for Mabel’s soon presence, I swiftly bowed and was about to leave Andrew’s room. Suddenly, his warm hand grasped my arm. “Will you...ah...be serving my wine, again, someday?” Andrew’s eyes widened like a baby’s, and his voice pleaded. I was genuinely taken aback at the sudden desperation and almost instinctively nodded as I sprinted to the kitchen. *** It has been a couple of weeks since the first time I served Andrew Cavendish’s nightly wine; I made it a nightly endeavor to visit my master and converse with him about my life and about Philip. But in those past couple of weeks, he was...kind to me. His usual visits to the brothels lessened, and his eyes seemed to constantly follow me every time I passed him. Strange as it seems, I did not seem to mind. And whenever I finished filling his nightly wine, he’d try to teach me methods of surgery, and the anatomy of the human body. Usually, blood and bodies would frighten little ol’ me, but Andrew was my friendly guide. 18

“So this fleshy organ, here, is the liver?” My questionable expression revealed my candid curiosity. “Ha ha ha! Oh, Sophie,” Andrew covered his face with his hand and tried masking his obvious and hearty laugh. “Those ‘re the kidneys!” Soon, the loneliness I felt from Phillip’s leaving was slowly being filled with my companionship with my Andrew. I felt so at ease...I felt no intimidation...no fear. He was my friend. After a couple more weeks, while I was filling Andrew’s drink again, he knelt down on his knee. I urged him to stand up because I might be forced to iron his clothes once more and turned to leave. “Sophie...I think I might love you...!” I stopped in my tracks, and my hands quivered. I swiveled around. “W-what? Excus’ me, but I’m just a servint girl ‘ere!” My usually calm voice peaked to a fairly high tone. “When you first came to work for us, my family was the subjec’ of a romant’cism portrait. Shortly after finishing the painting, the artist saw you cleaning the dishes and started sketching you. Ignoran’ly, I snatched the drawing from his grasp, wondering what in the world he was drawing. That’s when I...fell in love,” he whispered gently. His words seemed sincere, but I suddenly felt the urge to interrogate him. Although my friend, he was still the notorious womanizer of London, England. “Then why would you still go and affiliate yourself with prostitu’es!” “Well...tha’s because you always deny me! I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so they were the only solution... After you fell to the ground a while ago, I tried to escort you back to your room with no ill-intentions! But you kept babbling about your true love dying while shoving a ring in my face. I was cut deep in the heart...but I listened,” Andrew grasped my hand. “But don’ worry, I only laid you in my bed because it was the only way to set you down on a soft surface without Mabel watching nearby, and I slept in the chair.” My mouth gaped for awhile until I realized the everyday actions he committed: his beet red face when he accidentally touched my skin; the embarrassed head swivels when I came close and poured his wine; the gentle gazes when he stared at my serving his meals. The signs were there. At the time, I just never noticed them. His confession showed me another kindness in Andrew’s eyes. His sweet face somewhat reminded me of Phillip. So one day, when I felt ready, I willingly accompanied Andrew to his bed. *** Sooner than I realized, I became pregnant...and Mabel insisted I should get an abortion because my pregnancy caused me to miss out on my daily work pattern. But I would never. This precious child was my master’s child as well, and I didn't want to disappoint him, for you see... I had fallen in love with him as I had with Philip. But once again...not all good things last very long. Mabel was wondering about the father. One day, as I was playing with the children, Mabel swooped into the room and dragged me to the kitchen. “Why have you been sneaking in’o my husband’s bedroom every nigh’? Who’s the fa’her of your child, girl? Why’d you keep wearin’ that ugly ring?!” I grimaced at the Mabel’s harsh words. “I’m only there to give my mas’er his nightly wine as well as consul’ation,” I maintained my calm and replied honestly, but my nonchalant answer provoked her to a degree that she vehemently slapped me and shoved me against the wall so ferociously that I feared for the baby. She clutched a small cutting knife and exclaimed, “If you have affection for my husband or ‘ave 19

been with my ‘usband, I will have you ‘hrown out of my house and begging on the stree’s with your unborn child.” While I was trembling in fear, someone knocked on the door. Mabel tousled her locks back into her bun and glared at me to open the door. A woman by the name of Mary Ann Nichols entered with a belly just about as big as mine. Her ragged attire and slapped-on makeup proved that she was a common prostitute. Andrew came about and ushered her to his room and asked me not to visit him. Apparently a patient...I wasn’t particularly fond of another woman in his room, somewhat like Mabel, but I guess she was...his patient? For the next four days, four different prostitutes visited Andrew. Then a fifth one. I felt a little uneasy with the fifth one. Mary Jane Kelly...she was quite a beauty and pregnant as well. Why were there so many women visit’ng him? I couldn’t help myself and was too uncomfortable to let another woman visit him. Despite Mabel’s obvious instructions on not bothering Andrew, I peered through the small crack in the door. Mary Jane Kelly hugging Andrew. “Why don’ you visi’ me anymore? I’ve been gettin’ lonely ever since you left.” Kelly’s eyes gazed upon Andrew affectionately. “I’ve been busy with my own life.” Andrew’s answer was robotic, but Kelly was persistent. Her breasts pressed against him; it was almost like she was trying to seduce him. Andrew pushed her aside and lay her on the table....legs open. Andrew wore his surgical uniform...and looked in between her legs. My mouth dropped, and my heart stopped. Feeling utterly betrayed and feeling a bit like Mabel, I rushed to my mistress’s room and hoped she’d provide assistance. Each doorway I passed, my anger and rage against Andrew kept steadily increasing. I saw Mabel angrily cutting a fruit of some sort with a blunt knife, and I tried to pull her out into the hallway. “I was visitin’ the maste-,” I barely spewed before Mabel charged at me with the knife and stabbed my large stomach, insanity bubbling in her eyes. “HOW COULD YOU!?” I screamed with rage and pain. Fortunately no major organs were hit, but I knew. It had instantly killed my unborn child. Blood poured out, and I began to scream...even Mabel started gasping like a fish out of water and slowly backed off while looking at the knife in hand and my bleeding belly. Mabel’s usually scowled face changed tremendously; she turned around and started sobbing hysterically. Due to the sudden commotion, Andrew ran in the room to find me on the ground bleeding. “SOPHIE!!” His voice screamed while his eyes widened with shock; he looked at Mabel with utter repulsion. I was immediately medicated, and Andrew used Dr. Lister’s antiseptic to kill the germs that could have infected me. After he gently sewed my stomach together, I went comatose. Hours? Days? Weeks? I woke up in a daze to find Andrew looking at me. “Sophie...are you okay? ....What happened?” his eyes pleaded. “Nothing.” My blunt answer threw Andrew off balance. “Obviously some’hing happened that made Mabel hurt you.” Then I remembered the prostitute, the stab, my dead baby. My face shifted into complete rage. “If you hadn’t touched those women, none of this would’ve happened!” I saw Andrew’s hurt expression, but I didn’t seem to care. My heart was sealed. I strode away, holding my necessities, and started walking about the door. In his own way, Andrew pulled me back to no avail. “Sophie, those women just wanted me to end their pregnancies. As a medical professional. I did 20

