Prairie Ridge High School Literary Magazine - Spring 2014 by Wolf Prints

From Darkness Comes Light The Prairie Ridge High School Literary Magazine Spring 2014 Editor’s Note: In this edition of the PR literary magazine, the editors found a theme of “yin” and “yang” within the students’ submissions. The magazine is separated into dark, or yin, in the front, and light, or yang, in the back. The concept of yin-yang is that the two opposites perpetually support each other. Dark cannot exist without light – and vice versa. The writing and art on both sides of the magazine balance out to create a whole greater than their separate parts. THE ROSTRUM – A stage for public speaking Spring 2014 – Volume XII 1

“Splat!” by Emily Dillon 2

Table of Contents for Written Work “Doomed” by Megan Schafer “Anxiety” by Liz Pincsak “When There Are Roses” by Emily Botto “Right Between the Eyes” by Emily Parczany “Our Story” by Nikki Kelley “All Too Soon” by Andrew Nuno “Unseen and Invisible to the World” by Emily Parczany “Empty Desk” by Megan Schafer “Death’s Charity Corner” by Mitchell Sullens “I Flew Away” by Kelsey Collings “To My Sweet Prince” by Megan Schafer “Poetry Hides…” by Nate Burke “(Im)mortality” by Emily Parczany “Finally Free” by Megan Schafer “Stars” and “City Lights by Emily Botto

5 7 9 9 11 13 15 17 1929 32 32 32 34 36 38

“Poetry Hides” by Nikki Kelley and Jasmin Vormittag “Gym Class” by Maddie Mocchi “Criminals and Spines” by Dominic Zinanni “No Reason to Cry” by Emily Botto “Silence…” by Ryan Briske “Line” by Chelsea Prez Antonson “Women Left Behind” by Elizabeth Ponga “The Guy Code” by Maddie Mocchi “A Comeback” by Ann Pranjic “I Am a Hero” by Sydney Parrish “Angels and Demons” by Megan Schafer “Broken Hearted Love” by Kathryn Teberg “Deep Thought” by Nate Burke “Waiting for Love” by Sydney Parrish “The Great Depression” by Kathryn Teberg

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…Plus Original PHOTOGRAPHY and ARTWORK by these TALENTED and ARTISTIC PRHS students: Kyle Birr, Kelly Brumbaugh, Jack Cox, Emily Dillon, Nikki Eckland, Natalie Favia, Nick Greenberg, Zachary Greenberg, Jennifer Gulgren, Ian Hemmerling, Taylor Jensen, Megan Kachiroubas, Amber Kotecki, Rose La Rue, Kayla Leckrone, Michelle Lee, Alex Lewandowski, Mason Lindquist, Ray Markel, Sofia Miranda, Keiashia Moore, Sarah Niksa, Colin O’Connor, Liz Pincsak, Emma Stettner, Brett Stevens, Kathryn Teberg, Jessica Vega, Savannah Whitis, and McKenzie Zettlmeier

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Art: “From Darkness Comes Light” by Sarah Niksa 3

Artwork by Taylor Jensen

“Ink” by Liz Pincsak 4

Doomed By: Megan Schafer I take a step into the grass, It’s dry and prickly beneath my feet. This place would flourish in the past, But now it’s dead because of the heat. I walk past what used to be the most beautiful flowers, But now only overgrown grass lays there, dead. I tried talking to you for hours “You’ll regret it,” I had said. But you wouldn’t listen to me, None of you did. I tried to make you see, But you ran and hid. All this for a little money, Do you not care what happens to us? Listen here, honey, This is a must. You’re killing me, You’re killing yourself. We’re all part of one big tree, Are you really going to cut it down for wealth? Our ways must change, Before death becomes our fate. Life is almost out of range, Act now before it’s too late.

Artwork by Emily Dillon

Anxiety By: Liz Pincsak It’s like being in a hole, that’s dug deeper and deeper every time the anxiety gets worse. The lack of sleep, all of the sores from nervously scratching, the glares and mean stares from those who just don’t get it. All of that – added in with a family that just doesn’t understand – makes life a living h*** sometimes. No one really understands, even if they say they do; it’s just lies. The only people that’ll ever understand are those fellow anxious souls. Not even our own families get it most of the time. It’s upsetting and makes life more difficult. You try to go to them for help, but you get no response or a confused one. You might even get a get over it. It’s annoying, it’s saddening, it’s…it’s… -sighAnxiety never goes away; we have to live with it forever. Even if we do get mildly better, it’s still there, lurking in the corners of our minds. A lot of people suffer from it, and all these groups, all the medication, it’s supposed to help us, but it doesn’t. Not all the time. Sometimes we still have anxiety attacks, sometimes we don’t get along with others in the group, and sometimes we are just too anxious and shy to tell anyone nothing is helping us. No one will ever understand the anxiety attacks we go through all too often. It’s like being on the brink of death, like we’re going to pass out and never wake up again because we are too scared to face the world about whatever the h*** we’re worried about. We pace, sweat, cry, our hearts race. The impossible hour as I call it. You take all too long to calm down, and if you live with people, well, they suffer too during that. There is nothing anyone can do to help us when we’re having an attack. We have to calm down, gain control. We have to come back to reality and know that we will and are okay. Anxiety, something only few will understand, but millions of others know all too well.

Photograph by Emma Stettner 7

“Flower Within Circle of Light” by Colin O’Connor

Photograph by Megan Kachiroubas 8

When There Are Roses By: Emily Botto Which fall away And she glimpses the tall pines Each one different and somehow the same Her feet pause A second before her brain tells them to Deep breath Deeper The veil is suddenly pulled away And she wants so badly it hurts To yank it back around her and Clutch it to her chest like a warm cloak She sees the red slitting open The green like a strange scar And rips the roses from the soil beside her Laying them gently on his grave

The gates are open Inviting her in and she thinks How inappropriate For metal to mar the expanse Of the great blue sea Mesmerized by the waves Slapping the shore She digs her toes into the sand She doesn’t want to go on anymore Doesn’t need to see him like that again But still she goes One foot Then the other The forest encloses her First the weeds give in to the bushes

Right Between the Eyes By: Emily Parczany You spent so much time thinking I was a zombie To realize that I still had a pulse So when you pull the trigger, don’t try to bring me back Take off the hat and shades and mourn the loss The gun was loaded all along and aimed at me My only regret is that it took too long to see How am I supposed to finish the story If the monster at the end of the book is me?

“Marbles” by Natalie Favia

“MnMs” by Colin O’Connor 10

Our Story By: Nikki Kelley You are doing an awfully good job

like I didn’t mean anything.

at avoiding me.

I deserve better

Don’t you think

than how you treated me.

that I think

But if I ever treated you

that you are over me,

how you treated me,

because I know you talk about me.

you would hate me, too.

It’s not rocket science

I’m all done talking.

more like common sense.

You could either make this

You treated me

into a good situation

like I was one of you old little toys

or you could keep it the way it is.

that you never played with.

It’s your choice.

You played the little girl

Have a good life,

that you still love.

but don’t forget our story.

