Imperfection by Rhapsody Staff

n o i t c e f r e p Im

Rhapsody

Brentsville HS 2010-2011 Vol 18

Advisors

Thank You Imperfection

Elizabeth Blair-Nussbaum Kathy Smaltz

Mrs.Elizabeth Blair-Nussbaum for giving us her honest opinions where we need them most, and knowing a thing or two about computers.

The Erney Family and The Puckett Family for their generous donations; without support from the Imperfection is both a curse and a gift. It renders community like you’ve given us these past two years, its subjects broken and beautiful, like a crinkled, it is simply not possible to publish Rhapsody. stained photograph of a wedding celebration, or the crumbling, cracked facade of an ancient cita- Nokesville Elementary School for their enthusiastic del. We chose to make use of this unique splendor participation in Rhapsody’s first community supplement. in this year’s issue of Rhapsody. We’ve done this by using images of, among other things, broken Mrs. Kathy Smaltz for putting up with us when we and stained surfaces as backgrounds to display art were either working too hard to the point of petuwork and literature that feature imperfect lance, or not working at all. qualities of ourselves and nature. These design elements and works of art perform together to Dr.Robert Scott for caring about the arts in an education system in which they are so quickly diminishing. Ms.Lindsey Tanner for telling us all the things we’ve been doing wrong in Adobe for years, and showing us how to fix them.

Lindsey Tanner

Awards 1997

Excellent rating, NCTE

Bronze Medalist, CSPA 1998

1st place, VHSL Excellent rating, NTCE

1999

1st place, VHSL Superior Rating, NTCE

2006

1st place, VHSL Excellent rating, NTCE

2007

1st place, VHSL Above average, NTCE

2008

1st place, VHSL Superior rating, NTCE

2009

Superior rating, NTCE

Gold medalist, CSPA 2010

Editors-in-Chief

Taylor Erney

Emily Goodrich

Katherine Harrison

Core Staff

Trophy Class, VHSL Gold medalist, CSPA

Courtney Bryce Submissions Editor Chelsea Frederick Buissness Manager Trish Johnson Copy Editor Amanda Magill Layout Editor Kelsey McIntyre Art Editor Lin Rudder Coffee-House Manager Kelly Teboe Art Editor Keri Teboe Layout Editor

1st place, VHSL

Brentsville District High School 12109Aden Road * Nokesville, Virginia * 20181

1st place, VHSL

Staff

Support Staff

Kevin Brennen

Micheal Gordon

Ryan McIntyre

Kamisha Sewell

Michael Thompson

Table Of Contents Art Liturature

32 … Kahlen’s Poison Prose Taylor Fox 35 … Irrationality Is Key Poetry Andy Burlile

Autumn Rain Poetry Lin Rudder … 4 38 … Salary Cap Feature Conner Murphy Seems Like Yesterday Memoir Stephanie Romeo … 6 39 … Local Runner, Human or Inhuman? Feature Andrew Hull Childhood Summers Poetry Emily Goodrich … 11 40 … Beloved Poetry Amanda Magill Constellation Prose Lin Rudder … 12 41 … Laoch Poetry Courtney Bryce Alex Prose Emily … 14 42 … Missing Kasey Prose Chloe Anderson Firehouse Feature Lauren O’Donnell … 18 44 … Spotless: An Excerpt Script Mike Thompson Dad Poetry Lin Rudder … 21 49 … Apple River: An Excerpt Prose Taylor Erney As We Slip Poetry Kevin Brennan … 23 51 … His Hands Poetry Courtney Bryce Midnight Dreams Poetry Casey Bennet … 25 53 … Piece of Sky Poetry Keri Teboe Persistence Poetry Sarah House … 26 53 … Pace Poetry Courtney Bryce Ode to Lazy Monday Poetry Azalea Scott … 28 54 … The Angel’s Shadow: An Excerpt Prose Kate Harrison 56 … The Desultory Gamble Prose Lin Rudder 59 … Sestina: The Life We Had Poetry Kaitlyn Bosch

27 … Daydream Photography Kate Harrison

Rusty Photography Emily Goodrich… 2 30 … The Wood Between Worlds Watercolor and Ink Kelly Teboe Hold Me Up Metal Taylor Fox … 5 33 … Fruit Smoothie Watercolor Jade Brooks Remember Photography Kate Harrison … 7 34 … Morning Sun Photography Shae Goon Paint Photography Erin Jarvis … 8 36 … In the Field Acyrilic Jade Brooks Color My Soul Acyrilic Kelly Teboe … 8 37 … Mountains Acyrilic Ross Ainsworth Gluttony Photography Anna Gearhart … 9 28 … The Webs We Weave Photography Anna Gearhart Telephone Photography Keri Teboe … 10 38 … Track Photography Emily Goodrich Natural Beauty Film Photography Kelsey McIntyre … 13 42 … Soaring Photography Kelly Teboe Hide and Seek Photography Keri Teboe … 14 44 … Inside the Captial Photography Tasha Bull Woman and a Window Prisma Taylor Fox … 17 47 … Inside the Captial Photography Tasha Bull Justen Moreland Photography Emily Goodrich … 19 48 … Distant Mixed Media and Soy Sauce Taylor Fox Fire Boots Photography Kate Harrison … 20 52 … Summer Persimons Photography Shae Goon Feet Clay Taylor Fox … 22 54 … Self-Portrait Watercolor and Ink Kelly Teboe Anything Acyrilic Sarah Butler … 24 57 … Candle Light Photography Grace Mendel Front and Back Cover … Three’s A Crowd Photography Kerri Teboe

The stars fall for me; In fragile, golden hues. Tints of orange, Swept by wind. They lay at my feet, Scattered ashes of the sky. I roll the sharpened charcoal Between my fingers; Tasting it on my tongue, Feeling it in my breath. They say you should wish on a star, And I do.

Autumn Lin Rudder

In smudged letters, I scratch my only true wish, Into the flesh of, The papery heart. As the wind blows, Whipping against my back, I release it, To the air; And there she floats, My rogue star.

Hold Me Up Metal Taylor

Seems LIke Yesterday Stephanie Romeo

Imperfection

drugs. My mother was not addicted to an illegal substance, but merely a pill that her unwitting doctor handed over to her each month. Later on down the road, she came to learn that he was taken to court. He had his license removed for over prescribing a medication to a teenage girl in high school, which almost ended up killing her. It’s amazing how one man can do so much harm to so many people: a complete corruption over a mind that makes patients believe that the medication they are taking will actually help them lead healthy lives, even though in reality it’s killing them. The patient is not the only one suffering; the family of the victim suffers too. Watching your mother’s life getting taken away faster and faster each day is not an easy thing to have unfold in front of you. Then, I did not know, but today, being in high school where I can actually comprehend the truth of things, I cringe at the memories. I remember my mother had became paranoid to a point where she thought that if I walked to the mailbox right in front of my house, I would be kidnapped or end up hurt. With her new psychotic fear, my childhood was taken away. Maybe once or twice I actually had a social life outside of school with my friends, but more than likely she was there with me. I was my mommy’s little sidekick that never, and I mean never, left her side. My brother didn’t experience it the way I did because he was already in high school. He rebelled and kept away from my mother. He always locked himself in his room, enveloped by video games, while I stayed beside my mom as her little sidekick on our pull out couch in the basement. Our basement was so filthy; everywhere you walked there was some sort of clutter. Our house was a wreck because no one had the initiative to clean it, especially not my mother who barely did anything productive.