nothing else with them!” Andrew’s eyes pleaded with my hard heart. But the damage was already done. My heart was already torn, shredded, and destroyed. His last statement stuck out to me. “‘End their pregnancies’? It would’ve been easier to have stabbed them, dear Andrew,” my voice spewed in a cruel tone. As I thought about it more, I became hysterical. I started to giggle then scoff...soon it turned into maniacal laughter. What a load of horse dung. I stared at Andrew and narrowed my eyelids. “Don’t you remember me...because I won’t,” I yelled before I sprinted towards a chapel. I remembered the knife, and I began to think of slitting Mary Jane Kelly’s neck right that second. Killing the life of an unborn child is sickening. Prostitutes were the worst form of people alive. Andrew didn’t love me. He entertained other women. My tragic life would always be agonizing and traumatic. Horror. Madness. I cut my fingers when I grasped a rusty knife in the trash. The true love of my life died. The second one betrayed me. The baby I had desperately longed for was murdered. It sounds foolish to this day, but I had already picked out the name for my child. Jack. I had wished for my child’s name to be Jack... THIS IS FOR PEOPLE WHO STILL DON’T KNOW SOPHIE WALPOLE’S IDENTITY: If you don’t already understand what became of Sophie Walpole...it’s pretty obvious. Sophie Walpole became Jack the Ripper. The prostitutes mentioned earlier were the five victims of Jack the Ripper, and the reproductive organs were taken away. This represents Sophie’s anger towards the prostitutes’ abilities to get pregnant, but kill their unborn children. The reports say that Jack knew surgical methods, which Sophie had learned from Andrew. This is my absolutely fictional story of how Sophie Walpole, a fictional character, became Jack the Ripper.

“Anthy Himemiya” by Michelle Lee 21

EARTH

“It’s just,” she said, “every time the wind blows it reminds me that the world breathes, too. That the world isn’t much different than us. And if we’re so similar to the world, then why do we see ourselves as being so small?” How awful would it be to spend your whole life stuck in the mud just to be buried under it one day To live on the Earth for so long that it just consumes you until all that’s left is a stone and some bones Close your eyes and listen to clatter of rocks down a hill, to the way the sounds echo in chaos and yet somehow find a melody. Listen to the grass rustle, joining the leaves in their chorus. Listen. The earth is calling to you. -Written by the editors 22

“Earth” by Keiashia Moore and Michelle Lee 23

Artwork by Jackee Schneider If I Stay By Emily Dillon It's just this one thing Will you promise to be my rock When my head's in the wrong place Will you promise to It's just this one thing

If I stay Will you promise me one thing? Will you promise to wake me up When I go insane Will you promise to

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Artwork by Krysta Lawrence

“Chicago” by Emily Botto 25

Hannah By: Kayla Nicole Meadows she has a fascination a fascination with words she sits observant of the world the world full of letters and spaces she watches the flow the flow of words and phrases she looks and glances glances at the pencil in my hand looks at the scribbling of the letters she has a fascination a fascination with people she sits observant of the world the world of different faces she watches the flow the flow of life on earth she looks and glances glances at the patterns looks at the movement of their bodies She has a fascination a fascination with life she sits observant of the world the world where dreams never end she watches the flow the flow of love and hate she looks and glances glances at the hopes looks at the dreams she has a fascination and as she grows older as she learns about life and death I pray I pray she never never loses the fascination the fascination with words the fascination with people the fascination with life I pray, she never loses FASCINATION

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(at left) Artwork by Abbi Witt (bottom) “Portrait of Halle Baldwin” by Stephanie Mullen A Poem By: Nikki Kelley The moment that you died my heart was torn in two one side died with heartache the other died with you. I often lie awake at night when the world is fast asleep and take a walk down memory lane with tears upon my cheeks. Remembering you is easy I do it every day but missing you is heartache that never goes away. I hold you tightly within your heart and there you will remain. Until the joyous days arrive that we will meet again. 27

The Garden By: Jack Cloyd The flowers have bloomed, is it my time soon? I've been strong while waiting much too long. I am wrong to think that my life has living room. I'm not sure why these seeds were planted or why these scars on my leg are always slanted. Not actually slanted, they're perfectly straight. It's more like a man who disobeyed his fate. He was supposed to leave and couldn't conceive exactly why his life was cursed. Although he tried and cried and eventually died, his end was immersed with happiness. He won, regardless of what anyone thought. He fought his way out. He wasn't supposed to be happy. This drought drained him throughout but now there was peace. All the hatred ceased. I wish it was that easy. I can't stand this hate, can't stand my life. Do I have time? Time for kids? A wife? I don't know. I don't know when this will end or if my mind will bend back to normal. It's informal to think that it ever will. Still, I have a bill. It must be paid, or I won't stay. Every few nights I turn out the lights and climb up into bed. It's all in my head. Self control dead. The demons take my body, my trustâ&#x20AC;ŚI survive the dark and survive this lark. The only thing that keeps me alive is the garden outside. The rose has thorns, yet it mourns for my safety. I've been treating it poorly lately. No water, no sunshine, no love. It comes above the rest. Atop the hill out my window sill. The petals like a spatter of blood. Its roots scattered in mud. And although it can't live forever, it will always be my savior. Months have passed. For now, I last. The rose in the garden is dead, that much is true. But do I have to become that way, too? I will fight my demons until the very last breath. I will use all of my might to prevent pitiful death. The rose has moved on, I will stay. I think about how I pushed it away. Constant efforts to help make my day. It hasn't returned and I have learned one sure thing: Pain tends to sting, and when flowers like that one don't just come and go, you have to take advantage, because my demons aren't so. The voices have numbers. They disrupt my slumber like thunder in rain. Physically and mentally they're leaving a stain. They're not leaving. Right now, they're thieving my innocence, taking control...There's nothing I can do. I guess I'll wait for another garden to grow.