I never wanted it to end this way, but I was sick of being treated

Artwork by Emma Stettner 11

“Limosus” by Jack Cox

All Too Soon By: Andrew Nuno I stand here today to speak for a girl. I stand here today to speak for a boy. A boy and a girl whose lives are over. Done. Complete. All. Too. Soon. The boy was going to be a world class surgeon, helping out in all corners of the earth. His brain is unique, his methods new. Could do more than 10 doctors could do. He finds cures like a hobby, saves lives for a day job. What an irony it is to save lives when he couldn't save his own. He was a kid into his books, one that rarely spoke. Apparently that was an excuse to make him a joke. To push down his books and beat him down because beating him up would've meant he had a chance at happiness in that town. He screamed out to the world, letting out a locked up noise. All done in the hope that somebody would hear his voice. But nobody answered. Nobody answered or nobody wanted to answer. So the emptiness stayed, and it chipped off a little every day. It corroded the character of the man, the myth, the doctor to be. All the sadder when you know if only he could see. If only he could see the home stretch was right in front of him. But he was blinded and let the words stay. He let it all stay until one day, he had enough. And as he breathed his last following the gunshot, with him went all those souls he would've saved. All gone. All. Too. Soon. The girl was to be an inspiration. Her music the soundtrack to life, her story a lifesaver. Proof that one could rise above the taunts, the names. Of stupid, slut, idiot and lame. Of outsider, outcast, abnormal, weird. Every single day of school she feared. But why? Because somewhere deep down, she knew she was different. And she hated herself for it. She was ashamed of who she was. That in a world filled of puzzle pieces, she was the one that never fit. The one flame that never lit. The one uppercut that never hit. Little did she know the bright path laid out before her. A future where the humbleness from her childhood and the talent from her teenage years combined into a superstar. Of course, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to see it when trees of discouragement hide the pathway. When storms of sadness surround her sunny days. And when it took to the internet, that was when it really sunk in. To read those words on the screen, written in permanent internet ink. Kill yourself. Nobody likes you. You are useless. What is a girl to do at that point? With two parents that work two jobs, two brothers of which she was robbed, no friends with whom to stand tall. No reason to stand but every reason to fall. And fall she did. And fall she did. One cold December evening, that was it. She was done. All. Too. Soon. Unfortunately, it doesn't stop there. These stories are just two of thousands untold. Of nurses, lawmen, firefighters, innovators. Several more who fell at the hands of haters. Haters who knew half the struggle, half the tale. Nonetheless telling people that their lives they have failed. Destroying the ground beneath their feet, taking away the air with which to breath. Making life a constant battle of living, ignoring the haters and continuing on being. They fight it, they wrestle it, the fact that maybe life isn't worth living. This idea grabs onto their mind like a virus. That there is no escaping the isolation, the loneliness. This concept beats them to a pulp within. They know that sticks and stones may break their bones, but words break something ever more fragile. Words break the soul. And yeah they may never remember the exact words that were said, but they'll always remember the feeling. That's the feeling they'll take to their grave, the grotesque feeling that someone made. Of dislike, cruelty, bullying and hate. So how does one take a stand? To learn to get the courage to fight and demand? To speak for themselves and with bullies do battle, to take control of their lives and get back on the saddle. It all starts with an idea. One. Simple. Idea. The same mind that once gave them incriminating thoughts can now do them good, to turn their minds to other thoughts as they should. For the world is amassed with 7 billion souls, why should one or a few decide that their lives are dull? A thought can be the difference between life and death. To either embrace or defeat the threat. So listen here, soldiers, you're about to bid war. You're about to do things you've never done before. Say hi to the new kid, greet the outcast. Form friendships or memories that'll ever last. Because you never know when that one phrase or one word will stop them from unexpectedly meeting our Lord. Which is why it starts with us and only us, for to save their lives is a must. Otherwise we risk hearing the tales forever and ever told, of children and teens never growing old. All because they decided to use a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and perish. All. Too. Soon.

Artwork by Zachary Greenberg

Artwork by Jennifer Gulgren 14

Photograph by Rose La Rue

Unseen and Invisible to the World By: Emily Parczany Darkness I am wrapped in its blanket Safe and comforted by its undying certainty Darkness holds my hand and I am at home For it is in the dark that my impurities cannot be seen All my mistakes and flaws are shrouded in the night The darkness loves me for the warmth I bring to its endless expanse I am fire and darkness is my hearth.

Photograph by Sarah Niksa

Empty Desk By: Megan Schafer One hundred and eighty four moons have passed, And my heart still aches for the one I love. I sit here in this empty desk, Days go slowly, Nights fly fast, Waiting and waiting, For your triumphant return. And when you come, You’ll find me here, Waiting in this empty desk, Separated from the outside world. And when you come, I’ll shout out in glee! For once you come I shall be free. But for now I wait, In this empty desk alone. A hundred moons have passed, I’ll wait a thousand more.

“The Walrus Sings at Midnight” by an Sofia Miranda

Artwork by Ray Markel 18

Death’s Charity Corner By: Mitchell Sullens The blindingly white walls burned into her eyes. They were unnatural, a kind of sanitation that was incapable of being achieved by human means. The only spot in the room was a large brown desk sitting centerfold in the white abyss. Two seats lay on each side of the table, one to which her arms and legs were tied. Jane Fremont always expected that if she were to ever fall trapped in an interrogation room that it would be dark, dank, and filthy. Prisoners would then spend hours shivering in terror at the imagined beasts that lurked in the shadows. American interrogation rooms played on those tactics. Jane worked in them and watched good men shatter under the weight of their own psyches. Now, sitting in the antithesis of those very rooms, Jane prayed for a return to the dark, dank, and filthy. At least the filth meant that something had once existed there. At least those rats that nipped at your toes were living, breathing company. At least the darkest corners of the room distracted you from the true threat, the sadistic bastards outside who methodically planned through ways to break your mind and spirit. But in this cold white room, Jane was alone with only the biting paranoia in her heart. She stared at the palms of her hands for a couple of seconds. Jane’s grandmother always permeated the old myth that the lines on one’s hand predicted how long they would live. Whenever Jane would visit, the old crone would eerily note the small, barely visible line on her tiny granddaughter’s smooth, fair-skinned little palm. It was that prophetic preaching of doom that left Jane with no remorse over their distant relationship when grandmother finally passed. Now, she wondered if the old hag had some semblance of a point. The creaking of a door jolted Jane from her reminiscing and back into the real world. It was odd – she could not recall a door in the white room seconds before. But the stranger who entered the room clearly came in through somewhere, even as she looked around the room and found it lacked an entrance or, preferably, an exit. Jane examined the stranger who slowly approached her from across the room. His skin was a sickly pallor, his head clearly balding, and he had a thin line more than an actual mouth. He didn’t walk, but rather strutted in a way that reminded Jane of a rich aristocrat of the Victorian era. A pair of pale gray eyes surveyed her face – misty, as if all of life’s wonders had long since lost their appeal and bored him. As he approached, Jane felt an odd pain in the back of her neck. The man casually slipped into the chair across from Jane and twisted his mouth into a slightly sardonic smile. “Miss Fremont,” the man began, pulling out a document with her name on it from nowhere. “You’re not getting anything out of me.” The man blinked, his misty eyes brightening slightly in response. Jane knew who he was: an interrogator, an aficionado in the school of breaking a person's will. Wake up in a room with no windows or doors, alone with only your thoughts until some dark and terrifying figure walks into the room to ask about your name, job, secrets, desires, lusts, sins, and life. They tutored Jane about these situations while in the army. They even taught her how to kill herself if they broke her, stopping any more valuable information from slipping out in a tidal wave. The bald man continued to speak, like some impudent child who had made a comment in an adult conversation. “Miss Jane Richards, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1995, to former U.S. Army General Calvin Richards and former Naval Commander Roseanne ‘Rosie’ Fremont. Kept mother’s last name – interesting – I like that.” Jane’s nails began to dig into the arm of chair. How did he know so much about her? The U.S. kept information about her squad very low-key. “At age twenty-five you entered the military, army branch specifically.” The line of a mouth twisted into a slightly bemused grin. “Keep your mother’s name, but follow your father’s footsteps.” He was silent for a second. “Last known location was deployment into enemy Middle Eastern lines before going M.I.A. You Americans seem to enjoy entering that particular area, don’t you? “Fine, I’ll admit. You know my back story. Congratulations. I’m still telling you nothing.” The bald man smiled again. “You think that I am some enemy agent here to probe you for government secrets?” Jane nodded angrily. Silence permeated for a second then was replaced with the man’s sinister laugh. “Miss Fremont, I would have thought the fact I’m not Middle Eastern would have been a dead giveaway. I am not your opponent in this little pathetic war of yours.” “Then who are you, and where am I?” Jane asked in a tone brimming with sarcasm and suspicion. “You are in my work offices. A location stuck in between the two locales battling for control of this little world beyond life. You see, Miss Fremont, you're currently on a very unreliable tightrope: literal salvation or damnation.” Jane could not remember how long she sat there thinking about what the man said. It was absolutely ridiculous. If she was truly dead and this was her judgment day, then why was her body functioning like a regular human being? Wouldn’t it be more ethereal or something like that? She doubted that the saved heading towards heaven would have appreciated having every little scratch and bruise they had while alive. But, there Jane was, feeling that one elbow that always ached after she broke it, the cut on the roof of her mouth she had been annoyingly tonguing for the last three days, or that damned neck pain she had noticed when the