I thought it was a play land with all of my toys strewn everywhere. It was our room. Through all of this, my father remained just as distant as my brother. He had a twelve hour work shift, which had to have been his personal vacation away from our home. For me, I spent my days after school watching way too much television, which my mother had on 24/7. My brother became tired of this chaotic life and decided to join the Army. He wanted to have a fresh start. After my brother left, I felt more alone then ever. Because I didn’t really have friends, I ended up alone, except for family. After a time I slowly started to realize something was wrong. We moved and ended up in an apartment while we waited for our real house to be renovated. That was when our world came crashing to a halt. My mother had taken me along with her for her monthly doctor’s visit. I remember riding in our old silver Corolla, pulling up in front of the office, and seeing a sign posted on the door. The office was completely black inside, and I vaguely remember my mother walking back to our car in tears. The first thing she did was reach for her cell phone to call my father at work. “His license got taken away! What I am going to do?” She kept asking the same question over and over again with tears in her eyes. I remained quiet in the passenger’s seat, picking my fingers, which I came to learn I do when I become really nervous. After that day, things became both better and worse for us. My mother immediately called up her old doctor and set up an appointment since she believed she had to see someone to keep her alive. The rheumatologist took one look at my mother and realized that she was a completely different person from the woman she had known. Her face pale, my mother slouched in her seat and slurred most of

her words. “It’s a good thing he lost his license when he did. A week more of this abuse and your family would have found you dead.” My mom listened to those words and began crying intensely. We didn’t leave the doctor’s office for three hours after she heard that statement. My mother ended up dealing with withdrawals and so did I; with my brother not being home it left me to pick up on the responsibilities of everything in our home, like cooking and cleaning. It was hard, and I will always remember that I just couldn’t stop wondering how I kept up really good grades at that time. I was acting like a mother to my own mother, which was an awful role reversal that can never be taken back. After a few months, the color came back to my mother’s once ghostly face, and she began getting a full night’s sleep. She ended up getting through her addiction and I was the one to thank. To this day, my mother still has problems because of her addiction to pain meds, and she will never be the same. Living in the after effect of it all and being older, I now know that no child should have to endure what I did. To blame my mother for everything is hard, because I wonder: did she actually know what was happening, and could she have stopped it?

I now see what drug abuse actually did to my mother and the rest of our family. For my mom, she now lives with so many medical conditions from drug abuse, and her teeth are pretty much falling apart each day. I watch this and become sad; but at least she is still alive. Her mind being “off ” the majority of the time is hard to cope with, and yes, it does make me angry at her doctor for doing this to her, but I have to sit back and endure it. My R experience has made me a smarter person and much wiser regarding right and wrong.

Remember Photography Kate Harrison

Back when I still had baby soft clear skin and added two plus two for my homework to be complete for the day, I spent my time watching a woman’s life slowly drift away in front of me. The woman had young skin, but I began to notice dark eye circles starting to form, and a fair complexion that once contained a rosy natural color diminished into a ghostly appeal. Nights became her days, and days became her nights; a nocturnal life she now led. My mother had become a lifeless person and I never fully understood why, for I was simply a young daughter. “Mommy is asleep, she can’t talk right now,” I had to tell to every visitor knocking on our door, or whoever had called us on the telephone trying to get in contact with my almost dead-to-the-world mother. Our life inside of our house was a secret to everyone except to my father, brother and me. All three of us were the only people who actually were aware of the truth. I remember going to family affairs on my father’s side. Without my parent’s knowledge, I would be taken in to another room and asked personal questions, like “Is something happening at home that you would like to tell us? We promise you won’t be getting in trouble. It’s for the best.” No one in my family was stupid, especially my grandmother. She has the mind of an elephant, along with an excellent memory and a pure detective’s eye. My grandmother cared about my life too much, and I had the hardest time wondering why I was being directly confronted, and not the other grandchildren. It started my first grade year of elementary school when I was simply too young to realize and comprehend the truth, and it ended my seventh grade year of middle school. Seven years. Seven long years of a childhood, greatly ruined all because of over medicating on prescription

Paint Photography Erin Jarvis

Color My Soul Acyrilic Kelly Teboe

Gluttony Photography Anna Gearhart

ephone Photography Keri Teboe

childho

od sum Emily G

mers

oodrich

Back then, we played baseball games starting four on four, “ghosting” players on empty bases quitting for the calls of our parents. We’d walk through rivers to small islands where we would skip stones, maybe fall in. We occupied ourselves until the streetlights called us home.

Today, we walk down wood chipped trails along the river of that far off memory, talking to each other, rather than playing creating whimsical tales of our futures together built on the ghosts of our childhood summers.

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Constellation

Lin Rudder

Natural BeautyPhotography Kelsey McIntyre

She isn’t beautiful. Her nails are always chipped and her knees covered in scars; her breasts are nonexistent and her eyes an average, unexciting dark blue. But, I fall for her hands. They are tiny. Not necessarily soft and dainty, but fragile. They move when she talks, and as a result, I never really listen. “Don’t say you love me. I don’t believe in love.” So I text it to her and leave it in notes. She pretends she never gets them, and I pretended they are never sent. But, she does read. I never see her do it, but once we watched a movie: Bright Star. It’s about a poet, John Keats or something. She knows every line and whispers them to herself, eyes fixed on the screen. “Hey,” I mumble. She turns to me, flashing her grin. “What?” “Have you seen this movie before?” “Nope.” She stops chanting. I wish I had let her be. One day, I see her drawing stars in a notebook. Tiny, pencil stars until they cover the page like a pox. “Do you like stars?” She flips it shut and smiles at me blankly. From then on I give her lucky paper stars. I leave them everywhere. Like the “I Love You” messages, she pretends they don’t exist. “I can’t stay here,” she says. I stare at her, as she perches at the top of the building. Don’t jump is all I can think. “Come down. Let’s go to the park and pick out cloud shapes, like we’re kids again. Best friends.” And it hurts, because I don’t want to be her best friend anymore.

“OK,” she responds. But she takes my hand in the elevator down, and then I’m thoroughly confused. That night, as she insists on walking home alone, she kisses me good-bye. It’s not our first kiss, but it feels as awkward and pure all the same. And as her hand unfolds from mine, and she saunters away, I feel it. Five or six paper stars huddled in my palm, their points spreading the skin. Stars that I had given her. “Where are you going?” I call, understanding at that moment a part of her for the first time in our lives. A part so shrouded by smiles and the swift movement of her tiny hands. She stops, turning. And in the dimness of dawn, she is breathtakingly extraordinary. “The sun.” “Why?” “Because it’s the only star brighter than me.” R

Emily Goodrich

Alex

Hide and Seek Photography Keri Tebo

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It was cold, and although they kept the building at a comfortable temperature, Evelyn could still see the frost on the windows. Her steps echoed the clack of the nurse in front of her; the halls were sterile, silent. No cracks on the walls or skids on the tile marred the corridor. She lingered for a moment as they reached the door. It was plain the same as all other doors - but it held a certain fear for Evelyn. A tear streaked down her cheek before she turned the knob. “Y-you’re late,” Alex said.

“I know. I got caught up in traffic.” “You always s-say that.” He stared down at the ground, his head nodding slightly. She sat next to him on the bed, drying her tears before he could see them. He was wringing his hands; God, she hated it when he did that. Silence wafted through the room as it often did when she came to see him. She turned her head towards the door. “Don’t leave!” He cried, his eyes suddenly trained on her; pleading with her.

“I’m not going to, I was just…” “You don’t w-want to be here! I know, b-but please, don’t leave!” “I’m not going to leave…” “YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT!” He yelled, startling Evelyn, though he wasn’t looking at her. Alex exhaled, and fell silent. They sat in silence for a while, which did nothing to calm Evelyn’s nervous mind. “How have you been?” She finally asked. “We’ve been fine.” “Are you sure? You’re eyes

look a little red.” “I…Ari’s kept me up the last two nights.” Alex was still looking at the corner. “Is he here?” “Y-yes.” “What is Ari doing?” “He’s…he’s looking a-at you. I…I don’t like it.” Evelyn turned slightly to face the corner. “Hey. Quit it,” she put force behind her words, though they met no response. The corners only ever answered with silence. Alex looked

back down; whatever held his gaze disengaged him. His eyes fell to the floor, his hands shaking slightly. “It’s all m-my fault.” His voice shook with his hands. His sudden change in subject didn’t faze Evelyn; she was used to the jumpy conversations. “No, it’s not your fault. Accidents happen.” “I couldn’t….couldn’t…it’s my fault…” “Alex, it was not your fault.” “Accidents don’t just happen! It’s my fault you…” “There was nothing you

could have done. You tried…” “I could have done something!” “Alex…” “Then why am I h-here, huh?! I know why you don’t like sseeing me anymore. It’s because of Ari and because it was my fault!” “Alex, stop it,” Evelyn spoke softly. Alex exhaled shakily, eyes brimming with tears. He glared at Evelyn, then turned his gaze to the window where the snow fell silently. The minutes were days in that room; visits often ended like this. Alex worked himself into a fit, Evelyn told him to stop, and then they sat in silence until the nurse came to give Alex his medication for the day. Then Evelyn left and scheduled another visit, which she was inevitably late for. Evelyn shifted, desperate for today’s visit to end differently. “You shouldn’t wear t-tank tops in winter,” Alex mumbled. “You’ll get sick.” “Oh, and I suppose you’re the ultimate authority on that?” Evelyn smiled. Alex turned to face her and returned the smile with a short nod. “Of course I am. I know everything, r-remember?” And for the first time in six months, they laughed together, unhindered by mental illness or guilt. The pair was giggling nonsensically when the nurse returned to the room. She looked vaguely bewildered at this sudden change in behavior from Alex before smiling. “I’m afraid I must take Alex in for his medication,” she said quietly. “You’re welcome to wait here if you wish.” “Alright,” Evelyn said, her breath staggered from laughing. “I think I’ll do that.” The nurse nodded, gliding over to Alex and gripping his arm. Alex gave her an exasperated look before standing up, and walking unaid-

