Sequoyah Literary Magazine Fall 2012 by Cathy Murphy

The Phoenix

Fall 2012

Thank you to Cara Wallaceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dad, Matt Wallace, for his contribution!

4485 Hickory Road Canton, Georgia 30115 770 345 1474

Fall 2012

Thank you to Mr. Berman and the administration staff for their unwavering support!

Sequoyah High School Literary Magazine

The Phoenix

Thank You To All Our Community Partners

Catharsis

Catharsis is a word a word that is foreign to many people. people who know not the word’s meaning meaning that is different different for every person person and/ or or location location such Webster’s Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary Dictionary that says the meaning is is the purification of emotions emotions which are released released primarily through art art as a picture picture or literature liturature which here here in this literary magazine magazine written written and illustrated illustrated and written by students students of Sequoyah High.

By: Katarina Kocsis (Chief Editor)

Art

Mountians Curiosity Shattered Heart The Nutty Musician Cross Nature’s Flower Passing Time Unicycle on a Tightrope Epiphany Ship Webbed By the Strings Mechanical Hand Trimph L’oiel Unity Duck Owl Red Riding Hood Scars Lantern Icecream Dream Phone Shadow Reminiscing Love Gateway to Happiness

Hayley Harkins Carmen Roman Hannah Coltrain Jamie Laudermilk Katelyn Morgan Sebastian Mejia Ginger Odum Augustina Horlava Hailey Brower Hannah Coltrain Rachel Carr Journey Newton Nicole Shattuck Ginger Odum Katelyn Morgan Katelyn Morgan Augustina Horlava Rachel Carr Nick Dodenhoff Hailey Brower Minta O’Hart Sable Newton Nico Masters Katarina Kocsis & Taylor Beasley Carmen Roman

Poetry Page 1 2 4 5 6 9 11 13 15 16-17 18-19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 31 38 42 43 45 49

Poetry Autumn Leaves Creation Judges and Judged Emotional Emancipation Trust Me * Reflection Winner 2nd Place Three Trees Keep Your Eyes Open Stillness * Reflection County Winner Private Time Play it Safe I Am Try to Stay Alive The Girl Who Knew To Conform or Not to Conform A Brown Leaf Beginnings Life on the Inside Damaged

Page # Lauren Bates Cara Wallace Jacob Stewart Denisse Sanchez Katarina Kocsis Mallory Knowles Taylor Beasley Victoria Williams Suki Jules Daniela Mendoza Emily Search Aidan Lawson Emily Powell Sable Newton Rashad Huni Yusemi Mondragon Aidan Lawson Ryan Mason Emily Search

Poetry 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10-11 12-13 14-15 16-19 20 21 22 23 24-25

Prose Art* Official Reflection Winner 3rd Place Am I Dreaming? A Time to Shine * Reflection Winner 1st Place Somewhere Only I Know And So Their Eyes Wrote No One Ever Answered…. Awkward Airplanes A View from the Shadows Is this What Love is Carl Who is Eight As Sweet as an Angel

Page # Taylor Beasley Anonymous David Roy Jaclyn Gehrsitz Anonymous Haley Buice Mikenna Hughes Francisco Gonzalez Anonymous Cara Wallace Sable Newton Katarina Kocsis

27 28 29-30 32-33 34-37 38 39 40-41 42 44-45 46-47 48-49

Thank you to Ginger Odum for the cover and to Cora Olsen for the chief editor’s page picture!!!

Creation

Autumn Leaves

I am beautiful Watching the world quickly pass Blowing in the wind ~Lauren Bates~

Poet

My face is beautiful now that I have woken. My new eyes travel across the mirror in awe; my joyful feelings inside can scarcely be spoken. My lips are cherry red and plump, filled with dyes and an abundance of injections. My cheek bones are no longer bulky and repulsive. My bones are distinctive, thanks to the doctor’s dissections. My eyes that were once dimes are now sparkling new quarters. My nose is elongated and narrow, as it once was much shorter. “Botox is the BEST!” reads the sign under the dim light. My new face is the proof that this sign had been right. I have been sitting in the office now for a quite long duration. Now I am the doctor’s beautiful creation.