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Photograph by Jessica Vega

Photograph by Nick Greenberg 20

…Continued from page 19 man came in. Now, she wouldn’t be surprised if she went to Hell and all those aches remained, but there would have probably been even more, right? Still, what would this man gain from lying to her? Unless this was a very desperate and convoluted ploy to gain information from her, he wouldn’t gain anything. She just didn’t know. She refocused on the man before her. He had begun chewing on the nail of his index fingernail with great ferocity. Jane couldn't help but lose some respect, or at least what little she had, for the pale man. It took several seconds before he even registered the pair of emerald eyes staring at him. Then he simply shrugged and finished off his nail. ¨Forgive me, usually it takes several minutes before people like you fully comprehend where you are.¨ He snapped his fingers and, seemingly out of nowhere, an exotic woman with long black hair and finely carved features that screamed of another time appeared carrying a tray. Upon the tray sat a prime rib steak, with a knife freshly stabbed into it, and a simple gray bag. She then deliberately placed the steak before Jane and dropped the gray bag with an air of impertinence before the man. She then gently freed Jane’s arms from her bonds. “Who are you?" Jane asked the pale man, refusing to even acknowledge the steak before her. ¨Thanatos, Yama, Anubis, Mors, the Ankou, the Reaper, Samuel, take your pick. I've earned a lot of nicknames over the years. If you insist on not choosing, you may simply call me Death. It's a bit trite, but acceptable.” “Fine..... Death. What did you mean by my walking on a ‘tightrope between salvation or damnation’?” “More specifically, I meant life and death.” “That’s not the same as salvation or damnation.” “Or, perhaps, you and I simply have different interpretations of those two concepts?” Death stated with an edge of annoyance in his voice. Jane heard the slam of a door behind her as the exotic woman finally left the two alone. Where could that door have been? She hadn’t seen anything earlier. “Now do you know where you are?” Death asked, returning to the conversation at hand. “No. If what you're saying is true then.... Purgatory, maybe.” “Purgatory: A fair guess, but incorrect. To be fair, this place has no true name per say. It’s a realm of my mind and will. It bends, warps, and constructs as I see fit. Some refer to it as the ‘Miracle Room’. Others, namely Satan himself, refer to it as the ‘Charity Corner’. As the purveyor of this area day in and day out, I’ll admit it feels far more like the latter than the former.” “And what did I do to get stuck here when I died?” Death sighed exasperatedly. “You are not dead. Humans always think that when I mention the ‘s-word’ and the ‘d-word’ and assume they're dead. Quoting my favorite movie, you’re only mostly dead. That wincing pain you feel in the back of your neck, yeah, that is the feeling of its near break in reality. In a second or two, it will shatter entirely, then you’ll be on the nonstop, one-way flight to judgment day.” It was so confusing. Dead or almost dead, it didn’t matter to Jane. What mattered was the reason for her being forced to sit here listening to the insufferable man across from her who claimed to be Death itself. “I was getting to that part.” Crap! Did she say that out loud by accident?! “Now as I said you're mostly dead. Specifically, soon-to-be-deceased in the real world. The pain you feel in the back of your neck is that particular body part breaking in reality.” “All I remember was being knocked unconscious by an explosion with my unit while patrolling.” “And you thought Middle Eastern rebels would just let you sit there until you woke up from your nap and fled? Hardly. They dragged you and your team towards the incessant hive they call a base, wrapped a noose around your necks, and dropped you in front of the base as an example to anyone stupid enough to cross them. Every man and woman in that unit was reduced to looking like one of those dead chickens hanging in a slaughter house. All except for you, Miss Jane Fremont.” “Why me?” “Dumb luck mostly. These things usually are. Your rope just happened to be weaker than the others, so in theory, it may just snap before your neck does. It’d take divine intervention for that to happen though.” “And, you're the divine intervention.” “Yessiree!” The skin on Jane’s flesh erupted into an apothecary of goose bumps. This man was her gateway back into the world of the living, and that terrified more than it relieved. He was like a psychopath looking down upon her like piece of meat sitting in a pit. Every expression that she ever displayed of either doubt or pain filled his eyes with a lustful ecstasy that fed into his clear sadistic cravings. She knew about the girls and boys put into those pits by such monsters. Even if they escaped, a part of them lay toiling in there for eternity. In this blinding white room, a man like that was her cruel, unyielding God, and the child was her. Jane knew she couldn’t trust that kind of God. “If you’re Death, then why would you try stopping people from dying? I can’t understand the advantage of that.” “God and Satan gain from the loss of human souls. It fuels their little war between Heaven and Hell. I just push one soul in one direction or the other. People are always dying from their bodies giving out or their own stupidity or their fellow man. Times like these, where there's a chance the person can survive, I like giving them a little push.”