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ed towards the wheelchair designated for him. He sat down and turned, offering Evelyn a small smile and a wave before being wheeled down the lifeless hallway. Evelyn kept smiling until Alex was out of sight, her muscles slowly relaxing, defaulting to a blank stare. She knew the medication wore on Alex; she knew he hated it here as much as she hated seeing him trapped by the empty walls. Confident she was alone, Evelyn allowed herself to cry again. “This is all my fault.”

FireLauren O’Donnell

Justen Moreland, a senior at Brentsville District High School, glances down at his watch as he walks briskly across the bay and into the fire station banquet hall’s back room. His watch reads 6:57PM. The meeting wasn’t supposed to start until 7. His navy blue shirt with the white Nokesville Volunteer Fire Department logo on the front and NVFD scrolled in red across the back is tucked into his navy blue duty pants. The pockets of his Dickies are filled with things such as a pocket knife, a pen light, and even a pair of bright blue latex gloves. The black belt he is wearing matches the steel toe leather boots that poke out from underneath his pants. Peeking around the corner into the hall, he quickly spots his group of friends in the back. They’re all laughing and making jokes. He treads across the open floor to the tables in the back. The smell of chips and salty foods fill the air. “Hey Bambi, what’s up? Any calls so far tonight?” One of his friends, AJ, calls to him as he stuffs a handful of sour cream and onion chips into his mouth. Justen raises his shoulders and sighs. It had been a pretty slow night. Not even one call came over the speakers. Not one flash of the tone lights. Nothing. “Not yet. You know how it is around here,” he replies as he reaches into the lime green bag of chips lying on the table. Pulling his hand out with nothing in it he picks up the chip bag and walks it over to the trash can, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it in. As he heads towards the front table where three more chip bags lie, the casual conversation dies down and the president begins to speak. He picks

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up the salt and vinegar ones and strides back to his table listening to the president go on about the station’s costs and new members. This is definitely not amusing to him. He pulls up a cold, folding metal chair, places the chips in the center of the table, and slouches down. Reaching down to his hip, he pulls his pager off of his belt and whispers over to one of the guys on his crew. He asks multiple questions as to how the tones work and how to silence it. Being the first time he’s used it, he has some concerns about how loud it will be if it goes off during the meeting. Although he doesn’t enjoy listening to the president speak, he doesn’t want his pager going off either. After the meeting he tells me about his future. He plans to become a career firefighter after graduation. Taking all of the shifts and classes at the station has helped him gain much needed experience. Being the youngest certified firefighter must be a pretty big deal, but he doesn’t show it. Although volunteering takes up a lot of his free time, it makes him appreciate everything he has and helps him not stress about what is going to happen tomorrow. Sitting at the ten person silver kitchen table, Justen’s blue eyes sparkle as he talks about how much he’s learned from all of his experiences. He tells me how much he loves volunteering because it gives him the opportunity to help people. Waiting for the “tones to drop” is just as exciting as it is nerve racking. “Every call is something new and you never know what to expect. You have to think quickly and smartly to protect yourself and your crew….” he says. Even a day without

calls is interesting. Bumming around the station, “training a lot, and just messing around” can be fun too. Granted some calls can be very tragic, but it hasn’t affected him in a negative way. “If anything, it’s affected me positively,” he says, “you get stronger mentally and you begin to realize that people actually rely on you. You’re who they turn to in a time of need. It makes you feel good about yourself because you help people every day.” When 10 o’clock rolls around, Justen heads back out to the bay. He picks his gear up off of the bay’s floor. Altogether, the gear must weight at least 50 pounds. Lugging the gear over to his rack, his smile fades. Leaving the station clearly disappoints him. Walking out the bay’s door, he calls back to his crew, “See you guys next week! Stay safe tonight.” And off into the distance, he and his big Bronco go. R

Justen Moreland Photography Emily Goodrich

You loved how I decorated Forgotten holidays Flags in July Presidents in February

Dad

Lin Rudder

Shamrocks in March War movies in November And you taught me about movies And directors and actors “Spielberg is the greatest. Quentin Tarantino is a nut.” And I told them proudly I was just like you But you never helped decorate Or knew my favorite animal And you started drinking on Sundays And breaking promises Everyone kept telling me “You’re just like your dad” And I dyed my hair And put up Kill Bill posters I became a Democrat And stopped decorating holidays And I see you on weekends And when you pass out money But I miss you at soccer games And at every parent conference But always, I laugh at your jokes And we cry for sad movies “You’re just like me When I was that age” But I am a forgotten holiday And no one decorates me.

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Fire Boots Photography Kate Harrison

As We Slip

Kevin Brennan

Controlled falling We challenge fate, Allowing ourselves to become lost. We see no consequence, We seek no retribution. Living outside our fears. For a moment of bliss To wash through our veins And numb our hearts We seek solace in the emptiness Instilled by this addiction. We want no other experience, But to fall away from ourselves.

ox aylor F

Midnight

Casey Bennett

I have three memo pads; one for reminders, one for distracted doodles and one for midnight dreams. On this pad of midnight dreams; I keep my deepest fears. Every goal i am afraid to reach, like every raindrop that would not fall. On this pad of midnight dreams; I keep my deepest secrets. Everything i want to keep, hidden away from you. On this pad of midnight dreams; where random thoughts get scribbled. Then morning breaks and finds a message to decipher. On this pad of midnight dreams; I often find my mind wandering past the distant seas every time I think of you. I have three memo pads; one for reminders, one for distracted doodles and one for midnight dreams. Anything Acyrilic Sarah Butler

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Persistence

Sarah House

Daydream Photography Kate Harrison

I would love to be a comet with illuminous colors of ice and dust among the northern lights of an Arctic sky …And shoot across the Milky Way to distant stars never seen, Into a greater expanse Of a stellar afar. I would write you: the visions of worlds remote from the star that greets you in morning’s wake. Zeros cascading in celestial void To evoke our journals On a salient night; I am for the pursuit of fact …And if I am not to return Do not fret; In what great tragedy embraces all I will have experienced the Universe for all that it is.

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Ode to Lazy Mondays Azalea Scott

The Webs We Weave Photography Anna Gearhart

As I lay here Hands to hips Neck to lips So close I can taste your thoughts I think about how nothing lasts forever And what a terrible shame that is. I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mind staying here forever, Tasting your thoughts, Feeling your heart pound, Wanting out of its cage. You sigh, and in an instant Our forever ends Leaving me with nothing But the sweetness of your thoughts.