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“Gone But Not Forgotten” by Tyler Lentz 29

Antebellum By: BreAnne Fleer THERE COMES A MOMENT IN HISTORY WHEN THE GREAT DELUSIONS OF A WORLD COME TO THE FOREFRONT AND CREATE A LITERAL FRONT THERE IS TANGIBLE ANGER IN THE HEARTS OF EVERY INHABITANT OF THIS FORSAKEN PLANET THERE IS A SADNESS, A MOURNING CRY AS YOU RECOGNIZE THAT MILLIONS OF HUMANS AGAINST MILLIONS OF OTHERS DID NOT HAVE TO BE INEVITABLE OR DID IT BECAUSE WE CANNOT LAST ONE MORE DAY WITHOUT TEARING EACH OTHER APART WE CANNOT LAST ONE MORE HOUR WITHOUT LOSING IT WE CANNOT LAST ONE MORE SECOND WITHOUT GIVING IN TO THE OMNIPOTENT MADNESS THAT NOW EATS AWAY AT OUR MINDS AND CRASHES VIOLENTLY UPON OUR MOST PEACEFUL LIVES AND TURNS US INTO THE VERY PEOPLE WHO WE WERE TRYING TO OBLITERATE BREATHE DEEPLY BECAUSE IF YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD ESCAPE REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE ONLY PART OF THE

ANTEBELLUM 30

“Liberum” by Jackee Schneider

Letter to an Abandoned Town By: BreAnne Fleer Note: This poem is based on an actual town in Colorado located near the Colorado River.

Parched ground is acidic and white And their river trickles only a few drops A piece of notebook paper stuck to the crusted path, a sandal Made of grass and cotton fabric strewn over sun-bleached tarp

Chewing a stick like rubber and chowing On the way to some ill-fitting stationary Shop because no one was home in that Dingy little shack built by some pioneer

They say the people are ex-snipers who turned Their guns on the system and never fired They say they all have some infectious disease They say they hungrily pray to the sun

Cool that they say the approaching town Attracted some crazy people back in the day When crazy people feared the orange sky of apocalypse Some distance from their bright green river trees The road is dirt and the rocks are tan as rust Like an old baby blue pick-up truck from the Paranoid hours of eluding the eyes that aren’t there But everyone in this town has some vendetta They said don’t go there to the edge town That is actually halfway between life and death And the tourists wonder if it’s still inhabited And if they are fugitives or defectors Some wicked breezes of dust make it look Somewhat like one of those abandoned mines Used to extract the minerals of anxiety before even The bedlam of civilization crept here under the knees of the deeply insane The houses are made of wooden boards and sheets Exotic scarves and shredded denim pants and a crow lands heavily On some primitive rope laundry line As the sun turns the sky an arid navy blue

The one-block town is as silent as a combat zone after war After some cataclysmic disaster like A chemical weapons test that the government Said was an accident through the creamcolored television This infant city or tumorous desert sprout grows The faded twisted metal of a bike and a handwritten poster that Reads “Town Hall” and scattered piles of clothing They say the residents have so much to hide Across the river’s skeleton it becomes clear That the town is abandoned With letter in shaking hand the decision is made That this is the final destination

“Hush Chocolate” by Michelle Lee

Artwork by Lydia Noffs 33

The Trustworthy One By: Jack Cloyd I. Mointinn Before our time, the world was young, An ancient people have long since passed. Four tribes divided yet together still, A sacred power, in their hands, hung.

The wait began as everyone calmed, A man had entered as a new day dawned. They called this man 'The Trustworthy One'. Of all four tribes, he was a son. He heard their claims and slowly thought. How might this lesson be taught? He took a breath and softly spoke, "Will someone please bring me a cloak?"

The temple consists of circular stone wall, They plan to rebuild with a roof, and tall. Each tribe decides a section, Then begins to construct a more fitting den.

His demands were met, the cloak was laid. The Black Stone was placed in the center. A man from each tribe grabbed one corner. It was raised into the ceiling; there it stayed.

Carefully placed aside, is the Black Stone. It can't be raised again by man alone. Unaware, a tension brews. The tribes grow angry, a skirmish ensues.

"If the stone is forgotten or destroyed, You will be cast into a Hellish void. There will be demons to feast on your soul, And goblins to eat you whole. You can choose an alternative instead, In which you are cast into someone's head. You won't suffer but will rise, As the very reason of their demise."

"The most worthy is a son of Makhzum!" A man exclaims from a crowd. "Our tribe has the foremost right." "Your conclusion is drawn, how?" Demanded another man. "Jumah's sons will raise it!" "Not while we stand here!" Said another. "Sons of Abdu Manaf shall have the honor."

...The stone has since been disregarded. It's location is currently unknown. Tribal peace can be restored, If an innocent victim can win... Alone...

"Then fight for it you must," Cried another. "Sons of Abdul-Dar will raise the Stone."

II. Mind Tyrants My life is tuning like a song. Where does my sad and lonely soul belong? The men of Mointinn whisper, And think of how to rule this deadly plan.