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Photograph by Taylor Jensen

Photograph by Colin Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor

…Continued from page 21 “But why?!” “For entertainment! I can’t let everyone escape willie nillie. Only a couple can escape, so I make you, and the others before you, pitch why you should live. I can always find entertainment in your efforts.” Jane was right. Death was a sociopath. The goose bumps on her skin only grew as he spoke. But, there was something off. She felt as if there was another reason. “Fine! I’ll play your twisted game. Anything I should know before we begin?” Better to leave a part of herself behind in the pit than have everything she was die. “Don’t try selling yourself for sex or auctioning yourself off as a slave,” Death said nonchalantly. “I never would!” Jane shouted indignantly. “Sure, sure. Either way I was privy to the enticements of men several centuries ago. That’s how Helen of Troy avoided being ravaged by the Greeks after the Trojan War ended. The most beautiful woman in body, not soul. As for the enslavement angle, did you know that in her youth, Cleopatra was bitten by a poisonous snake?” Jane shook her head. “I thought not. It was truly ironic since she ended up killing herself with an asp later in life, but little Cleopatra had promised to be my slave if she was given another chance. Her enslavement has yet to reach its end, and she is, well, a hand full.” Jane thought about the exotic-looking woman from only a couple of minutes ago, and her heart fell into her chest. “Now, let us begin, and don’t try lying to me because I’ll be able to double-check whatever you say.” Jane sighed. If he was telling the truth, then she needed play along with him. But how to approach the situation? That was the question. She was no saint; no soldier was if they experienced war. She had shot men, women, even once a kid. Not that she regretted any of those choices. It was war – her or them. Only one choice she had ever made that she truly regretted. Maybe she could appeal to his humanity. She laughed at that thought: appealing to Death’s humanity. “I have a daughter. Her name is Sydney. I-I’m not sure if you know what it’s like to have a child.....but, it’s the most important thing in my life. She’s living with my cousin, Sarah, right now. Her father’s not part of the equation and...and I’m the only parent she’s got.” Her thoughts drifted, and Jane Fremont’s eyes grew a little a misty. She remembered sitting in Central Park with her little girl, blonde-haired and blue-eyed like her bastard father, in the summer. Sydney couldn’t have been more than four then. They were playing a game of tag when Sydney began crying over how hot it was outside. Her mother merely laughed and said that that there was nothing she could do. But then little Sydney’s eyes lit up with inspiration and, running away from her mother, leapt straight into the nearby pond. She wanted to cool off, she explained, after her mother had fished her out of the shallow waters. Jane then laughed, and her daughter’s eyes would narrow in annoyance at her mother criticizing her ‘stroke of genius’. “I promised to teach her how to swim,” Jane muttered unconsciously. Her mind returned to reality, and she found Death’s had begun to empty the contents of the gray bag onto the table. It was a single large bottle containing a sickly reddish liquid. He looked at it in the same way an addict would a high. Then he took off the cork and took a long swig. “What are you doing?” “Entertaining myself,” Death stated before giving a sudden violent shiver. “And you humans think vodka knocks a person out. This is the nectar of life, quite literally actually. Wine created through God's angelic soldiers who die in battle. After they die, the big man upstairs cuts his soldiers open, sucks they’re outsides out through tubes, and packages it in these nice little bottles. It’s the kind of stupor a man would kill for. The Lord sends them to me so he can stay on my good side. Men in my field need a little escape, don’t they?” “Maybe, but that doesn’t give you the right to get hammered during my ‘interview to salvation’ or whatever the hell you called it!” His eyes focused on her with the same bored look as before. She was beginning to hate those eyes more and more each second, and she focused down onto to the knife lodged in the steak on the table as they bore into her. “You were boring me.” Her eyes refocused in on him, now alit with anger. “Do you know how often morons like you come down to me and pull the ‘I have child at home’ card? “Oh I need to save her!” “Oh, I’m all she’s got!” “Oh, if only I could see her beautiful face one last time!” He said it all in a prissy mocking voice. “Listen, Miss Fremont: I do not care about children, yours or anybody else’s!” His attitude disgusted Jane. That complete disregard for the simple act of one human connecting with another. How could somebody, even Death, live with such a complete disregard for common human decency? “You have no sympathy at all?” His mouth twisted into a grin again. “Ever heard of Anastasia Romanova?” “Yes, daughter of Nicholas II of Russia.” “Hmmm, good you know your history. After little Nicky got kicked off the throne by Bolsheviks, he and his family of six others lined up in front a wall and were pumped full of lead by squad of soldiers. Brain matter, blood, guts rained onto the ground in glorious display of wonderful human cruelty. But, little Anastasia survived the rounds. She was unconscious from a bullet that grazed her head and then she sat in the chair you're-in-right-now.

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Artwork by Kayla Leckrone

“Skull” by Nikki Eckland

…Continued from page 23 But luck was not on her side that day, and she let out a little, tiny moan of pain. The guards reacted, put a bullet in a gun, and blew little Anastasia’s brains into the ground. And, you know why she died? Because she had terrible salesmanship skills.” “You’re a monster!” “I’m just proving my point. Children don’t garner my sympathy. And besides if you cared about your daughter so much, why did you abandon her and head off to your little war?” Jane didn’t say a word. The image of a little Russian girl’s skull dripping blood onto a stony floor permeated her mind. Sydney was her only trump card. There was one other factor, but it was just another poor innocent child, and Death proved he didn’t care about that. He was getting drunk out of boredom from that! She didn’t know what to do. How could she?! Who woke one day to find themselves trapped in a bright white room with a madman and truly understood how approach the situation? “Why is Sydney’s father out of the equation?” Death asked. Up until that point, he had been surveying the flask, mentally trying to decide whether or not to take another sip. Jane couldn’t help but wonder why he asked that question. She felt like he had written her off as a lost cause, but now he was asking questions. Why? Did he want to prolong this sick game? “A violation of trust,” Jane answered, keeping her voice level. What did he know? He said he could check her past to tell if she was lying, so he must know some things about her life. “In what way?” “In ways I’m not going to disclose. It’s irrelevant to our situation, so I’m not saying anything!” His grin that he had worn since talking about Anastasia grew even more. “What about your parents? They’re both deceased right?” “Yes.” “Mother died of cancer, but your daddy, Mr. Calvin Richards, he’s another story. Officially, he’s missing. Odd you’d write him off so quickly as being deceased, now isn’t it?” “I don’t like what you're implying.” Calvin Richards had always been an enigma to his daughter. Young, wide-eyed Jane had always understood why her mother had entered the military. It was a golden sense of patriotism: fighting the good fight and defending America's ideals ‘from sea to shining sea.’ For God’s sake, her favorite superhero was Captain America. But Calvin was a man who joined the army for reasons Jane never understood as a child. If she did, then she wouldn’t have been a kid anymore. Her mother chalked it up to simply “Daddy’s desire to fight.” But it was more than that. Calvin Richards liked the elation of being in control over someone else’s life. He liked the power; he liked playing God. Whether he knew or not, Jane will never know. In the end, it didn’t matter because he spent almost his whole adult life killing people, and Calvin Richards glorified every moment as his moment of control. “Why did you take on your mother’s last name, Miss Jane Fremont? You wore your father’s name proudly up until that point.” The only sound that originated from Jane was a single drop of sweat from her brow, which echoed with a splash as it landed on the ground. “I’m going to take your silence as allowance for some…theorizing on my part. I think you're a slovenly scheming witch who decided that she was going to screw over everyone she cares about and use her ‘daughter’ as justification for it.” Jane heart began to pump faster and faster, while a vein in her temple began pulsating in rage. “First your boyfriend leaves you because he ‘violated your trust’ by seeing what a worthless gold-digger that you were, mooching off him as much as you could.” Thump the heart went. “Then your father finally retires from the military with a nice fat stack of cash from all his efforts. You're his daughter, wanting your just desserts. So you head over to his house one night, take out a nice little revolver, and blew his brains out. Then you dump the body in New York City’s bay area so you could run around with that drunk-fueled mistake you call a daughter.” “Go @#$% yourself!” Jane screamed. Her heart rattled in her chest like the engine of a locomotive. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing! How dare he talk about her as some piece of human filth like it was the truth. Death’s crooked smile had transformed into almost a clown-like visage. “You know you’re dearest mother would still be in the way of you getting daddy’s inheritance. I’m starting to wonder if the cancer actually killed her.” That’s when Jane Fremont snapped. In less than a second, she was leaping across the table towards Death. His eyes registered shock for a second before her colliding form knocked him off his feet. She pinned him to the ground and screamed, “Shut up!” in his face over and over again, until that sickening clown-like face was wet from spit and saliva. Then she raised her right hand into the air, and Death realized, with shock, that she had ripped the knife from her steak dinner and now was holding it in her quivering hand. With her strength amplified from a berserker-like rage, Jane rammed the knife into the pale man’s misty, apathetic left eye. She felt a satisfying wet thunk as the knife sunk through the back of his skull. She then ripped the knife out and plunged it into his toothy, white, clownish grin. The white teeth shattered from the force of the blow, and the blade sunk back into the fractured skull below it. Not once did Death’s body quiver or convulse - as if it was as bored as he had been in life. This was the second time in her life that Jane Fremont lost control, but she felt no regret over it. “Are you quite done?” came a terrifyingly familiar voice.