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The Wood Between Worlds Watercolor and Ink Kelly Teboe

Kahlen’s Poison

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I could hear them screaming again. The sounds crawled up my back and wrapped themselves around my spine. Everything they said was poison, as if all they yelled, from the very syllable to the meaning of the word, was to slowly find its way in every corner of this house. It would cling to the wood paneling and embed itself in our flesh until eventually hanging in the air like mist. I’ve felt it all before. Within a few minutes, Mercy came running to my room. I knew she was coming by the sound of her feet on the carpet, a muffled thud and the slight creak of our old house. I glanced up to see her standing in my doorway, looking small and defeated. Water was dripping down her body, and scraggly strands of hair were matted against her scalp. She was still wrapped in a towel. “Kahlen won’t let me in.” I closed my eyes and wished I was somewhere else. I didn’t want to deal with them; they weren’t my responsibility. Every fight they ever had always seemed to stem back to the fact that they shared a room, which was something that would never change. Slowly, I dragged myself up and allowed my sister to take me to her room. Her door was closed and the white paint was peeling away. I bitterly wished that doors were like people, that I could just chip away their paint, their outer shell, and expose what was underneath. I wondered how much would truly be left. “Kahlen, open up,” I said, striking my knuckles against the wood. Silence met me on the other side. I unlocked the door and tried to push it open, but she threw her weight against it to keep me from getting inside. “Kahlen!” Mercy screamed and pounded against the door. We didn’t struggle for very long; Kahlen stepped back and the door swung open. It hit the wall with a crash, and I grabbed

it before she could close it again. She had left the light off, but I could still see the mess of her unmade bed and the clutter of objects scattered across her dresser. She was standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by her anger and facing us. There was nowhere else for her to go, and I felt the poison in the air thicken. It was like chewing on battery acid. Every dark thought that came from her mind spun a web that stretched across the room and ensnared her like a fly, and I knew that she was going to choke on her own fury. “Get out.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable so there was no question as to what she wanted. Her words sounded like sharp notes on a guitar string: plucked once and left to reverberate in the air until they went sour. Her body had gone rigid, every muscle and fiber taut with a hatred that she could no longer control. I saw it in the way she clenched her jaw: tight and jutting forward. Her feet were placed apart, and her small hands were curled into fists. I also saw the desperation in her eyes. To be alone was the simplest thing she could ask for, only wanting to drown silently within herself, but I wouldn’t let her. I reached out to touch her, to pull her back, but she jumped away from me. Her eyes darted to my hand as if it would burn her and retreated further into the darkness of her room. I withdrew my arm. “I said get out!” she screeched. Tears exploded in the corners of her eyes. “I’m not leaving. Calm down, okay?” “No! I don’t want her here!” She pointed behind me. “Kahlen I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Just let me in!” “No! You’re not sorry! Don’t you ever say that! Don’t you ever talk to me about my therapy! You don’t even know!” She was panting now, visibly

reaching a point of hysteria. Mercy had exposed the very fear Kahlen had been harboring, leaving her for nothing more than living doubt. Fear of losing herself had broken her, and I realized that I was looking at my sister as well as the sickness that she had tried so hard to conceal. “Hey! Calm down!” I said, my stomach churning. “No! I won’t calm down! I hate this place! I hate her! I can’t wait to leave!” She turned her back to me and grabbed a loose pile of clothes at the foot of her bed. She was shaking, a fury rising from the pit of her stomach and spilling out of every crevice of her body. “Kahlen,” Jessi whispered, but

Kahlen ran past us. She threw herself into the bathroom in a whirl of anger, slamming the door and shaking the house. She screamed, ripping her throat apart as if it would help her to tear herself from her body. “I don’t need therapy! I am not messed up in the head!” The shower turned on, and I knew that she was sobbing. Without a thought, I turned to Mercy and pushed her into the room. I walked away, feeling the fire in my stomach contract and my heart burn. It was like I could see little puzzle pieces of our lives breaking away and falling, leaving behind gaps that I didn’t know how to fill. We didn’t know

how to live together or how to save each other, and the more Kahlen fell the further we were dragged. I entered my room and fell to the trash can, hugging my stomach and sobbing. It was a bitter thing, loving my sisters, for Kahlen’s poison left her incapable of loving herself. I cried for her, for Mercy, and for myself, knowing that even long after Kahlen is healed, her sickness will always haunt us. R

Fruit SmoothieWatercolorJade Brooks

Taylor Fox

Morning Sun Photography Shae Goon

Irrationality Is Key

Nary a night ever known, so forlorn, beknownst to me, I have seen, in the heartshire, a burning fire, meant for me, beknownst to me

Andy Burlile

A wondrous wasteland of waning, wary moon, and, beknownst to me, a sea, of harlequin doom and loom of starlight’s gleam; a screaming, wary moon, and a terror unbeknownst to me a flaming, I do see, of a horizon beknownst to me Terror troughed and trenched, in between the heartshire’s seams, sewn and needled tendrils, beknownst to me, tread between the scarfire’s burning leaves and the embers of smoldering weeds, as the flames, unbeknownst to me, travel through the wasteland’s prairie; that passive prairie beknownst to me Ever eternity framed in supernal slumber, or the fallacious facade, beknownst to me, of the omnipotent character of fate and destiny, that pallid persona of fault and morality, and the evanescence of the celestial cascade in the night-time sea; in that fickle sea, of a terror

unbeknownst to me Carnal cathedrals of hellfire, burning slowly, and the harrowing horror of what the darkness fears from me, that deafening darkness, and the plateau of pyre’s perspicacity; to fly; to flee from the price of fire’s fee; that fee which silently cinders all beknownst to me Heavenly heartshire, and terror trenched - entrenched in hope’s atrophic audacity, the fear beknownst to me that across that sober sea, that psychometric sea, underneath a mourning moon of leaking light and captivity, callous fire infernos the heartshire, the creed of humanity, in that chronic fear of flame’s cindering currency, inflexible fire’s fee, a flavorless fleck of flesh, and a flawless scream of redundancy; all remaining of humanity, smoldering form of fire, left deaf and blind in the heartshire, with flame’s light forever burning in the celestial sea, in that cinder sea, with nothing left of me; no longer a rhythmic remnant; no ‘I’ in humanity.

Mountains Acyrilic Ross Ainsworth

Naturally Flawed

Connor Murphy

Before the beginning of each MLB season, ESPN analysts sit down and make predictions about who they believe will make it to the playoffs. They are usually wrong except for two teams, the Red Sox and Yankees. It’s not coincidence. They are major market teams that can afford to sign the best players. All other sports leagues, like the NFL, have salary caps on teams so that they can’t do this. But in baseball, big market teams can give themselves an unfair advantage over small market teams who can’t just simply buy their talent. The salary difference of major league clubs has created a difference in player development for small and major market teams. Small market teams are forced to scout endlessly for the best prospects, draft them, and develop them through the minor leagues. Occasionally, they find a superstar and try to sign him for as long as possible for as little as possible; this way that star is on the team for the greatest amount of time before his contract expires. Then he’s a free agent. Free Agency is an auction for players in which the team that offers the biggest contract usually wins. The major market teams can offer higher salaries and get

Salary Cap

that player; they steal the player from the team that invested so much. This is where the term, “buying the team,” comes from. The major market teams don’t have to do any of the work, yet they receive the product of the small market team’s investment. How is that fair? A prime example of this is with the Cleveland Indians organization. The Indians drafted C.C. Sabathia who turned into one of the most dominant pitchers in the major leagues. The Indians spent years preparing Sabathia for the Major Leagues and just as he entered his prime, his contract expired. The Indians were unable to offer the same contract as the Yankees and as a result he signed with New York. The Indians lost a fan favorite player, a key piece to their team, and a huge investment all because of the inequality caused by the gap between major and small market teams. A salary cap would change this. A salary cap would also change the disparity in competition. The Red Sox and Yankees have won more would series championships than any other two teams combined; in fact, the Yankees have 14 World Series titles. That’s 14 more then the Padres, Nationals, Marlins, and Twins

combined. Without a salary cap, the market size of the team determines the team’s success, when the success should be determined by which team works the hardest. The NFL is a good example of why the cap works; a team like the Patriots wins a lot because they have the best coaching and the best work ethic. In the NFL, with hard work, a team that came in last place one year can come in first the next. This is not the case in major league baseball. The same teams usually comes in first because they can just buy the best players while the small market teams always come in last no matter how hard they work. A cap would create an equal opportunity for all teams to win based on hard work, not money. All throughout life people are taught that in America, if you work hard you will be successful. So why in America’s pastime is this not the reality? Not having a salary cap destroys the fundamentals of competitive sports that you’ll win with hard work. Instead, whichever team has the most money will win, and that ruins the game. R

Anderw Hull

Local Runner, Human or INhuman?