Realization

People laugh and chuckle as I walk gloomily down the street. When I was in the office, my splendor seemed so concrete. Apparently the flawless features I chose just don’t blend well into one. Now I am being pointed at and have become people’s object of fun. My cherry red lips are too big for my face. My new ex-boyfriend particularly enjoyed expressing his distaste. My nose is fit for an old, rejected circus clown. When I walk past the playground, the children feverishly chase me down. My cheek bones are too hollow, deep, and concave. My face is my master, and to it I must slave. My eyes that were quarters now seem like massive half-dollars. “They shouldn’t be that big,” say the medical scholars. I have almost reached a state of complete stagnation. I was once God’s most beautiful creation. ~Cara Wallace~

Judges and Judged As I walk down my road, I stumble upon a stranger. I ask him one thing, “Where are the Judges?” What exactly do you mean? “I mean exactly what I mean. The Judges--where could they be?” My friend, can you not see? The Judges are all around us, As they have always been. “That is unfortunate.” It is, indeed. As I walk down my road, I stumble upon a stranger. I ask him one thing, “Where are the Judged?” What exactly do you mean? “I mean exactly what I mean. The Judged--where could they be?” My friend, can you not see? The Judged are all around us, As they have always been. “That is unfortunate.” As I walk down my road, It is, indeed.

I stumble upon the same stranger. I ask him one final thing, “Where are our morals?” Our morals, you ask? Our morals are gone, all gone. None remain. “What have we become?” Do you not know? The answer is simple, have become the Judges and the Judged. “That is very unfortunate.” It is, indeed. ~Jacob Stewart~

n o i t a p i c n a m E l Emotiona

e. y hom talyze m m o r a f c way and me a phoria, o h y eu e to m ind with m e Am I s Tak ym elfish . r ch m i i m f a r o W p n r s f a E n e e t ing yo or e. fd m g o e a . r s l r u . a g e al re Hours cou ease sp c feelin ow I fe of laug l to myself ? ou ca l i y h l p t o y t o a Th h h u n s ter, ho B at no nc p er or ow to mela You kn longer exist es, and dre The t know h de wheth , and it’s ams sh . o ’ le ci ared, Tell m w and I kno I don even de but a cyc e why w that t ’ g n n a yo i What Ic thi ever h u won’t talk t will never is no get old. much. s i be the a p I t o me. pened Th can te same. g to ink too n l t l i o t t h f r o a a r h t ever? t Becau I have St o t n s b i e now I know een replaced I beg y sl es el p o ,b h nothin I ; again g lasts ut that’s ok . It is happening ld u o sh I ay foreve again, u more than r. is time, but then th Think about yo t en er iff d e b it will I tell myself that on’t. n, I know that it w ing for affectio n ar ye d an ed , So easily attach so complicated e b t n’ ld u o sh mple s, Something so si you. as hard as it seem from a distance. t s o n a ’s it w o h n k ? And I ching uc s way rest as m the side and wat i to ed h sh t u p s s ay Alw t. eel nte e? Probably no at I want.ne who f I feign i h w y tl ac ex is Can you see m that yo ay? est talk about it… e onl res anyw no inter h , t The way people ce n o I r Am really ca t, I have more. hat they feel fo y I want to feel w s, . sy u o ho d tha yone an abyss, an jeal W th n er y eye i th o g in m m h n n i r a n Somet i e r ng Nev thing o and I am tingi s y s n r e a a i y il In . ye m. se m o deliriu h too fam this time o l c I c t back e mu ng in Falli omes th ld them g, c o n Here cannot h tly sobbi l, I n y sou known. And one, sile m s e l h a er I sit fter tear, rily soot have ev I a a Tear g tempor therapy y l n Cryi is the on ez~ h t i c For isse San en

Trust Me I am invisible— Invisible to your eyes but not to your mind— Mind what you say around others— Others who are also controlled by me— Me, your best friend— Friend but also your worst enemy— Enemy who brings tears but also love— Love for which you live— Live with me forever at your side— Siding with or against you— You as a soul— Soul, not body— Body which I lack without regret— Regret is another part of who I am— Am and have been since the beginning of time— Time being something I do not lack— Lacking emotion is something— Something that is certain to be impossible— Impossible with me around— Around you I shall stay— Stay as your guide— Guide through life— Life which I cannot promise— Promising only one piece of advice— Advice which states that emotion is not to be trusted— Trust me.