Continue on page 27…

Artwork by Kathryn Teberg 26

…Continued from page 25 Jane slowly turned her body to see Death sitting in the chair she had previously occupied. Both eyes intact, teeth unbroken, his body clean and not drenched in blood. The only difference was he had his eyebrows raised in curious wonder. There was no doubt anymore that he was something beyond flesh and blood. Something far more terrifying. Jane then abandoned the destroyed corpse at her feet and sat, once again, in the seat opposite of Death. “Has violence always been the way you’ve solved your problems?” Death asked sardonically. Jane’s body only quivered a little bit in response. “I did kill my father,” she admitted, her eyes welling with tears. Death motioned for Jane to continue, and she did. “I became a single mother when my daughter was two years old. I-I’ve never talked about what really happened between her father and me to anyone. His name was Ben, and we met during my first time serving in the army. I was his commanding officer, and he was just a private…so charming and always willing to give the other recruits a helping hand. I guess you can never really know people, right?” “Yeah,” Death murmured as he absentmindedly began rubbing the left eye as if he could feel the knife wound on his other body sprawled behind Jane’s. She would be lying if she said his discomfort didn’t fill her with a satisfaction. “Anyway, one thing led to another and, eventually, I found out I was pregnant. We left the army, he and I, and we moved to New York. Those two years…were Hell. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s so much more romantic when no responsibilities were there to hold us down. Every night was a little war between him and me. And, every night, it only spiraled further and further down the drain.” “Then, he got laid off. When he came home that night, I’m not sure if he was drunk or high or if he just went crazy. Probably some combination of the three. He came at me from behind with a hammer and knocked me unconscious. Then, he ransacked the place - paintings, money tucked away, electronics, anything worth even a shred of cash he took…and some more. I was barely awake when he was done, but then he pinned me down and said that he was ‘paying me back for every minute of stress and every dollar he sunk into our relationship.’ And then he– and then he–” She wrapped her arms around her skinny form and quivered slightly, as if she was trying to remind herself it was her body and no one else’s. “A violation of trust, bastard. I-I hate him. I hate him with every fiber of my being. Do you know what it’s like looking into my daughter’s eyes whenever she asks where daddy went?” “Tragic, truly,” Death said, with a mark of sardonic exasperation “But, how does this relate to your father?” “Right. Dad left the army not long after that night. First time he had not been a participating part of the military in my entire life. He would drive me down to the meetings with the psychologist and support groups. From what I hear, he even paid a visit to Ben after that man had finally been arrested. I only got back half the stuff he stole from us. Even when my mother was dying of the cancer, she would always say to me that she had never been happier because the family was together: She, her husband, her daughter, and her granddaughter. After she went into critical care, Dad stayed with her, and I took care of his affairs.” “One day I received a letter from one of Dad’s old military colleagues who had passed away and left it to me. I couldn’t understand why until I opened it. Inside the package was a pile of documents, orders, and information sent by a man who wished to redeem himself for lying to so many people. It pertained to the real reason my father left the army: he raped a young woman on the Middle Eastern front. A military leader’s fourteen-year-old daughter of all people! He had his army friends cover it up, then abandoned the army before anybody questioned it!” “I think Dad’s friend wanted me to expose him to the masses, but, before I did that, I was going to confront my father myself. I called him over to the house, and I screamed, ‘How could you have done that to some poor girl and then come back and comfort me after I was raped!’ I always knew he liked to play God, but never the Devil! I don’t know how long I shouted and screamed. And the whole time he just sat there. No blinking, no emotion, no nothing. Maybe he was just in shock or maybe he just didn’t care about what he did. But after I was done, he said that he would leave. He would stay until Mom passed, then he would leave. As long as I didn’t show the papers, he would never come back!” “But I knew what it felt like to have my body violated by some fantasizing [jerk] who thought he could do whatever he wanted to people, and I wasn’t about to let him just walk away. I was going to drag his name through the mud every way possible! He tried to stop me, there was a struggle, then I…then I strangled him to death. He didn’t need to die, but I lost control. I threw his body into the bay. I didn’t give the information to the public until Mom died. I sat there and lied to her, telling her that Dad was on his way until she passed. Everyone else thinks he went underground.” Death had leaned forward in his chair, his first sign of true interest in this entire interview. “Then you changed your last name, right?” Jane merely nodded her head slowly. “Fun story, but it still doesn’t give me a reason to give you a second chance.” He produced a cigarette from the empty air and began to slowly inhale the gray smoke. “Why’d you join back up with the army though? That’s the one thing I don’t get.” Jane smiled slightly. She felt relieved to let out all of this emotion she had kept inside her since her father died. “The fourteen-year-old girl died in childbirth, the report said.” Death looked up and quickly smothered his cigarette. “Your Daddy got her pregnant. And now you have a sibling. You must be so proud.” He giggled his incessant giggle. “The boy was taken away by the United States’ enemy in this war. Knowing their tactics, he’s probably been forced in as a soldier of war. He’s barely six!” There had been a picture of the boy in the files she received.