The wall grew taller and thicker still. A foundation was laid to build the roof. When the time came to install the Stone, Again, the tribes to one another were aloof. A consensus was thought: "Wait for the next man to walk through the gate. Allow him to decide."

I tried to speak and reason. However, they would not revoke. Every brain is one to steal, And every heart is one to choke. Every heart is one to choke.

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Till after the pain arrives. Demonic screams are blessings, Your traumatic torture brings, Angry people, evil things. Plots of vanquish to let us kill you, Burn, freeze, cut, hang, stuff that stings, At the pleasure of our King."

III. The Dream I wander lone to foreign lands, Being guided by a guiding hand. So badly, I long for knowledge, I long to reach, and cross the bridge. I hear the thoughts of uncorrupted minds, And see creations beyond humankind. Towers scraping planets above, I look to these beings who'll lead me to love.

The demons came in numbers, Ecstatic to claim their prize. Prey on the weak and feeble, Rather than prey on the wise. It's not why my soul's slowly dying, That my mind cannot perceive. It's why the goal to kill me, Is ever so slowly achieved. My lesser minds collapsing, Allowing evil to have won. At the mercy of Itse, My dying soul will be undone.

Their man-made islands that will store, Their scriptures written off the shore. Their world is built into the seas, Their waves are kissed by shallow breeze. The writings give a vibrant glow, Of wondrous tales from years ago. I read these works, my purpose gains, My life will never be the same.

( Itse : Giver of Deliverance ) "I will show you why we covet, Minds of restless souls who dare, To harm life and to harm care. You will understand the people, Who wish to bring pain no more. You will know what to live for. Don't be afraid to let us help you, Please allow us to restore, Peaceful rooms with unlocked doors."

IV. Realization I slowly cry to consciousness, With fresh wounds torn on my skin. The dream is still fresh in my mind, My face is weak with a grin. I hope my mind might survive this trip, Not die with all my dreams. I think of what my life might be, In a world like I have seen. I don't think I can carry on, Carry on this cold and empty life.

The weary beasts abandoned, What had long since been their home. My peace has been replenished, With an entire world to roam. So much to see, so much to escape, As the demons leave my head. Will they return with vengeance? Will they become, become undead? Either way, I plan to travel, From what's kept me down this time. I wonder of the freedom, Of the writing, of the rhyme.

My self control has passed away, My power is not as it seems. My life will never be the same... V. Mefein / Itse ( Mefein : Tribesman of Mointinn ) "You will suffer, you will perish. I plan to keep you alive, 35

Air

There is no element more graceful than air, the way it dances to a beat only the spirits can perceive, twisting and turning with endless spirals. He felt the ground disappear from under the soles of his feet, and even in his terror, he paused to bask in the weightlessness of the moment, the wonder of flight before the plunge. The air around me doesn’t feel the same whenever you’re around I try to speak but I don’t make a sound It’s like I’m the fox and you’re the hound -Written by the editors

“The Day the Sky Exploded” by Delaney Watson 36

“Air” by Abby Klimkowski 37

US By: Kelsey Zange We are the misfits the outsiders the weirdos the freaks We are laughed at are sworn to are left out are forgotten We are the ones who trust who stand up for who listen who accept We are not loved are not beautiful are not fancy are not perfect But, we love to do we love to obsess we love each other we love what life has brought to us And we love that, that is all that matters.

“Beezlebubs” by Nina Horabik

Artwork by Reilly Branson

Artwork by Reilly Branson 39 Â

Robin Hood and Samantha By: Dana Rochford This is an excerpt from a larger novel written by the author. Sir Robert, rightful lord of Tickhill, sat in one of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s cells. He was in a wing segregated from most of the other prisoners, dimly lit by a few sputtering torches in their wall brackets. He glanced across the corridor and urged a smile onto his face. His sergeant and most loyal friend, David of Doncaster, sat in the opposite cell, slouching against the wall. The two of them had been imprisoned close to a year ago, and their robust warrior bodies had more or less wasted away from malnutrition and lack of exercise. They had both been fighting in the Holy Land when word had come of the death of Robert’s father. Robert was not very surprised; his father had probably drunk himself to death, he thought. Robert had no love for his father. His father had been a mean drunk, always yelling and throwing things. He had beaten Robert almost to the point of death multiple times, and he treated his serfs with the same cruelty. Sadly, he remembered one case, the one that stood out most in his mind. He had been nine when his father had gotten the idea in his head that there hadn’t been any good hangings recently. Out of the blue, he had accused one of the mercenary guards of poaching and had him hanged the very next afternoon. The accusation was not true, of course, and the man protested his innocence, begging to see his family again. Robert’s father had toyed with him, and Robert leaned his head back against the stone wall, feeling sickened as he remembered. The man had a wife and two young children, and the guard had told the Lord of Tickhill that they would all starve without the income he was bringing home. His father had laughed. That was the moment that Robert had turned against his father and really began to hate him. After the Lord of Tickhill had his fun, he had waved the prisoner away, to be taken to the dungeons. Robert had followed quietly behind, ashamed of his father and disgusted by his actions. Later that night, he had found himself in the dungeon, sitting outside the mercenary’s cell and talking through the night. Robert wanted to know more about the man’s children, and he liked seeing the light that filled the man’s eyes as he spoke about them. He was a proud, kind father, and he loved his two children and his wife very much. His son was a right rascal, the man had told Robert. He was five years old and already pestering his father to teach him the tools of his trade. Robert smiled at this. The affection in the man’s eyes filled him with a strange longing. His father had never looked at him that way. When the man spoke of his daughter, his eyes positively glowed. “She’s a darling thing,” he whispered. “Bare three, but with a smile that will light up the room. She follows her brother everywhere, and she is the most intelligent, most loyal daughter a man could ever ask for.” His smile slipped, despair filling his eyes. “What will happen to them after I’m gone?” Robert had no answer and left the cell soon after. The man had been hanged the next day at noontide, and Robert had played at being sick so he did not have to see the man kick his last. But Robert kept a close watch on the man’s family, trying to give aid when he could. Despite his attempts, the wife died of starvation the following winter, and the two children disappeared. (Continue on page 42…)