The running time is 14:09, and all nine hundred pairs of eyes are locked like missiles on a single man. Adam Henken crunches down into a deep hunt for the last drop of energy to propel him down the straightaway. But as time flies off the clock for the spectators, it drips off for Adam creating the slowest 100 meters of the whole 12 plus lap. Not many know what he is thinking, except the few who have broken 15-minutes in the 5000-meter race or 3.1 mile. His mind is so focused by this time that he enters the 3% of human beings who have experienced the sensation of releasing their grip on reality and stopping the lactic acid river from flowing into the muscular fibers of his legs. His hands graze across a thin string, pulling him back to reality within a split second. The acid rushes into every single cell in his body, but the pain is once again numbed by the sole purpose he runs… success. The clock reads 14:27, and he enters a runner’s high with joy rushing into his veins like a New Year’s celebration. Adam Henken, a 2007 graduate of Brentsville District High School, crushed his personal record in the 5 kilometer last year with an impressive time of 14:27. 22

years old, Adam just transferred from the University of Kentucky to North Carolina State University to finish a degree in sociology and compete on a national caliber division 1 track team. Although he did not qualify for the NCAA D1 Championships last year, he is gearing up to qualify this season in the 5K and 10K. Henken graduated from BDHS, achieving high academics and outstanding performances in running. In his final track season at BDHS, he displayed a glimpse of his future talent at our school by breaking the 5K record with a time of 15:47 and also ran a notable time of 4:25 in the mile, just 4 seconds off of the record. However now, with his college times of 14:27 in the 5K and an impressive 4:08 in the mile, Henken easily proves that he has been the most successful runner to graduate from BDHS so far. The greater questions that come to mind for most are “When does his senior track season start?” and “How do you think he will perform?” Well, Henken says that the indoor season practice has already begun and he has high hopes to qualify in the 5K this indoor season; but he also says it is much more difficult because indoor track & field is more selective then outdoor

track & field. His first meet was January 22, 2011 at Virginia Tech. Even though Henken did not perform well his junior year, he has been working very hard under the radar to improve and is now poised to qualify for the NCAA Division 1 Outdoor Track & Field championships in the 5K and 10K along with his strong teammate, Andrew Colley, a sophomore who placed 44th in an international crosscountry meet early last year. Henken and Colley both hope to double up in the 5K and 10K come NCAA championships in late spring of 2011. Today, Henken looks toward the future in hopes to have a break out season to define him as not only the best runner from BDHS, but also one of the best at NC State. So Tigers, keep an eye, or even both, on potentially our first nationally recognized runner to graduate from BDHS, Adam Henken. R

Track Photography Emily Goodrich

Blood stained brow, soul choked by armor, Beaten and battered for the lordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only daughter. He remains triumphant but time will soon tell, How the once treasured hero will be dragged back to hell.

Sway me in whichever way you please Your breath a sordid wind, Your smile the tempermental sun. Blazing hot to the touch Above the web of skin, flesh, blood, and veins. Intricate patchwork, Like a treasusre map Trailing my most beloved posession. Your heart. Beat for me. I know you can.

Courtney Bryce

Nothing has ever stirred my nerves more, Than the silence of your lips. Those wonderful works God. Please. Move me. I know you can.

Laoch

Beloved

Amanda Magill

As he sheds the shields of those forsaken He denies the truth that her life has been taken. A twisted youth, a life carved into savage, A spring unwound to delight and to ravage. The truth will unfold and the surprise will settle, And prickle like the sting of a daggered nettle. It will draw out the blood, scratch into skinDrain the rivulets of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beat within. So our victor once feral, a carnal image, Was denied by the angels- a hellish privilege. With night dampened vision and sweat soaked strength, He struggles to continue his easily paced length. Like a dour faced drunk- his fate slips and slurs And intertwines like ivy, like poison, like hers. He wept by her side for all who were near, The lament of war and the lachrymal of fear. So it was then flame fingered dawn stretched out her hand And swallowed the earth like the tide swayed sand.

Chloe Anderson

I sit at the piano, barely illuminated through the window that reveals a cloud-stricken sky. I am trying to remember that song. For the life of me, I cannot remember that song. But I will. I must. For Kasey. For a younger sister, Kasey doesn’t let me do much of the leading. She enjoys taking charge, and coming at life head-strong. This would probably be on my list of top ten reasons why I love her. Thinking about her makes me sick inside. Portland at this time of year is cold and wet. And I know that she’s outside. I imagine her shivering, and it makes me shiver. Shiver and remember. Music. I hear music. It floats up to my room from downstairs. I follow it. Kasey plays a gorgeous melody. My feet carry me to the side of the piano. It ends. I want to cry. It was so lovely. She looks up. “Do you want to learn?” a simple question. I learned. She taught me. It’s a beautiful song. I master the initial tune and turn to her. She doesn’t see me—or anything. Pensive. She wears a look I call Pensive. That was the first day that I knew something was up. Something was wrong. Kasey continued on in her free-spirited manner shortly after I learned the song. For weeks, she was perfectly herself. She cooked grilled cheese and tomato soup every Tuesday night. She did ten push-ups every time a commercial came on during

## 42

Imperfection

one of those crime shows she always seemed to be watching. She left sticky notes all over the place, to help remind her of what her subconscious wouldn’t. I had nearly forgotten about the incident at the piano when her second “flash” happened. In my Jeep. Driving home. A familiar beat resonates in my ear. I turn the volume up—it’s her favorite song. She doesn’t yelp for joy, or bounce in her seat, or sing. She doesn’t hear. Not even when her favorite lines are played “there’s a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout because you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out”. We roll up onto the driveway. She un-clicks her seatbelt. She’s gone. But not before I see her face. And how it’s masked with Pensive.

Slowly, other things began to change. I’d notice her light on when the rest of the house was sleeping. When I’d check in, she’d just tell me that she couldn’t fall asleep. She was thinking. Too much. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. One Tuesday evening, she didn’t make grilled cheese and tomato soup. So I made it. She looked so surprised when I set it in front of her; she just stared up at me, mouth open. “I completely forgot” she apologized. Kasey never forgot about grilled cheese and tomato soup. But I smiled and said that it wasn’t a problem and told her to eat up. The last flash that I can recall happened just four days ago. It’s strangely warm for an October day. We want to enjoy it. We find our favorite bike trail, and take it on foot. Bare-foot. She hates

shoes. She likes humming. So she does. Something in the trees. A pastel-ish something. A ball? She reaches up and rescues the balloons from a low branch. Waldo, Herman, Cecil. She tugs them along, no longer humming. Thinking again. I can’t imagine what about. Despite the odd heat, I see clouds. They roll in, metaphorically mirroring her expression. The benches. She sits, still thinking. Pensive. Her whole being emanates ‘pensive’. I quickly snap a picture with my phone. I can’t waste such a moment. She spares a second to glance up at me. Only a second. She’s back to thinking, all pensivelike. Strange. She hates photos. Of her. She’s thinking hard if she won’t verbally object. It’s the last picture I took of her before she took off.

And now the room I’m in seems gray, as the clouds block all light from finding its way in. I still sit at the piano. Willing myself to remember that melody. Willing my fingers to plunk out the notes with ease, just like my baby sister taught me. I will. A ray of light passes through the window, illuminating the tips of my fingers and the keys. It gives me hope. R

Soaring Photography Kelly Teboe

Missing Kasey

Spotless: An Excerpt Michael Thompson

Scene One

frowns at them.] Good Heavens!

[The curtains open. A white spotlight shines down on JOE (C.), while all other surroundings remain unlit. JOE is dressed in all-white formalwear with a piece of paper clutched in his hand. Somewhat confused, he cautiously treads across the fogcovered floor. As he arrives at U.L., the maître d’ (PETER), also dressed in all-white, greets him in front of a tall, ornate gate.]

PETER: Precisely! This is a very exclusive party you know. You wouldn’t want to make your big entrance with a dirty suit. JOE: You’re absolutely right. I… I hadn’t even noticed these stains. I wonder how long I’ve been walking around with them.

PETER: [Chuckles softly.] You’d be surprised how common it is, sir. PETER: [Grins as JOE approaches There’s so much dirt in the world, him.] Hello there! Joseph Curtis, isn’t some of it is bound to stick to you. it? JOE: I suppose. JOE: [Puzzled.] Yes… Have we met PETER: Believe me, I’ve seen much before? worse. Listen, there’s an excellent PETER: Well, no… Not in person drycleaners a few blocks away, run like this anyway. But, being a maître by a sweet old lady named Gertrude. d’ is all about knowing who’s who on [Points to R.] It’s down that way, you the guest list. Speaking of which, you can’t miss it. Tell Gertrude that Peter sent you. do have your invitation, don’t you? [The spotlight is kept on JOE, who walks across the stage to C., before it fades away. PETER exits, and stagehands remove the gate prop and arrange two cut-out doors at R. and L., a desk at U.C. where GERTRUDE is stationed, and two chairs to the left PETER: [Stops him.] Whoa, whoa. of the desk. The stage remains dark as a door chime sounds.] Hold on there, Joseph. JOE: Um… yes. Here you go. [Hands his invitation to PETER, who unfolds it, nods, and jots something down on his clipboard.] …Okay, I guess I’ll be on my way. [Walks toward the gate.]