Continue on page 29…

Artwork by Nikki Eckland 28

…Continued from page 27 She could still his sparkling blue eyes. On the next page she saw those same eyes, blank and glazed over, in the picture of his mother’s corpse. She knew that Death didn’t care about children or Jane’s sense of duty. She wasn’t sure if he really cared about anything. But she knew she had to save this boy. “I need to take him away from that place!” “And that’s why I should free you?” Death chuckled. “You don’t even know if the boy’s alive.” “Reconnaissance shows a child of his description running around the base I was only a few days away from!” Death shrugged. “Still doesn’t change the fact the fact that, as curious of a story as this is, I do not think it is interesting enough of a reason to release you simply so that you can fix your dead father’s mistakes!” Jane had to mentally restrain herself so that she did not leap at Death and dig his left eye out again. She needed to think about it on his level. He was just bored at the end of day - he wanted entertainment. He always commented about people in her situation being a salesman; maybe she should begin listening to him. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to save him. He could hate me for all I know. He could have bought into the beliefs of the men who force him to fight. Maybe he’s been indoctrinated by them. I know it’s a lost cause, but I need to try, you know. I’ve lost so much, and I have so much more to lose that I can’t fail now.” “And, if you did, you’d be crushed?” “Yes, but I’d keep trying to save him till the end.” Death had viewed the world for millennia. The people that he let survive usually were those who potentially, had more struggles and pains in their lives. He adored turmoil, but, more so, he adored those who fought for what they wanted despite that turmoil. Jane Fremont, despite all her choices and mistakes, was a survivor: of wars, of betrayal, of redemption. Up until this point, he had seen her as nothing but a moralistic woman with a pole up her rear. And she still held true to that statement. But she still had struggles to overcome, and attempt to overcome them, he knew that she would. She would be quality entertainment. “Fine,” Death said loudly, standing up from his chair. “What?” “You get your second chance.” It was hard to explain the amount of joy that Jane felt upon hearing those words. It lifted a weight upon shoulders and the heaviness of her heart. It was the kind of relief and pleasure that no man or woman could truly describe in words. It was just most beautiful feeling she had ever felt in her whole life. The pale-skinned, misty-eyed man known as Death slowly pressed his hands against the wall of the interrogation room. Suddenly, it shifted to the right, revealing a doorway that emanated a bright ethereal light that blinded Jane. “When I leave this room, you shall return to reality,” Death said with an air reminiscent of a businessman closing a deal. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Fremont.” “Wait!” Jane shouted as he was about to put his foot through the door. “I need to ask you one more thing.” Death turned to her with the same annoyed expression as he had held many times throughout this experience, but he still waited. “Why do you free souls like me from death? I know you said it’s for entertainment, but I feel like even for somebody like you there has to be something more to it.” Death blinked for second in surprise. In truth, no man or woman had ever asked him that question before. Usually they were so elated to have survived that they simply let him be on his way. “When a soul dies, Miss Fremont, they are sent to God or Satan in the afterlife. As I said earlier, those souls are then drafted into those two’s war as soldiers. The more beings die, the more soldiers that war receives. But eventually all life will end in your reality, and Satan and God will have all the soldiers possible to wage in their war. They will wage a battle so extreme, so bloody, so destructive that nothing will remain. All except for me, Miss Fremont. I will forever be alone in an abyss of emptiness and sorrow. That’s why I said that death is damnation because for me, when everything dies, I will be all alone. That’s a fate far worse than your view of damnation. At least you can fight for your salvation and hope for a better tomorrow. My death in silence and solitude. With nothing to hope or wish for.” His eyes seemed to release dusty tears as if he had not cried in a long time. “I love life, Miss Fremont, despite what I may say or do. Every soul I release slows down the coming of my own death, per say. I can’t release all the souls that have the potential for escape because, if I did, God or Satan would put a stop to my work. They want their soldiers, Miss Fremont. So I only pick those like you. Those who are not empathetic or lie down and die like dogs, but instead fight for the lives they live and constantly stand up. No matter the mistakes, the betrayals, or pain! Be- Because I believe that people like you can inspire others to make their lives better. It does not matter if they are man or woman, flawed or perfect, or even evil or good! What matters is that they try and that they inspire others to make their lives the way they want them to be. And for every man, woman, and child who fights like you have fought, that’s one second more stalling us from Armageddon, in my eyes at least.” He began to step through the doorway now, leaving her with her thoughts, hopes, and will alone. “So I do honestly pray for you, Miss Fremont. I still do not care whether you succeed or fail. But what I care is that you never stop trying. So, I take my leave. But always remember…Jane, that you, and people like you, I truly love.” He gave her a final, almost genuine grin, and then disappeared. Jane didn’t like Death, and she never would. But a part of her did hope that she would live up to his vision of her because it was nice to inspire. For Sydney and her new little brother. So she smiled and hoped as the ethereal light consumed her.

The End.

Artwork by Nick Greenberg

Photograph by Sarah Niksa

“Princess Haruhi and Friends” by Michelle Lee

Artwork by McKenzie Zettlmeier 31

I Flew Away

To My Sweet Prince

By: Kelsey Collings

By: Megan Schafer

Once upon a time, I flew away. I flew from the lion’s den, In which my heart had slept. Once upon a time, I flew away. I flew from the golden world, In which I found all lies.

In a battle between light and dark, You have victoriously captured my heart. Having defeated the demon who imprisoned me, You unlock my cage and set me free. Like two doves we fly away, For here no longer shall we stay. And as I look to the heavens above, I realize you are my one true love.

After my death I flew away. I flew with melting wings of wax, With which I’d never fall. After my death I flew away. I flew with a broken heart in toll, One the world did crush.

Poetry Hides... By: Nate Burke Poetry hides in the crevices of our consciousness, for some it may claw at the walls. Poetry hides in the depths of our emotions, being guided by the wake of our dreams. Poetry hides beneath the burning coals that is our anger, to be left to crackle, or to be let go. Poetry hides as the malleable structure of our memories, crumbling and forgotten, or strengthened by our will. Poetry hides in the remainder of our regrets, used as a lesson learnt, or as a darkness to dwell on.

Lone in my soul, I flew away. I flew with falling tears, Of which I lost control. Lone in my soul, I flew away. I flew with fears on my trail, Ones that never stopped.

Lost in life, I flew away. I flew past all of my mistakes, From which no good would come. Lost in life, I flew away. I flew past my heart’s shattered strings, From which no life remains.

“Mr. Roger’s Prom Light” by Colin O’Connor

Artwork by Kathryn Teberg 33

(Im)mortality By: Emily Parczany When I die People will be sad And they will cry But everything will eventually be okay. When I die They will put me in the ground Roses and daisies will burst from my chest. When I die My skin and hair and lungs and heart will reunite with the earth We were all dirt once. When I die My memory, my legacy, will pump through the veins of everyone Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve touched I will not leave you completely My spirit will linger. When I die Do not mourn, do not regret, do not stop breathing For my death will create life again.

Artwork by Amber Kotecki 34

“Red Flower” by Colin O’Connor

Photograph by Mason Lindquist

Finally Free By: Megan Schafer Warning

Heartless

Danger

Evil

Stay out

So get out of my house,

Go back

Go ahead and pout.

I was a fool for ignoring the signs.

No matter what you say,

To think that you were mine,

I’ll never be swayed.

How stupid of me.

And don’t you DARE come back,

But now I see.

It’s time to hit the road Jack.

Before, I was wrong,

Do you finally see?

But now I am strong.

Without you I’m finally

And if you enjoyed your little game,

Free

Then you’re just

Able

Insane

Blissful

Crazy

Happy

Photograph by Alex Lewandowski 36

Artwork by Sarah Niksa 37

STARS

City Lights

By: Emily Botto

From the stars I see her eyes

Dreams are stars

twinkling with a dozen lies

Hidden by the city lights

in the willow tree I can see her hair

She is in the wrong place;

moving softly through the air

Too close to the pollution

it brushes my shoulder slightly

Seeping into her life

and I can't tell but it might be

Sometimes she even finds herself

coaxing from me

Distributing smoke into the sky,

everything I don't want her to see

Impeding her own ambition

in the cold I can feel her bite

With an irrational fear of progress

freezing everyone in her sight

Never knowing that all she needs

they shrink behind defenses they think are

To reach her dreams

safe

Is to have the courage

but she knows when they try to escape

To break down the city wall

the street lights show her smile

She has been stranded behind

pretending it is morning and oozing denial

And reach the other side

in the mirror I see her face

Where there is no rottenness

it sneers back at me in a grimace

To pollute the purity of he stars

she reaches towards me as I do her

No judgment to ruin

we nearly touch through a glass that begins

The greatest of dreams

to blur

She will find

I can't see her anymore

That there are many stars out there

just a girl who is more than a little unsure

And an infinity of ways in which to reach them In her newfound expanse of stars She will discover We all deserve a chance To dream our lives better But only those who strive to see the light Can pull themselves out of the darkness

and it scares me to be without she who always canceled my doubt but I leave the mirror as it is for it is better to leave her as she is

Poetry Hides By: Nikki Kelley and Jasmin Vormittag Poetry hides the pain of your inexistence, and loss of communication that creates a hole in my heart. Poetry hides the hole left in my heart, letting bitter leak out. Poetry hides the red burn of endless tears from the suffering and hurt. Poetry hides the fact that you're gone, to never come back, leaving me alone like a bunny whose mother leaves them after birth. Poetry hides in the weakness that overcomes my self-worth, speaking words to my brain.