Artwork by Josh Shoufer

Photograph by Kelsey Zange 41 Â

The Scarlets had been a proper family, he thought gloomily, and his father had destroyed that because he had been bored. He would never overcome the shame of that. But over the past year, Robert had heard whispers from the other prisoners about an outlaw named Robin Hood, and his companion, Will Scarlet. Will had been the name of the condemned mercenary’s son, he remembered, and felt a myriad of emotions swirling through him. He was surprised and glad to hear that he was alive, but also felt guilt that he had become an outlaw. But what of his sister? It was clear that the guard had thought his daughter a blessing bestowed upon him by heaven, so much love and pride and joy had glowed in his eyes. Robert hadn’t heard even the faintest whisper about her, and he sadly concluded that she must have died. Robert shook himself out of his dark reverie. Those thoughts belonged to the past. There was nothing that he could do now that he was locked up. He sighed angrily. Damn the Sheriff of Nottingham, he thought. The man was another like his father, and he would not mourn for one moment if someone stuck a knife through his dirty heart. Although, he considered after a brief pause, there were worse, less moral men in the castle, which he found surprising. How low could people become? Either way, he thought bitterly, he had not mourned when his father had passed, and maybe this was God’s form of punishing him for that sin. Robert and David had hurried back to England when news reached them that the Lord of Tickhill had passed. King Richard had more or less insisted, because of the grasping of his brother, Prince John, at the lands the Lord of Tickhill controlled. Tickhill was a key strategic point, and John had been trying to lay claim to those lands for years. Robert had made it home in time to prevent Prince John from claiming the lands, but his success was not to last for long. The prince had sent an envoy, welcoming Robert into his new position, and Robert had been suspicious. Rightly so, as it turned out. One of the members of the envoy had tried to kill him. But Robert was a knight who had honed his skills in the Holy Land, fighting alongside King Richard, and he had bested his opponent with ease, sliding his sword through the man’s gut by instinct. It was self-defense, but he had still killed a man, and this was the opening Prince John needed. He declared Robert a murderer and sentenced him to a lifelong prison sentence, along with his best friend, Sir David of Doncaster. The sheriff had arrested Robert and David, but mercifully put their cells near each other so they would not lack for company. That had been near a year ago, so far as Robert could figure, and he did not see much hope for the future. The two men did not have much to live for, and it showed in their wasted frames. Robert sighed again, closing his eyes. He might as well sleep, he figured. He did a lot of sleeping these days, he thought. There really wasn’t much else to do since he and David had more or less exhausted all the topics of conversation they could come up with. There wasn’t much left to say between them. Footsteps sounded down the hallway, which Robert found strange. His stomach told him it was not yet time for the guards to come with food. So he opened his eyes curiously and craned his head to see who was approaching. There were two guards, although he did not recognize them, and they were dragging someone else between them. One guard was a giant, with a brutish face and arms like logs, while the other guard had ice blue eyes that glinted with malice. The person between them was a woman, by the look of her hair, but her head was bent so he could not see much else. (Continue on page 44…) 42

Artwork by Anna Gehring 43 Â

Robert frowned as the woman dragged her head up, eyes glowing angrily. Her face was bruised and swollen, the right side of her face ripped open by a knife. But she snarled at the two guards like a wolf. “Where are we going?” she demanded of the guards. “Take me back to my cell.” The smaller guard smiled. “Not yet.” He took her from the larger guard and slammed her into the bars of Robert’s cell. She grunted in pain, and Robert saw that her back was bound underneath the bloody rips in her shirt. “What are you doing, Bug?” she growled struggling to break free of his grip. The guard with blue eyes, the one she had called Bug, leaned forward and kissed her forcefully. The woman fought harder, and he saw blood begin to stain the bandages as she reopened wounds. Bug finally released her, and the woman spat on the ground at his feet. “You ask me what I’m doing?” the guard whispered, leaning close to her, his tongue shooting out and licking her ear. “I’m finishing what Gisbourne started.” She snarled ferally, hooking her arms around the bars of Robert’s cell for support as she kicked out and hit the man in the chest. He stumbled backwards. “You obviously didn’t hear how well that went for Gisbourne,” she snapped, and Robert respected her fire. Bug regained his balance, glaring at her. “Make her a bit more complacent,” he ordered the other guard, the one with arms that could crush rocks. The woman stood with her back to Robert’s cell, and he found himself wondering why she didn’t just run instead of simply standing and waiting for her doom. Then he spotted the bloody slice on the back of her pant leg, and he realized that running was not an option. He didn’t even realize that he had stood up until his hands touched the bars. The big guard came closer, cracking his knuckles menacingly as the woman hissed, spat, and cursed at him. Her arms were still hooked around the bars, supporting her, and Robert noticed that her right hand was missing four of its fingers. The only digit that remained intact was the thumb. He felt sympathy race through him. “Don’t you touch me!” she snapped at the giant angrily, but he kept coming, raising his arm backwards to land a punch. She was slim, and Robert thought that a punch from this monster might break her. He was up against the bars, and he saw that David was as well. They were both honorable men, and they couldn’t simply allow a woman to be attacked in front of them. But what could they do? The giant threw a punch, but it seemed that the woman was ready. The punch was aimed at her head, but she ducked her head nimbly, and the giant roared in pain as his fist connected with the metal bars. He came at her again, this time with his other fist, but she was not so lucky this time. His hand connected with her right shoulder, and Robert heard a sharp crack as her shoulder either broke or was dislocated. She hissed in pain, her arm slipping from its support. She listed to the side, her injured leg giving out. She swore as Bug once again stepped closer, eyeing her curiously. But Robert could tell that she could no longer fight. (Continue on page 46…)