~ Katarina Kocsis~

Three Trees On a hill stood three trees. The first tree held Pride, the thief. Blood poured through his hands as he sat on that tree—his body becoming one with the tree, flesh rubbing against the bark. He hung in anguish and pain. With his organs giving out and his lungs collapsing, he slithered, “Aren’t you Love? Save us!” Love called out, but Pride said nothing. Fire took his soul. The second tree held Repentance, a sinner and thief like Pride. But his heart yearned for Love. Beaten, bloody, his body was falling apart. Every breath broke a rib, and every cry stopped his heart. “Love, Love! Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Love replied, “I tell you the truth; today you will be with me in paradise.” Life took his soul. The third tree held Love. The world called him a sinner, a fraud. He committed no wrongs, for he was Love. Yet he was beaten with whips tipped with lead and bone that left no flesh on his back. His face was distorted from the blows of a staff. His crown of thorns dug deep into the tissues of his skull, and blood dripped from every pore. He gave his life for the ones who nailed him to this tree, for Pride and Repentance, for you and for me. “Forgive them, Father, for they do not know.” He lives forever. ~Mallory Knowles~

Keep Your Eyes Open My eyes are open—open wide— But always straying from side to side It’s like I’m day dreaming And the lights are always gleaming The wind blows my hair While the pink Azaleas stop and stare The blue, spacious skies Watching everything with open eyes The empty chairs she sat upon She seemed to be staring into the beyond I wonder if she saw it coming While she was tunefully humming I don’t know what she was thinking All I know is that I never saw her blinking She was watching watching close

Of reality she never needed a dose She was clever I promised I’d never Say she is dead Because in my head She is alive Like a brilliant flower Trying to thrive ~Taylor Beasley~

Stillness

You breathe in. The atmosphere blends into a perfection that can only quench your soul’s thirst. You can feel the rough grains digging into your skin, but you do not feel pain. You hear the crash of its power far off and know eventually it will reach you. You look ahead and see a vast plateau of blue and green; you wonder if it ever ends. You hear the birds’ cries, and the Sun warms the earth around you. Just how far? Just how deep? In this moment—Stillness. The crashing grows louder, and you know it’s almost there. You see the small white foam form out of the depths. Its power is rushing towards you... Stay put, or walk away? In this instant you decide. This could have been designed just for you and your life. So you stay, bound by curiosity and desire. In this moment—Anticipation. All at once its power is upon you. You can feel it rush over your toes and ankles, filling the small holes in your soul, wanting to reach down and emerge your hands, but somehow that feels wrong. So you stand. Sweeping, sliding, dancing, like a brush, white with foam, it paints around you. You can feel the ground underneath you start to shift. In this moment—Washing. The once rough ground now transforms into something unsettling, changing, moving, causing you to feel off balance. You feel your weight shift as your toes leave their prints. They slide over what was once your floor. The warmth replaces the cold, Binds you in place, covers everything. Sinking… In this moment—Burial. Take in your surroundings as the floor is slowly pulled out from under your feet. It slides off you and with it takes your worries, your fears, your anxieties. Wiggling your toes, you think of nothing but the serenity. In this moment—Refreshment, Release, Renewal. You breathe out. ~Victoria Williams~

P R I V A T E 8

When we are together I can feel your heart stop. Your eyes are a new shade and your mind in a new place. But nobody knows you hold my hand or that behind closed doors you’re my baby. In truth it doesn’t matter how you feel or what you do in “private.” I refuse to be your waste basket. I’m tired of the ink from my veins scribing meaningless words that break me, that only leave me with something I thought I knew. You lock me behind closed doors, only to find real “love” in between elaborate drum beats. Love me or leave me the hell alone. As you hug me and tell me you love me, your lips remind me your fear is the darkest of captivities. And as I utter the same sorry “I love you’s,” I find when you see me you act like you don’t know me. I wrestle all the familiarity. You are like eating ice-cream in the middle of a sugar rush. You are like breathing air in space, Yet I need you, hear you miles away locking the door, whispering your last “sorry, private.” I love you. ~Suki Jules~

Time

Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! The clock is counting the time. Describe myself? That is something I cannot do. Simply because there’s really no way to do so. Sometimes I may be happy and bubbly and obnoxious Other times I may be moody and angry and uninteresting. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! Time is running out. Who am I? I am a girl full of memories. I am a girl full of hopes and dreams. I am the girl who usually has a lot of people around her but still feels lonely. I am the girl who goes to sleep really late at night and always wakes up regretting it. But never does anything to change it. Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock! Time is running out. I am the girl with the room full of posters, pictures, lyrics, letters and lights. I am the girl with the room full of memories and happy dreams. I am the girl who listens to music all the time because music can express her feelings. I am the girl who wishes she could go back in time and change some things. I am that girl. The girl who wishes she could meet her favorite band. The girl who doesn’t know what to believe in. The girl who wishes she could restart her life. I am a girl full of doubt. Doubt in herself, doubt in the world, doubt in her friends, doubt in her dreams. I am full of insecurities, but who isn’t? ~Daniela Medoza~

Play it Safe

I have never been more certain of anything in my life. I have never been so unsure of anything either. I have never been so contradictory in my thoughts. It is like I am teetering on the edge of greatness or unrepentant failure. I know where I want to go and I know who I want to be. I know where my dreaming heart pulls me, but I know where my all too logical mind steers me. I’m like a sail boat steering north, yet the wind is pulling me south. Lost, I find myself in my dreams. They scare me, they are risky, and they aren’t guaranteed to happen. So play it safe, they say.