JOE: What is it? Aren’t I on the list?

Scene Two

PETER: Of course you’re on the list, but look at yourself. Your suit’s all stained.

JOE: Hello?

MALE VOICE: [Yelling viciously from offstage R.] You must! You JOE: [Looks down at his suit; it is have to! spattered with several dark stains. He

GERTRUDE: Your suit is beyond repair. I’m sorry sir, but you’ve done GERTRUDE: Try. this to yourself. There’s nothing I can do. JOE: Well, alright. [He removes his jacket and places it on the desk.] MALE VOICE: Just clean it! I know you can! GERTRUDE: [Points to a mud stain on the left elbow.] Where did this one GERTRUDE: Perhaps another come from? time. JOE: [Studies the mark pensively.] [Red lights flash rapidly with wailing When I was a teenager, I stole a pack cries and fiery sound effects in the of cigarettes from a convenience background. The MALE VOICE store. As I was running from the screams and the lights cease flashing. cashier, I tripped and fell in some The stage is relit with JOE half-way mud. My friend talked me into it. I inside the door at L., wide-eyed in shouldn’t have listened to him. confusion.] GERTRUDE: [Nods, then frowns GERTRUDE: [Smiles at JOE.] Good and points to another.] What is this? afternoon, sir. Is this wine? JOE: Uh, hello. …Was there some- JOE: [Studies it momentarily.] Yeah, one else in here? when I was in my twenties, I ran into my ex-girlfriend at a party, and she GERTRUDE: There was, but unfor- threw her drink on me. tunately he had to take his business elsewhere. How may I help you to- GERTRUDE: Why did she do that? day? JOE: I… well… I said some things JOE: I’m late for a party and my suit I shouldn’t have. She got angry… is in need of some cleaning. Peter [Sighs.] It was more to impress my sent me here. He said you’re the best current girlfriend at the time. drycleaner around. GERTRUDE: Tsk tsk tsk. Joseph, GERTRUDE: [Laughs.] Oh, that Pe- Joseph, Joseph… ter. I suppose I am. There’s no stain that can’t be removed, as long as you JOE: [Looks confused.] You know learn to respect your suit. my name?

ment.] It was over a project, I think. I wanted to do it one way, he wanted to do it another. It was a dumb fight, I shouldn’t have gotten so riled up—I was spitting I was so angry. GERTRUDE: I see. [Notices another customer entering the door at L. To JOE] I think I can take it from here. JOE: Okay, what time should I come back? GERTRUDE: You’re staying. JOE: Huh? GERTRUDE: Have a seat. JOE: [Perplexed, sits down in the closest chair.] GERTRUDE: [To BRYAN] How may I help you today? BRYAN: Peter sent me. He says you’re the best drycleaner around. GERTRUDE: Oh, that Peter. I suppose I am. There’s no stain that can’t be removed, as long as you learn to respect your suit…

[The lights focus on JOE, as the surrounding stage dims. BRYAN places his stained jacket on the counter and points out a few spots to GERTRUDE. The two move their mouths, appearing to talk to each JOE: I feel terrible about letting it get GERTRUDE: [Looks at him, then other, while JOE looks too deep in filthy at all— back down at the jacket and chang- thought to notice. He retrieves his es the subject.] What’s this? [Points invitation from his pocket and studGERTRUDE: That’s perfectly fine. at the jacket’s collar.] Is that saliva? ies it. Suddenly, BRYAN concludes Now, tell me where you got each of You spat on your suit? his conversation with GERTRUDE these stains, it’ll help me figure out and he approaches the seat beside how to clean them. JOE: [Looks at it quizzically] Oh! I JOE. The entire stage relights when remember now. When I was in grad BRYAN slaps JOE on the back.] JOE: I don’t know if I’ll be able to school, I was in an argument with remember— my best friend. [Pauses for a mo- BRYAN: Hey, you got the same in-

JOE: [Shakes BRYAN’s hand] Joe Curtis… Say, when did you receive your invitation?

BRYAN: How ‘bout you, Joe? Got any little ones?

GERTRUDE: It’s a lot hotter next door.

BRYAN: [Thinks for a moment.] JOE: Only one, Chelsea. Of course Mm… Don’t remember, long time she’s all grown up now and has a little one of her own, but she’ll always be ago I guess. my little angel. JOE: [Leans forward, whispering.] BRYAN: They grow up fast. Bryan?

BRYAN: [Waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t.] Is there any way to cool this place down? Just a little?

BRYAN: [Looks around, then answers in a whisper.] What? JOE: Where… where are we?

JOE: They do. It seems like yesterday I was walking her to preschool, then in the blink of an eye I was walking her down the aisle.

GERTRUDE: [Switches on a tiny fan on her desk and angles it at BRYAN.] Better? BRYAN: No, it’s actually blowing the hot air into my face.

GERTRUDE: [Sighs and turns off BRYAN: [Stares back at JOE for a BRYAN: Yeah, both of my twin boys the fan.] long time] We’re in a drycleaners, are married, and get this, they each had their own set of twins! Can you BRYAN: Much better, thank you. buddy. believe that? [The door chime sounds. All characJOE: No, I know that. I meant— JOE: [Laughs.] No way! [Thinks mo- ters look to the door at L. to see who [The door chime sounds, interrupt- mentarily.] So, you’re a grandpa too, has entered.] ing JOE and BRYAN’s conversation. huh? …You look awfully young. Not CRAZED MAN: [Scrambles into the A little girl wearing a pristine, white a year over thirty. door at L. His suit is soaked with dress enters the drycleaners, crying and wiping tears from her eyes. BRYAN: [Pauses.] I was wondering blood. To GERTRUDE] I hear you can clean anything. GERTRUDE immediately walks to the same thing about you… her side.] [As JOE and BRYAN stare at each GERTRUDE: What happened to other pensively, GERTRUDE reen- your suit? GERTRUDE: What’s wrong, dear? ters the door at L.] CRAZED MAN: [Looks down at his ANGELICA: I don’t know where I am. Where’s my mommy and daddy? BRYAN: [To GERTRUDE.] You’re bloodstained suit.] Never mind that. back. Did you find the girl’s parents? All I need is for you to clean it. GERTRUDE: Oh Angelica, come with me, you’re safe. [Leads AN- GERTRUDE: [Nods.] She’s with GERTRUDE: I’m sorry, I cannot. her family. [GERTRUDE glances at GELICA out the door at L.] JOE and BRYAN, who look relieved. CRAZED MAN: What? But I BRYAN: [Looks worriedly to JOE] She returns to her desk and works heard… [Shakes his head and starts I hope they find her parents. I was diligently as the group sits in silence to yell.] What are you talking about?! You have to clean it! These stains separated from one of my sons once. for a brief period.] must be cleaned! We were at an amusement park and he had disappeared from my side. BRYAN: Say, Gertrude, it’s kinda’ GERTRUDE: Those stains will nevScariest moment of my life. I re- toasty in here. er come out. membered he was holding a red balloon, and sure enough I spotted him. GERTRUDE: Haven’t you been in a [The door at R. swings open. Red He was waiting in line for a cotton drycleaners before? BRYAN: Yeah, but I’m just saying it’s lights flash wildly from the other candy. pretty hot. side of it, while wailing screams [The two laugh.]

and fiery sound effects blast in the background. An unseen fan blows at the CRAZED MAN’s back. All other characters remain still, but the CRAZED MAN acts as if he’s being pulled toward the door, and attempting to resist it. Two SECURITY GUARDS enter from offstage at U.L., each grabbing one of his arms.] CRAZED MAN: [Kicks his legs, trying to get free.] Arg! Stop! Let me go! [Thrashes more frantically as he is dragged closer to the door.] Let me go! Let me go!

me, sweetheart? GERTRUDE: [Shakes her head.] She can’t hear you, just listen. FAITH: Eternal Father, I offer Thee the most precious blood of Thy Divine Son, Jesus, in union with the Masses said throughout the world today…