“At the Botanic Gardens in Chicago” by Stephanie Mullen

“At the Botanic Gardens, Chicago” by Stephanie Mullen 45

“You’re a virgin,” he declared, malicious delight glinting in his eyes. “Aren’t you, Samantha?” He took her chin in his hand, and she swore at him again. He slapped her, and she lost her grip with her other hand and slid down to the stones outside the cell. “Why else would you fight us so much, unless you are saving yourself for your precious Hood? Answer me, Scarlet,” he murmured, and Robert felt a shock run down his spine. Did the man just say Scarlet? Could this possibly have been that happy toddler? Samantha shuddered, then whispered, “I don’t know.” The big guard laughed at this. “Course you know. You just don’t wanna tell us.” Bug looked at her curiously again, ignoring his companion. “Explain,” he ordered shortly. Robert could tell she was glaring at her tormentors, but she muttered, “Your Guy isn’t the first man who tried to attack me.” Robert listened with bated breath for her to continue. If this truly was Samantha Scarlet, this was the daughter of that guard his father had hanged all those years ago. Everything that had happened to her lay on his father’s head, and in part, on him. “Go on,” Bug urged her frostily. She snarled. “When I was ten, a forester found me after I had fallen unconscious.” She shrugged. “When I awoke, he didn’t manage as well as he’d hoped.” Robert felt guilt rise in him, hot and horrible, begging for release. “What happened to the man?” he heard himself asking. For the first time, Samantha turned to look at him, her eyes weighing him curiously. She blinked once, then twice. Her eyes twinkled green in the light of the torches, the same color as her father’s. Apparently, Robert passed her inspection, for she deemed the question worthy of answer. A light of satisfaction shone in her eyes. “He was beheaded.” Then she turned back to the guards, her voice sharp. “So, no, Wart,” she addressed the bigger guard, “I do not know if I am a virgin. Are you still willing to take your chances?” she haughtily asked Bug. He surveyed her and sneered at him, his attention diverted for a moment. “What are you going to do about it?” Suddenly, Samantha rammed her knee up into Bug’s crotch and elbowed him in the nose with her good arm. The guard fell off her, howling as he clutched at his broken nose and broken dignity. The other guard, Wart, lumbered forward, but a voice interrupted the scene. “What exactly is going on down here?” The voice was commanding, and it stopped Wart in his tracks. Even Bug managed to climb to his feet and manage a salute. “Sheriff,” he greeted, holding his bleeding nose. Samantha was still on the ground, and Robert bent down and lent her a hand through the bars of his cell. She took the proffered hand and dragged herself to her feet with his assistance. She clung to the bars of his cell to avoid falling, but this way she could face the sheriff with some shred of dignity. (Continue on page 48…)

Artwork by Nikki Eckland

“Illuminati Goddess” by Michelle Lee 47

“My lord,” she thanked him with a small nod. He blinked in surprise. She recognized him? She smiled at him, and he remembered what her father had said about her smile. It lit up a room, the man had claimed. This smile was small, and it lit up her green eyes with warmth, gratitude, and a hint of mischief. It was infectious, and he felt himself smile back. “Miss Scarlet,” he returned with a nod of his own. Then she turned to meet the sheriff, who was glaring at her. “Would you mind explaining what is going on?” “Of course, my lord Sheriff,” she acquiesced smoothly. “As you well know, I was just treated to a wonderful time with your torturer. These two,” she glared at the two guards, “were supposed to be taking me back to my cell, when they decided to bring me here and attack me instead. You are aware of course of my dislike of aggressive men, so I fought back, as is expected.” The sheriff nodded, considering this. He seemed to like Sam, or at least respect her for her strength. He turned his piercing gaze to Bug. “What do you have to say for yourself, Roger?” he asked. “I thought you would have known better after the fate that befell your master when he attempted to… woo her two days past.” Bug, or Roger – Robert found that he preferred Bug – stared at the ground, blood dripping from his nose. “I was trying to avenge my master’s pain, Lord Sheriff,” he muttered. “Hmm…” the sheriff considered. A smile touched his face. “Spread the word to the other guards that Samantha Scarlet is off limits. She has a way about her – an innocence – that draws people to her. That makes her dangerous.” He cast an appraising glance at Scarlet as she leaned against the bars of Robert’s cell. Was that grudging respect in his eyes? “Yes,” he mused, “much more dangerous than that oaf, Robin Hood.” She smiled again, only the faintest hint curling her lips. “Take her back to her cell,” he ordered, frowning at the two guards, “and no more funny business.” The sheriff swept away, short cape swirling at the motion. All those present watched as he turned a corner and disappeared. There was stillness for a few moments more, but then Bug began swearing. His face turned bright red with rage, and he wanted nothing more than to rip the smirk off of Scarlet’s smug face for the humiliation she had just put him through. But he did not dare disobey the sheriff’s orders and instead grabbed her bad arm and tugged her along in the direction of her cell. Scarlet gasped at the pain and threw a last glance at Robert as Wart joined Bug in pulling her away. "Thank you," she mouthed, but then they turned the corner and left Robert and David alone in the cell block once more. Suddenly realizing how exhausted he was, Robert leaned against the stone wall of his cell and slid down. He hadn't been faced with such excitement in months, and he was emotionally and physically worn out. He remembered the days when he could outlast most others on the battlefield and grinned ruefully. How far he had sunk when something so small could tax his strength so much! Despite this, he felt a warm glow of satisfaction build in his gut. He opened his eyes and saw David watching him. He too had collapsed after the two parties had left, as exhausted as his master. “You knew her,” David said after a while. Robert sighed, closing his eyes. “Years ago, my father hanged her father for a bit of sport. I promised myself that I would take care of his family as best I could. I gave them food and some money 48