Artwork by Michelle Lee

Gym Class By: Maddie Mocchi I am ashamed, I must confess My rancor had great extent But now I know what’s right and wrong I really am more prudent.

He got back up, ready to lunge His clothes all so bright sanguine. His attacker was Jacob Brown Who yelled, “This is how we’ll win!”

At first it was a simple game, Just some impish play I guess. I told myself that I’d be strong. I would never acquiesce.

My team, red, was who first took charge Of the elimination. The first one down was Tyrone White Who screamed, “Discrimination!”

It really was benevolent, The objective of this stunt. They wanted fun for all of us, The idea very blunt.

As I tried to help Holly up, She began to pull my hair. Beneficence left my mind And swears sullied the air.

Lined all up, and sorted out Either side each one was sent. Which team was ours didn’t matter – We surely were indifferent.

When I finally got up, Something caught my attention: Everyone was now a target, There was no predilection.

They gave half of us red jerseys And the other half were blue. We all waited on the divide As they told us what to do.

Then I realized this wasn’t right; My intelligence did dawn. This game was only meant for fun – But alacrity was gone.

Run across to the other team And make sure not to get tagged. Your team would try to hold its ground While you ran and got the flag.

This fight started from nothing less Than a girl who loved to hate. She blamed another for a punch No one could corroborate.

The whistle blew, and we were off But when Sally Johnson fell Things soon became nefarious Not at all convivial.

Alas, we heard the bell ringing, And although kind of innate – We all knew now no matter what We all had to capitulate.

As she tumbled, she took Anne Blake Who insisted she was punched But malevolence really hit When we heard Shane Lee’s nose crunch.

We all shook hands and hugged it up, Then we walked on through the gate And became the students that Other ones would emulate.

Photograph by Sarah Niksa Criminals and Spines By: Dominic Zinanni

Excuses should go to a courtroom and see the judge think about the case Excuses should go to a courtroom and see justice being served Excuses should go to a jail and see the inmates serving their sentence Excuses should grow a backbone and take their punishments standing up

NO REASON TO CRY

Silenceâ&#x20AC;Ś

By: Emily Botto

By Ryan Briske

There is no reason to cry she tells herself as she wipes away the tears from her eye Life is long and hard to explain but if you can bear it, you'll find a way to lessen the pain and someday when she is older she won't have any more tears to shed she will say to a stranger there is no reason to cry I learned myself so long ago life can be great if you try if you can wait a little longer wait a few moments, days or years, happiness will come to make you stronger bombard you as you take a sharp turn and the stranger says to her how long did it take for you to learn to stop feeling so much pain? and she doesn't really know it may have happened one day in the rain she tells him to believe in his day the one that he is wishing for she says it will come without delay and be glad you had the courage to face life head on to take the wounds with a bandage and grin wide with pride years later they will meet again and he will thank her and confide how close he was to death that day that she saved him from himself let him see that to his dismay it had gone all wrong until she came and saved him she smiled and said so long I have done all I can I can only ask that you do the same for another like us who needs a hand

I am the stillnessâ&#x20AC;Ś No noise No movement No life Utter nothingness I am insanity Mind numbing Soul corrupting deranged fury Capable of anything I am the void Deafening silence Unstoppable Consuming all Awe-inspiring stillness Nothing bound by life dares to see me Mind crippling insanity I am the stillness I am the insanity I am the void I am behind you Watching you read this Waitingâ&#x20AC;Ś...

Photograph by Brett Stevens

Artwork by Jennifer Gulgren 43

Line

Women Left Behind

By: Chelsea Presz Antonson

By: Elizabeth Ponga Fear is another war, a war related to terrorism.

Walk down the line Never knowing what you will find

Fear is another United States draft.

Everyday is a new surprise

Fear is an eighteen-year-old boy seeing his birthday called on the TV.

As I wait tears fill my eyes

Fear is his mother who worries she will never see him again.

People come and go leaving me lost and alone

Fear is his family wondering, wondering everyday if he is still alive and safe.

Time slips by And it gets hard not to cry. Memories surround me

Fear is the constant paranoia that something went wrong.

Chase me Haunt me the good memories

Fear is the Wife Fear is the Girlfriend Fear is the Sister Fear are the women left behind while their husbands, boyfriends, and brothers are on foreign soil, fighting someone else’s problem.

Fade away Almost like a bullied child Just too scared to play Even though when they do The sunshine peaks through

Fear is a hidden enemy. Fear is an ambush. Fear is the cold fact that someone isn’t going to make it.

The dark grey skis turn to light blue It makes me feel new I’m not the me you see

Fear is inevitable truth, the unavoidable reality of the men coming home, coming home not to be joined with family. Rather they lie in a dark box, a box covered with an American Flag.

I’m so much more than the made up face you see reality blinds me maybe that how I got on this line I’ll just keep walking the line

Fear is touching his cold hand, kissing his forehead for the last time. Fear is closing the lid, locking it, and never seeing his face again. Fear is having to walk away.

just wait for my time then just fly

Fear is War.

Artwork by Kelly Brumbaugh

“Gears” by Liz Pincsak 45

The Guy Code by Maddie Mocchi Jim sits and waits everyday His thoughts always ambiguous. Unsure of how to speak his mind, He never was gregarious.

He wears a scowl on his face As he tries to intimidate Mason, the ex-best friend that he Is going to repudiate.

The girl’s name is Sarah Warner, The one that he has the crush on, The only other one who knows: Jim’s best friend whose name is Mason.

As Jim approaches, he begins To think this whole “wise” plan is over. Mason’s face seems condescending, Like he’s found a four-leaf clover.

He wants to go and ask her out But knows this could be arduous. What happens if she things of “them” As forever incongruous?

Mason then says, “Hey man, what’s up?” – He’s just so supercilious – His remorselessness, everywhere Completely ubiquitous.

Jim sees Sarah as she eats lunch But wait, why is Mason with her? Then he sees that look of guile And life is now a giant blur.

Jim’s ready now to speak his mind, But Sarah says, “Hey, sit by me,” Making him forget everything, Except his great affinity.

When they first were becoming friends, Mason seemed so very candid But now it’s clear that he’s a crook And Jim has caught him red-handed.

She never knew how he had felt, But she said, “I like you, too, Jim.” Then he understood what his friend Had so cleverly done for him.

Mason’s face holds such complacence, Which makes Jim want to scream and shout. There is a guy code to follow. How can Mason just sit and flout?

She leaned over very slightly And on the cheek, gave Jim a kiss. He knew he owed Mason big time As he floated in endless bliss.

The crime is irrevocable, Their friendship now in tatters, All of that time they had been bros And now nothing even matters?

Jim had to think of something that He could do – a kind of payment? A pecuniary reward That he would willingly present.

There is no way to such express What Jim feels – he has to try though. Apparently the best way is Shakespearean innuendo.

Mason refused the small return. He told Jim, “I did it for free – All I hope is: in the future, You might do the same thing for me.”