But are the dreamers really the ignorant ones? Those accusing the dreamers of such ignorance are just chained by fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of an unwalked path. Fear of failure itself. Fear of risks gone wrong. They are the ones who doubted their own dreams, so now they must doubt others. They hold the real ignorance. They can’t see beyond their own eyes; they are oblivious to the whole world waiting for them, their own playground to manifest whatever it is they desire and dream. But they are restricted by their own fears, their own logical heads that stop them from dreaming and doing. They play it safe.

Maybe I am a dreamer. And maybe throughout this poem I realized that the wind trying to pull my sail south isn’t strong enough. My dreams and my very own heart that speaks for these yet unattained dreams are steering me in the direction I want to go. Fear of the unknown, of the unwalked paths, of the potential failure that waits can’t stop me. I’m going somewhere, I don’t know where yet, but I can feel it. Never will I deny the pull of my dreams and where they will take me. Life is undeniably short. Whether I follow my heart or head I am going to end up dead either way. I can’t play it safe. ~Emily Search~

I AM...

I am, I have been, I will be, I know. I am nothing too special; I am just an average brick in the wall. Who isn’t? I have been haunted, I have been foolish, and I have been running in circles. Who hasn’t? I will be chided, I will be critiqued, and I will be judged. Will you? I know I am flawed; I know I have my vices. Who doesn’t? We are.We want. We weep. We smile. We are divided. We are worn. We are tired. We are jaded. Are we so different? We want happiness. We want acceptance. We want much the same. Are we so simple? We weep for death. We weep for loss. We weep for causes. We weep for nothing. Are we so delicate? We smile for bygone days. We smile for righteous causes. We smile for small, silly things. Are we so sentimental? We express. We fight. We pray. We die. We express worldly concern. We express voracious self-interest. We express individualism. We express hypocrisy. Must it continue? We fight for our beliefs. We fight for baseless causes. We fight for our righteous mentalities. We fight for whatever we are told. Must we stay blind? We pray for salvation. We pray for better days. We pray for materialistic things. We pray for a second chance. Must we be so innocent? We die for our families. We die for what we are told to die for. We die for “justice.” We die not for good causes, but the wrong ones. Must we throw ourselves away?

What I am, what I have been, what I will be, What I am is not grandiose. What I have been is not desirable. What I will be is different, progressive, enlightened. My opinions, my beliefs, my mindset are all rolled into one package. My opinions are not convenient, convoluted, or conventional. My beliefs are not liked or accepted. My mindset is hard to understand, for it is as conflicted as the world is. I am no one, I am someone, I am a thinker, I am an average piece of drywall, I am all that I claim to be, and that’s it. Who am I? Why, I am Aidan. ~Aidan Lawson~

Try To Stay Alive

I am running and stumbling through the minds of my superiors and my friends. To say the wrong thing would be to lose my dream. To do the wrong thing would be to lose my dream. I am being watched, under surveillance, by my friends and by my superiors. At what cost am I willing to go through in order to reach success? To please my superiors is to lose my friends. To please my friends is to disappoint my superiors. To please both is to make me crazy. Are they really my friends? We are all eager and invidious in our own way. It is not on purpose, for we are blinded by our desire to be at the top, by the competition, itself, and by craving to impress the two people we respect most. Perhaps they are to blame, or perhaps not. They plant the ideas in our head from freshman year. They feed us a little taste of what we want as we mature. How far should I go?

Why can’t we all be happy for one another and share the success? I am willing and that is what I want. Why can’t others put aside their differences? Why can’t we come together and focus on what is really important? Not us, but the people we are working to lead, the people we are working to shape into respectable human beings. What has happened to the purpose of this unit? We have forgotten it.

Which is worse, failing or never trying? We all have dreams and hopes, whether we want to acknowledge them or not. Anything can happen, but it’s up to us to make the decision. If not, someone else will. To fail would be to live on in sadness until one gets over such failure. To never try would be to live in wonder of what could have been. Though both outcomes are undesirable, isn’t it better to know? Knowledge is everything; it can make all the difference. It can help you move on from sorrow. Failure will give you knowledge. It can also help you make decisions that will result in the best of outcomes. We should all try because failure might not be the only outcome. ~Emily Powell~

The drone and cackle of the high school class drifts down the hall. Personalities, joys, hardships, fears weave and mingle through excited conversations until one soul is indistinguishable from another.