during the winter so they would survive.” Robert opened his eyes. “Samantha was three years old, and she was her father’s pride and joy.” David nodded. “She certainly is feisty.” Robert shook his head slowly. “Not back then,” he remembered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “She was the sweetest little girl.” His hand strayed to his neck, feeling the bead necklace that he always wore. “When I came to visit, she would always give me a present. Nothing big, but she would either make the gift herself or give me something important to her.” He smiled fondly at the memory of her bubbling face, rolling the necklace in his fingers. “She gave me this the last time I saw her. She had gotten it for her birthday, and she said that she wanted me to have it.” David smiled as well. He could well imagine the serious little face of the three year old girl as she forced the nine year old boy to take her necklace. “Why did you stop going to visit?” A shadow passed over Robert’s face. “My father found out that I was going and helping them. He was furious, though I still cannot fathom why. I suppose it doesn’t even matter. He was drunk, and he was angry, and he beat me so badly that I nearly died.” Robert remembered the pain, rubbing the arm that his father had broken. “I would have gone back,” he continued softly, “but by the time I was well enough, one of the servants told me that Mary had died and Samantha and her brother were gone. I had some inklings that her brother was alive, but I had no idea what became of her until just now.” David nodded thoughtfully. “She’s turned into a strong young woman,” he commented. Robert smiled, thinking of the broken nose she had given to Bug. “Aye, she’s strong,” he agreed. “She’s got true fire in her heart.” David grinned. “And in her tongue. I haven’t ever heard a woman curse like that before.” Robert laughed softly. “That’s the truth.” The two friends sat quietly, enjoying the camaraderie between them. Robert fingered the necklace again, trying to reconcile the solemn face of the three year old who gave it to him with the bruised and battered face of the woman who had nearly been attacked in front of him. He found it difficult and simply thought of the Samantha he had known years ago, and the smile that lit up the world.

Photograph by Wyatt Prather

Water

Do you know that feeling you get when you’re in the deep end, and you’re running out of air? Like your lungs forgot they were ever there. A man with a diamond can trade it for anything he wants, while a man with water can get nothing for it. I shifted my weight back and began to fall. Falling. Falling. Falling. Until I pierced the surface of the water and the sea wrapped around me like a blanket. -Written by the editors

“Water” by Abby Klimkowski 51

Through the Lens: Failure By Daniel Bruce It seems like just yesterday that I was a freshman in high school. After years of imagining high school, my world was rocked after discovering I would be moving from the small community of West Dundee, to an unfamiliar school district with new people and teachers. I had planned to celebrate my freshman year at Dundee Crown with my childhood friends and neighbors, so after moving to Crystal Lake, I was certainly hesitant to start at Prairie Ridge. I was only comforted by the reputation the school had for its sports programs, and I was hoping I would fit in with everyone, especially on the baseball team. Little did I know, I would view my life through a new lens after experiencing my first year, and I’m so thankful I was faced with the challenges and opportunities that have made me who I am today. With much surprise, my first month of high school went by in a breeze. I was so excited that I had made it through and was proud to share with my family the great people I met, and how awesome my school was. However, the academics became very difficult for me quickly. After my first three months of school, I had finally realized I was in a huge hole that was only getting deeper and deeper. How could I let this happen? Things were starting to go so great. I had been getting involved with baseball through school, and was absolutely loving every opportunity I had to showcase my talent. But my coach was not loving my grades. “Danny Bruce! Can you explain to me why you have a D- in Geometry and a D+ in Biology?” This wasn’t the last time I would hear this, and I knew things had to change. The months flew right before my eyes. I sought out help to get me through the programs that had been giving me the most difficulty. Most likely, this should have allowed for me to improve. However, the rules and methods of geometry refused to stick in my head. After two months, it seemed the countless hours of practice had simply gone through one ear and exited out of the other. My tutors and teachers attempted to explain it as simply as possible, yet I could not seem to grasp each concept. I worked so hard to see a difference in my grade. But nothing changed. Failure. The only thing that changed was my attitude. After you fail over and over again, you honestly feel like you shouldn’t bother trying anymore. The sight of Failure had become normal to me. I had to make a difference in my life, and I wasn’t going to allow my grades to bring me down any longer. The baseball season had finally begun. Unfortunately, I was sitting on the bench each week watching game, after game. I craved the opportunity to see only a minute of playing time, but each day I was forced to follow the same unfortunate routine. Baseball is my life. I practiced to get better every day until I saw improvements. Even though I had been ineligible for the entire season, I was noticing the countless hours of weightlifting and batting practice after school, which certainly made me stronger. I just needed to get away from all of my stress through school, and baseball was always there for me. I constantly worked every day until I was physically unable to. I was growing. I was thriving. The weight room was a huge wake up call. I was noticing my Failure had become the motivation behind my strength. By spring, school was getting easier. I was finally thriving, able to make small adjustments that turned my days into accomplishments. These improvements were more noticeable to me and my teammates. I learned that Failure was not a bad thing at all. If I had never failed any test or failed in sports, how could I ever improve? I went in my backyard one night last March, and I just let out all of my stress hitting baseballs for countless hours. I had never felt more relieved in my life. I went to school the next morning, and I was feeling really confident in myself. All of the feelings of anxiety, stress, and lack of confidence had disappeared. I finally had clarity in my thoughts. After 6 months of school passed, I had finally discovered the person I really was. I had worked really hard, and my grades were reflecting my effort. The biggest lesson I learned for myself was that I wasn’t someone who just wanted everything handed to me. I came out of my slump, and I was doing much better. On June 8th, the final day of my freshman year, I exceeded my goals, and I overcame Failure. I honestly believe if I never failed at something, I wouldn’t be able to learn from my mistakes. I didn’t become smarter overnight; I just believed in myself and realized the person I really am. Now, after viewing my life through a new lens, I understand what it will take for me to be successful in my four years of high school. 52

“Fantasia” by Michelle Lee

Artwork by Josh Shoufer 53

A Melodramatic Poem About Running? By: Katie O’Malley

A funny thing happens when you try to run and cry at the same time, uh, you, you can’t breathe.

But your lungs just never seem to understand that running is the only thing taping your body together stopping would rip off the band aid, and you, shattered,

Thousands of pieces that cannot move a single step. So you don’t breathe

until you’ve reached the end of the earth. Because your heart tells your head that it’s there and only there you can finally escape into space where sound waves know no pain. Where your insides meet your outsides leaving nothing to claw at your throat. You can get to that place. You can hold the pieces together.