He feels betrayed like King Hamlet Whose brother, by poison, killed him Then took the wife he’d loved so much. Wait, that’s an anachronism. Anyways, Jim stands straight on up His eyes, glued to the subtle hint On the face of his enemy Showing great embarrassment.

And with this, Jim knew that he was So wrong. Their friendship was preserved. From then on he was sure to give Mason the deference deserved. 46

Artwork by Kyle Birr

“Pencil Sharpener Swing” by Colin O’Connor 47

A Comeback By: Ann Pranjic It’s been sometime since I had to leave you It’s what had to be done and what I needed to do You’ve scared me, ruined me and put me through hell When my eyes found what you’ve been trying to do... That’s when I fell My chest caved in onto my heart And that’s when I thought the humiliation would start No That’s when I begin a new chapter The sooner the better and this phase will be over faster I’ll get back on my feet quicker than you think I’ll start running from you within a single blink When I come back I promise you will be shocked I gained so much strength you’ll want to flock You’ll realize now I’m stronger More stubborn than you thought When you see me anew Your stare will be caught My scars are healed Titanium and Gold I’m invincible and Indestructible That’s what they say And what you will be told You’ve realized I’m better off now And you can’t stand it Look who’s running now Tag. You’re It. :)

Artwork by Savannah Whitis

“Frozen” by Michelle Lee 49

I Am a Hero By: Sydney Parrish I am a hero...

Here to save you, it sure is true When your skies of blue

Shower down with nature’s tears Now you have a shoulder after all these years

You’ll have a hand to hold When your haunting thoughts remain untold

Not all heroes need a cape Your broken heart can be fixed with a bit of

scotch tape I’ll be picking you up when you’re down And fix that silly frown

I’ll guide you along the way Sure hope you’ll stay

I see that I have become lost, will I ever be found? All I can see to do is frown at the ground

This may seem out of the blue… But what do you do… When a hero needs saving too.

Artwork by Keiashia Moore

Angels and Demons By: Megan Schafer Sun goes down, Moon comes up.

Never again Shall our paths cross.

World goes to sleep, We come awake.

I walk one way, Into the light,

We run off To the open field.

You walk the other, Back into darkness.

Wind dances around us Gracefully as a dove.

The world is cruel And this is why,

Warm memories Arise in the darkness.

Fate brought us together, THEY tore us apart.

The day we met I was a bud,

I look back at you, And you at me.

But thanks to you, I’ve become a flower,

You smile sadly For we both know what’s coming.

For you are my light In this dark, empty world.

Raising up your hand You wave and say,

And again we’re together Standing in the dead of night.

“I love you my darling!” Then you fade away.

You hold me tight For one final time. Morning comes, It’s time to part

“Boat Trip” by Colin O’Connor

Broken Hearted Love By: Kathryn Teberg 5 short words really hurt me Those words were: There is no more we You broke my heart in two pieces I really thought we were to be One short night that’s all it took With all our love we could fill a book I said, “I love you,” and you said it back We thought for our future who would have to cook Please oh please won’t you come back Please don’t go, please don’t pack I need you more than you could possibly imagine Now she’s gone and I pray for her back.

Deep Thought By: Nate Burke Deep Thought I am deep thought. I am deep space, The unrecognizable, Whirling and twisting with infinite thought, I am television static. Incomprehensible. It is an infinite loop. I am a computer, Wondering, Calculating. I am wonder, Seeking answers. Examining the roots of life. I am deep thought. 54

“Tea Time” by Michelle Lee

“Ink” by Natalie Favia 55

Waiting for Love By Sydney Parrish My heart is a blank canvas Beneath it lays each and every color of the rainbow Waiting to be used, accompanied by an old paintbrush It has been used, but incorrectly, mistreated too many times It will never be able to uphold its true potential until the right person comes along A blank canvas has so many endless opportunities It can soon be transformed into something brand new A masterpiece even A loved, cherished, respected, piece of artwork Butâ&#x20AC;Ś MY canvas is sitting in a full room Alone, untouched, and overlooked by many While other canvases have found their matches They have found an artist To create their very own magical picture and paint over the mistakes of the past The bad memories are soon forgotten and overlooked One day My canvas will be finished just like all the others My unique artist will come along and paint a wonderful picture on my canvas The kind of picture Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always been waiting for Their painting will be the last on my canvas Permanent with fine lines of perfection Finally my canvas will be glowing much like the others With streams of bright colors Filling in the once white areas Never again will my canvas be blank

“Watercolor Painter” by Colin O’Connor

“Easel Painter” by Colin O’Connor

The Great Depression By Kathryn Teberg If I say I read the last chapter of the Catcher in the Rye every night before bed? I did for a week, and now I just sometimes read this one passage when I get sad

I’m not sure what I’m doing but I hope I get it done and I’m not sure who I am, but I sure hope it’s enough. You know, after a while everything you used to love and care about and hurt for becomes the punch line of a joke.

that says “among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person to ever be confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior

And I’m not sure how I feel about that – just like how you can’t tell from a photograph if the sun is setting or rising, it’s just halfway in between somewhere.

many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now” and somehow, that will make it okay.

I twirl my hair all the time and maybe it’s a tick or just another bad habit to never break but I think it makes me look

Even though it won’t mean much when you wake up from an anti-depressant dream in night sweat pajamas and ghost dreams of a world you would much rather inhabit

dumber than I’d like to seem even though I’ve been told my vocabulary gives me away I really don’t care about any of that,

than this one that you’ve already tried to leave but couldn’t quite sign the letter or stamp the envelope. Or maybe it was god.

In fact, at this point, I’m really not sure what things I care about at all and maybe that’s the real problem behind all this death stuff.

Jesus, I hope not, that would make every bit of all of this all every bit worse. And I can’t handle that right now

Or maybe it’s simpler than that, just like everything turns out to be the reason he never called was because he just doesn’t like you

or any time after that, frankly sometimes I wonder why I work so hard for all of this when none of it is worth it and then I remember it’s not for me

as much as you like him and that kinda makes him feel uncomfortable and I like to say I do all these cool kid things but I really actually don’t,

it’s for no one. Because they will all die too so don’t tell me my impact is immortal, because the dust we turn into won’t remember The Great Depression, so why would it care about mine?

and I guess you could call that lying but I consider it just marketing or false advertising if you wanna be harsh but don’t I just sound so much cooler

It’s almost beautiful enough to make me believe in god 58

“Lettuce Print” by Natalie Favia

Artwork by Jack Cox 59

Acknowledgements Editors Seniors Maddie Mocchi* Paul Sindberg

Juniors Sarah Niksa*

Sophomores Emily Botto* Tiffany Marin* Keiashia Moore* Cindy Tinajero*

Freshmen Jewl Amburgey Emily Dillon* Kjrstyn Michalak McKenna Roller * denotes editors-in-chief

Kristen Pham, Faculty Advisor

We Extend a Very Special Thanks to: Principal Steven Koch The District 155 Administration Mr. Zach Gimm Mrs. Amy Bland Mr. Aaron Cummins Mr. Rich Hacker Mrs. Gail Penn Mrs. Alice Lales Mrs. Bonnie Stanton Mrs. Karen Treadwell Mrs. Connie Kendall The Prairie Ridge Humanities Division AlphaGraphics Magazine printed by AlphaGraphics ▪ 650 E. Terra Cotta Ave., Suite 107 ▪ Crystal Lake, IL 60014