[The stage brightens, fog rolls over the floor, and fans offstage gently buffet the characters with wind. BRYAN rises to his feet in astonishment and joins with JOE and GER[The SECURITY GUARDS toss the TRUDE.] CRAZED MAN into the doorway at R. He screams offstage, and the red FAITH: …For all the Holy souls in lights flash intensely several times, Purgatory… [The stage pulses with before one of the guards shuts and light.] …For sinners everywhere… locks the door.] [The wind intensifies.] …For sinners in the Universal Church, Those in BRYAN: What… was that?! my own home, and within my family. Amen. GERTRUDE: Let’s just say he had to take his business elsewhere. [Looks [The fans and fog machines cease, to JOE and BRYAN, who stare back and the stage returns to its normal at her in bewilderment.] I told you lighting. JOE and BRYAN are shakit’s a lot hotter next door. en from the wind. They find their footing and steady themselves.] BRYAN: Where are we really? GERTRUDE: [Takes a deep breath GERTRUDE: [Opens her mouth to through her nostrils, then exhales reply, but the telephone on her desk and smiles.] Well then, it looks like rings and interrupts her.] One sec- you two are getting out of here earond. [Picks it up and puts it to her ly. [She retrieves JOE and BRYAN’s ear.] Hello? [Beams a great smile, jackets and returns them. They are then covers the mouthpiece. To completely cleaned.] There you go. JOE.] Joseph! It’s your granddaugh- [She beams a huge grin.] Spotless. ter. [JOE and BRYAN put their jackets JOE: [Stands up.] Faith? Faith is on back on and thank GERTRUDE, as the line? the stage fades to black.] GERTRUDE: [Nods.] I’ll put her on speaker. [Presses a button on the telephone base.] JOE: [Smiles.] Faith? Can you hear

The Capital Photography Tasha Bull

Apple River: An Excerpt

Distant Mixed Media and Soy Sauce Taylor Fox

Taylor Erney

Morning Shadow Kelsey McIntyre

The lightening flashed overhead, lighting up the sky into a swirl of vibrant blues and purples as huge black clouds rolled in. The wind picked up, sending leaves skittering across blacktop, the only sound in the eerie quiet before the storm, save for the rhythmic swaying of the “Welcome to Apple River” sign hanging at the head of Main Street. There was virtually no one about; all the townspeople had either gathered in O’Malley’s—the local bar—or gone home early from work. Thunder storms were not a new occurrence in Apple River, Illinois. The townspeople had pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that they lived in one of the places that got the most tornados and rainfall in the United States. What they did fail to realize, however, was that this was no ordinary storm. Lightening lit up the sky a second time, highlighting the angry clouds that were racing towards Apple River; but this time, it was accented by a heavy clap of thunder. The whole town seemed to shake and time held itself still on an indrawn breath before the next flash of lightening released the tension. The flash gathered and pooled around a white Dodge Magnum that had rolled to a stop on the curb directly outside O’Malley’s. The car itself was nothing noteworthy; just a simple white sedan with pristine leather seats and heavily tinted windows. It idled on the curb for a few moments before the engine cut off, and a man emerged from the driver’s side. Much like the Magnum he drove, the man was garbed in white—from his tie to the Oxford’s on his feet. However, upon closer inspection, he was not as plain. The Armani suit was molded to his body, its jacket buttons clean-cut

silver that matched the cuff-links that adorned each wrist. His ivory colored dress shirt was visible through the open collar. He walked with purpose towards O’Malley’s, his jacket blowing away from his waist as the wind swirled around him. His hair was close cropped and styled in a messy, yet careful way and a dark blue tattoo of a bow and arrow on the back of his neck was just visible above his shirt collar. The bar was dimly lit and smoke swirled in thick wisps from cigarettes still smoldering in a few ashtrays around the pool table. He scanned the room as he entered; nodding at a few patrons he passed on his way to the barstool farthest from the door. His phone chimed from the recesses of his pocket and he fished it out, scanning the lit up screen. 1 New Message from Meph! He sighed and opened the message, slightly annoyed that his boss was already impatient with him after only being here for five minutes. He wasn’t surprised though because that was just how Mephisto was pretty much all of the time. Nothing new. Did you find him yet?

his face. “You look like you could use a drink, doll-face? What’ll it be?” Graham looked up wearily at the tall, brunette bartender standing before him; her long wavy hair pulled into a loose ponytail and the sleeves of her form-fitting white blouse rolled up. He pulled his hand from his face and leaned forward slightly before molding his grimace into a charm smile. “A shot of Whiskey—straight.” “Ten High okay?” she asked, raising the bottle up for him to see. Graham nodded and she proceeded to pour him a hefty glass before sliding it across the bar to his outstretched hand. He graced her with another smile before raising the glass to his lips and taking a swallow. She nodded and walked down to the other end of the bar to attend to a group of worn looking men in wrinkled suits. Graham took another pull of his drink and closed his eyes, allowing the amber liquid to burn down his throat, warming his insides on its way down. Despite the stigmas that were often associated with alcohol, No, I just rolled in—about to start Graham liked to think that the drink looking now. gave him focus. Meph’s reply was almost Downing the rest of what was znstantaneous. in his glass, he slapped a couple bills on Well hurry up and find him the bar and stood, dragging his jacket Graham. I am not paying you to sit back onto his shoulders as he turned around. Don’t screw this up. towards the door. The bartender gave Graham rolled his eyes and him a two fingered salute and he smiled turned the ringer off before slipping back as he pushed the doors open and his phone back into his pant pocket. left the dimly lit taproom. Corresponding, through text, m often left Graham wondering why he even worked for the man. He gave a long suffering sigh and pulled his jacket from his shoulders, laying it carefully across the back of the barstool before scrubbing a hand over

His Hands

Courtney Bryce

I hate His hands. Those calloused palms that dragged scalding paths down my arms, Seared into my sides, And painted burns playing about my hips. I hate His hands, The crooked curve of his fingers as they would wrap, Entice, Consume. His alabaster hands are tainted, Dipped In night laced tar. Blackened by actions Akin to sin. They claw into my senses, Bare Their jagged jaws, Inviting me to a plunge I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to take. They hate me. They want me. I hate them. I want them. His hands.

Piece of Sky

Keri Teboe

I lay on my back in the dew wet grass Staring up at the hole in the sky Wondering how it came to be Maybe it was an alien laser beam Or of our own foul doing Blasting bits of metal into outer space Or maybe itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s where heaven tried To pry its fingers through Abandoning the task When they saw what we had become

Pace

Courtney Bryce

Swollen seeds that sprout in snow Are raptured, captured, struck then grown. Winding roots that will diverge Twisting, twirling, twining, merge A soundless dance, no toes to trod A searching, lurching, down through sod Partners doomed to meet and spin Hiding, finding the weave begins Soul mates locked in a searing pace The burning, yearning, blazing grace Fire to condemn, constrict, to deal Enveloped in a cavern that cannot feel Land absorbs when the angel cries For a world who suffers, loves, and dies.

Summer Persimons Photography Shae Goon

Imperfection

The Angel’s Shadow: An Excerpt

Kate Harrison

Myra wondered why the reflection in the water looked nothing like herself. Or at least she couldn’t recognize it from what self she still had left. She frowned and tilted her head close to the water, holding her breath as to not disturb its surface. Above her the moon shown down on her and her reflection. It took her a moment to connect the two as one. Her. And her reflection. She touched her face and the reflection did the same. Myra’s face was distorted into a grimace, though she hadn’t noticed she had been making a face. She calmed her features. It looked more like herself now, but it was still wrong. What’s wrong with it? Myra drew her hand away from her face and looked at it with her new, acute eyes. Her fingers were red with blood. She looked back down in the river and saw the blood on her face now, covering her mouth and chin, reaching up in spatters across her forehead and cheeks. Then normality came rushing back in, her senses being sucked back inside her head. She had been living outside herself, feeling things as the world might feel its subjects. But now she was back into her body, her senses withdrawing, no longer an angry entity of power and inhumanity. Recollection came second. She recalled a face, frozen in shock. It was Reed’s, staring up at her in disbelief as she plunged the dagger into his tender human throat. He had gagged and choked and spat. How had she not noticed the blood on her face? The blood on her hands? Myra peered down at her hands again and saw each finger bathed in dirt, grime, and red. She shoved them in the river, scraping her skin until it hurt. She wanted to peel of the blood where it dried on her finger tips. She saw flashes of their