When you don’t breathe your body forces you to feel your lungs, the weight of your head, each nerve ending in the same exasperating pounding that begs for attention. But the longer you stay still the faster the warmth goes. So you run longer, you cry harder, and you hope for just split second that perhaps the burning in your lungs will push its way to your heart to make it seem like the warmth never left? You lost your safe place, you need to find it. Blurry eyes cause stumbles, maybe once into arms that hold you tighter?

So you run, you run like there is so much inside of you that the rest of the world starts to melt, pooling its scenery at the bottom of your feet, splashing up at your ankles, reminding you of every trying step until an entire sea slows your conscious and you start to feel like you’re drowning. Because when you cry and you run, you, can’t, breathe. You can feel yourself breathing. Over and over gasping for the air that never seems to satiate your begging lungs, your begging heart, numb. Vision fading. All you want is out, all you want is to reach the end of the route signaling a well deserved rest, but your body begs you to BREATHE. Just breathe. Please breathe. But you can’t breathe.

Photograph by Jennifer Angeles

Artwork by Allyson Akerberg 55 Â

Artwork by Michelle Wasilewski

“Bebe”by Abbi Witt 56

“Rose” by Elliott Wesa

“Ethereal Beauty” by Michelle Lee 57

¨The next stop will be: Addison¨ By: Jack Lotito People get on, people get off, the train moves on. I think a lot when I’m on the train. It does not wait, it does not feel, it does not think. But for some reason, I always feel as though it does. It makes stops to meet new people, like a wandering traveler that takes the same path as many times a day. The train does not complain about its day nor ask you to feel sorry for it. Or maybe I just think about it too much. I check my phone for the third time since I got on at Howard. I was waiting to see if I had gotten a text from whom I was meeting. They were very mysterious people. Never a call or face-to-face meeting. All I would get it is a quick text to confirm the meeting. These people were never taught their manners it seems, but it´s all worth it in the end. Except when you have to run four blocks to get to your car before you get shot in the back. Ít is a dangerous business with dangerous people, and you accept that day one when you are selected. It is your choice, period. The train stops. I have taught myself to prepare for the moment it jerks forward, but it always throws me forward a little bit. A disgruntled group of Cubs fans got on the train. ¨Did they win?” I asked. One, with an outdated Sandberg jersey, said, ¨Really? Have you looked outside?¨ It was pouring rain. Cancelled. Belmont, Fullerton, Clybourn. As you go down the line, things become more and more apparent you’re in a city that functions with or without you. Out the window, the skyline that was once a vague outline has become more detailed. Nothing makes you feel so valuable and so small at the same time than gazing at the skyline. Every time a new building is built, I get a little excited, as if I was a little kid who was given an unlimited supply of Snickers candy bars. For some reason, I always feel like when I ride the train, it´ll be the last time I ever do. But the feeling was strong today. Not only did I feel like this was the last time, but I felt like I understood everything that happened, and everything that was going to happen. I still could not predict the future; it was just a feeling. Monroe, Jackson, Harrison. Riding south, the city begins to change profoundly. Tall buildings and nice neighborhoods disappear. The city changes, the people on the train change. The TRAIN changes. Maybe I wasn´t thinking about it too much. Because of my business, I have to ride the whole line. Howard to 95th. It takes a lot of time, but I feel rewarded afterward, like I correctly answered a challenge question on a test. End of the line. I get nervous when I have no choice but to get off. It's the absence of choice that scares me the most, not getting off in an extremely dangerous neighborhood. Not far off from the station is the meeting place. I check the duffle bag to make sure everything is still in place. We're good to go. My walk is always slow, but in pouring rain I pick up the pace. "You look wet." The words said by Reggie, one of my business partners. "Thanks for letting me know." I replied. "You got what I need?" I throw the bag onto the counter. He unzips the bag swiftly and out comes in his hand, a toy dart blaster. "Nice. These things sell like hot cakes at my other store. I have no doubt it'll be same here. I'll put in an order for twenty." I smiled. "Alright we'll get you put in for twenty." “Thank you, my man,” he said cheerfully. “Better be careful out there. It’s mighty nasty.” I looked out the window. “Thanks, I’ll be just fine.” The walk back is always satisfying. Only now can I head home with another deal done and another train rode. When the doors open, and I sit down, I can never feel happier. “The next stop will be: 87th” 58

An American Poem By: Brittney Aldape Watching the flag wave proudly each morning Placing your hand over heart Reciting the pledge we have all learned since birth The red white and blue streaming overhead Each year everyday Never flying a tattered flag For torn flags are weak and broken Which this country is not That torn flag is not a symbol of what we are We are strong We are loyal We are bonded together through times that should’ve broken us, but they didn’t. We have built ourselves from the ground up Holding one another in times of need And praising those that go to protect us Clasping our hands in prayer that they return safely home Tears stream for those we have lost The whole nation grieves For we fight like a family Whether it’s our kid or a kid we did not know existed We come together as though they were our own We join hands and become one We are not individuals but we are one united For this country doesn’t stand on the mistakes we’ve made Or the prices we have to pay

Artwork by Marissa Pollastrini

We stand on dreams, hope, and promise.

Acknowledgements Editors Seniors Emily Botto* Keiashia Moore* Marisa Pollastrini Isabella Stuart* Sophomores Desi Brantley Jack Lotito

Juniors Emily Dillon* Helen Morales Delaney Watson* Freshmen Abby Klimkowski*

* denotes editors-in-chief

Kristen Pham, Faculty Advisor

We Extend a Very Special Thanks to: Dr. Steven Koch, Principal The District 155 Administration Mr. Zach Gimm, Humanities Division Leader Mr. Aaron Cummins, Art Teacher Mrs. Amy Bland, Librarian Mrs. Connie Kendall, Activities Director Mrs. Gail Penn Mrs. Alice Lales Mrs. Bonnie Stanton Mrs. Karen Treadwell The Prairie Ridge Humanities Division Charlie Klimkowski, President/Owner of Kwik Kopy Business Center Magazine printed by Kwik Kopy Business Center ▪ 125 S. Virginia St. ▪ Crystal Lake, IL 60014 ▪ 815-459-5066

“Tangled Storms” by Abby Klimkowski