Self-Portrait Watercolor and Ink Kelly Teboe

faces, the innocent people in the clearing. She had killed them. No. No, she had destroyed them. She had torn apart their minds until there was nothing left, and watched them die within empty shells. How had she done it? She dragged her body out into the river and lay down where the water was still shallow, flailing and scraping, trying to rid herself of her own skin. But then she grew tired, and realized that this was her skin now, and no amount of persistence would peel it off. She looked at her face in the reflection, still streaked with blood where the water had not been able to wash it off. “What have I done?” she begged the reflection in a whisper, but it had no answer for her. “What have I done?” she cried to the moon, her head tilted back, angry at the stars and the sky for staying their same selves when she had become so changed. “What am I?” she demanded, and the stars gave an answer. “There must be balance,” said a wise, quite voice. Myra had become so jaded by the constant stream of thoughts that it took her a moment to realize that this memory was her own. There must be balance, a wise old woman had once told her. It was a time that seemed so far gone now. A time where she was sure of her own goodness, sure of her own place. Yet, so unknowing of who she was. It was a time when the true extent of her powers had yet to be made known to her. She had been told, but the words meant so little to her then. After a moment of thought, she could pull back the memory, hearing the voice as she had then. “It is faint now,” she had said, “It is quiet now, but it will not always sleep. The spirit of a beast, a creature you must call on if you are to find your

strength. She will come out when you are in the direst of times. She will take hold of you. Let her. Let her show you your instincts. But I must warn you. Do not let her take complete control of you. This angel’s face you wear will never return if it is too lost. You will never come back if you forget who you are. There must be balance.” She heard the voice as she had heard it then, but its meaning was so changed now. It had meant nothing to her then. A strange old woman lending a remedy that was so vastly outdated by modern medicine. A crazy woman warning of something she foolishly claimed to already know. She felt the tears burn in her eyes. “There must be balance.”

The Desultory Gamble The amber liquid arcs beautifully from glass lips to swirl in my veteran tumbler. It seduces me with the ability to burn my throat and memories simultaneously. My flat flares with headlights, spinning past unconcerned by the whisky’s neighbor, a .44 magnum. A different light surprises my bare walls as my ringtone, a sad melody of Tetris, shrills from my cell phone beside the gun. My fingers drift toward the .44 its cold pressing against my fingers. I grab the phone, pressing talk. “Let me up,” is all she says, disconnecting. I drain the glass, sliding off the couch and stumble towards the door. My phone slips from my grasp, bouncing once and sliding on the hardwood. The buzz on my intercom makes me wince. By the time she floats in, I’ve poured another glass. She snatches a pillow from my bedroom and throws it down without a greeting. As her long skirt drapes over her legs, curled on the makeshift cushion, we face each other grimly, the table of vice between us. I drain another, and the room tilts. “You’re drunk,” she says slowly, the words dripping with apathy. “You’re high,” I counter, not quite as articulate. “No,” she smirks. “I’m clean.” I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?” “Yesterday.” I snort, rolling my eyes. I manage somehow to get my ass off the couch to grab another glass, slamming it before her. “Then get drunk.” She pours

Imperfection

for us both; and clinking in a toast of self deprecation, we drink. She winces, but I’ve gone numb. When she doesn’t move for another round, I turn my attention to the sweat on my palms and roll in my stomach. “So… clean, huh?” Her thick hair falls over one shoulder as she pulls up her shirt sleeve, rolling her arm to its underside. Ugly purplish black marks snake up her veins, complimented by fresh scars. “So you found a new drug,” I mutter, irritated. She lets the sleeve fall in place. “Don’t judge me. Let me see it.” I look into her brown eyes, a cold enigma, and slide the gun across the table. Pale fingers wrap around it, using both hands, it steadies at eye level. Her nose wrinkles ever so slightly; unfathomable. I watch, pressing the cold shot glass against my cheekbones like a focal point for my thoughts. “Hard to believe it’s November 17th already,” she murmurs, setting the mag. down gently. “Do you have it?” I ask, closing my eyes. Even with all the lights out, the city seems too bright. I wish I’d closed the curtains. I hear a small revolving clink against the table and open my eyes. Heads up. We’re quiet, the quarter and gun watching us impassively. Unsteadily, I reach for it. The metal holding my life is thin and warm from her pocket as it rests against my thumb and forefinger. “Tails, I die. Heads, we wait until next year,” I murmur, flipping it into the air. Our eyes watch

Lin Rudder

it, trained by the tense room, until it clatters against the coffee table directly beside the gun. Heads. I close my eyes, grabbing the quarter and pocketing it. “Happy birthday,” I mutter. She slowly releases her breath and grabs the handgun. It conceals easily in her purse as she stands. “See you.” As she hurries

for the door, and I notice the ring on her finger is gold, and I know it’s my brother’s. Her new ring has an unsympathetic diamond. After she’s well gone, I slide the quarter from finger to finger, never letting it fall lest its sacred nature be corrupted. My brother was infamous for amusing kids at parties or always win-

ning petty gambles. But six years ago on November 17th, he flipped the quarter and bet on tails. We’ve always played this game since then. It’s like a pre-holiday to start off Thanksgiving which she always spends with her fiancée and I spend with a double-sided quarter that ruins lives. R Candle Light Photography Grace Mendel

Just last summer you sat in this chair Watching our grandchild play in the yard The porch isn’t quite the same It doesn’t have the familiar smell of your clothes The iced tea isn’t as sweet, but the whiskey hasn’t changed Everything is so empty without you There’s a lot I miss about you The way we talked while you sat in your chair I miss the way your laugh never changed Whether you were playing with our son in the yard Or you had accidentally dirtied your clothes It was always the same

Sestina The Life We Had Kaitlin Bosch

We were always the same Ever since I married you In the fanciest clothes That had ever touched this chair The fanciest shoes that had ever walked this yard This yard that, with the seasons, changed Our house constantly changed But the feeling was always the same Look at how much we accomplished in this yard Mowing was always left up to you And then you sat back in your chair Sweltering in the heat of your clothes I’ve kept some of your clothes Clothes that you often changed That used to be strewn over your chair Not one pair of jeans quite the same They still smell like you I sometimes sit and just smell them as I look out to the yard You used to play with our son in the yard The yard where you dirtied your clothes The yard that was left up to you The yard that constantly changed But had a feeling that was the same You used to sit in this chair I miss your clothes that often changed

Coffee

Coffee House brings together brilliant writers, musical showstoppers, gifted artists, and the dramatically inclined for a night of fun and appreciation of the arts several times throughout the school year. Coffee House offers students an opportunity to share their favorite stories, poems, and scripts while aspiring comedians have us rolling in the isle and local bands rock out. We also display the latest pieces of art from our school’s art department. Coffee House remains a highly anticipated event that showcases the unique personalities and talents that make Brentsville District High School, and Rhapsody, so extraordinary. The funds generated from Coffee House go toward Rhapsody’s publication.

Colo-

Rhapsody is published annually and distributed in-house by the BDHS Litererary Magazine Staff. The title fonts used in Rhapsody include AHJ Abbot Old Style, AHJ Arizona, AHJ Beat, AHJ Cursive Hand, AHJ Goudy Sans, AHJ Harold, AHJ Mistrial, AHJ Sharpie Print, AHJ Times Small Caps, AHJ Toxica, AHJ Wolfpack, Book Antiqua, Charlemange Std, Euclid, Garmond, Stencil Std, Trebuchet MS in varying sizes. All copy text is Garamond, size 11. Bylines are Microsoft Sans Serif, size 14 and art credits are Euclid, size 11. Rhapsody was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and printed on Chorus Art Silk paper at 70lb weight and an 80lb weight cover. Rhapsody is 8.5” x 11” and is printed by Global Printing in Alexandria, Virginia.

Editorial

Literary and art pieces considered for acceptance are e-mailed to Rhapsodystaff@yahoo.com on or before Febuary 14th. Art is also gathered by our Art Editors from various art classes. Rhapsody staff memebers review all pieces of literature and art anonymously. Any untitled literary pieces, if accepted, are given titles by the staff based on the content of the piece. Rhapsody reserves the right to edit pieces for grammer and style. All authors and artists, regardless of acceptance into the magazine, are notified prior to the distribution of the magazine as to the status of their piece.