The Girl

A pair of well-traveled moccasins slips through the door as the “ting! ting! ting!” of the tardy bell sings its sad song out over the chatter. Papers and textbooks rustle from the sleep-deprived fingers searching, always searching, for ever-elusive homework sheets. The ubiquitous question silently gnaws at every mind about the late arriver: Who is she? What do you call yourself, stranger? Who is this girl? Is she a skater? a cheerleader? Does she like anime? Is she one of those who says she is a nonconformist … (just like all the other nonconformists)? Is she a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?!?! EXPLAIN YOURSELF, WOMAN!!! SO THAT WE MAY CLASSIFY YOU AND LABEL YOU AND FEEL SECURE IN KNOWING THAT PEOPLE ARE NOT COMPLICATED, THAT WE MAY SUM UP THE WHOLE OF A HUMAN SOUL IN ONE WORD! TELL US!!!! TELL US!!!! WHO ARE YOU?!?!

Who Knew

And they wait with the drool dripping from the edges of their minds to see what she will say. what will she say? she is silent, and then a smile plays at the corners of her mouth, and she speaks. She speaks... She says, “The Girl” has played many roles in her life, each an equal fallacy. The school labeled her a bully when her parents were getting divorced. She hit, scratched, raged, and kicked just to hide the pain.

When they said she couldn’t see her father, she chose the name of skater (although she never learned to skate.) just to hide the pain. She dubbed herself a tomboy and a redneck when her mother said she had someone new to call dad just to hide the pain. When her sister attempted suicide, she became the perfect daughter, a simple flower on the wall just to hide the pain. But a girl can only be so many people at once before it becomes too much.

and that has made all the difference.

So she entered a depression. She crawled into her mind and stayed there and hid there and clutched the broken fragments of her life.

Now she is full of life, and the joy cannot help but leak onto everything she touches. She has peace that makes no sense at all, considering what she goes through. She laughs and makes others laugh, and she does not fear what people think because she knows she is beautiful inside and out. And she has this unending ability to love.

with that voice hissing in her ear “You are too loud, too fat, too ugly, too sensitive, too much work, too! too! too!...” it said no one would ever love her, that people would always leave, and she soaked in all the lies and hid deeper in herself. But one day a new voice, a comforting, strong voice, whispered from a forgotten place in her heart. “My child, this is not what I created you for, to cower in fear and shame. Let Me love you and heal your hurt and free you from this fear.

And she knows. She knows how people feel. She can see the hurt in their eyes and read in between the lines when they talk. Because she has been there and she has known great pain and overcome it. She sees past all the labels and the false identities that people hide behind just to hide their pain. Because she knows and she has been there.

Trust Me. Let Me be the Father you long for. My love is enough.”

And slowly she opened her clenched fists and left the white-knuckled control. She let go of the broken pieces and gave them to God,

Poem By: Sable Newton

And so now you ask… “Who is this girl?” Well that is simple she is Sable and that is all.

To Comform Or Not To Comform

Who am I? Quite the hard question for anyone, I am my thoughts. Thoughts which become actions, Actions that become memories, Memories that express my character, And character that outlines simply, me, Me, the being who is easygoing, fun-loving, caring, comical, Athletic, balanced, determined, and sharp, As well as exceptionally modest, I am my past, present, and future. These define me more than any petty “label” could ever come close to. Complex, distinct parts come together to form the center. Center that pins the roots of the soul to the physical body, The body that coordinates like the machine, The machine which is simply, me.

The future of this world through my eyes will provide for me greatly, Especially now that I have prioritized, The world holds a further education, The world holds new people to meet, new places to see, The world holds choices, Choices which give freedom, Freedom which allow actions, Actions which become memories, Memories that express my character, And character that outlines simply, me. ~Rashad Huni~

A Brown Leaf

As I was walking outside, I had many secrets inside. I felt all alone like if no one was by my side. I looked up and thought God had left my side. My mind was troubled My pain had doubled...I looked up again. I sucked up my pain. I tried to explain to my brain That my heart had loved in vain. When I looked down I wanted to breakdown. Then suddenly I saw a leaf faced down. I picked it up and turned it around And saw the leaf had turned brownThat’s when I understood I wasn’t alone That I should have known God never left me alone. He was here by my side. He had watched me cry. He was my guide Who would help me decide What to do to get rid of the pain inside. I was that brown leaf Who now felt relieved I was no longer trapped And as the wind took away the leaf I felt how God took away my grief. ~ Yusemi Mondragon~

Life, in essence Primordial, in spirit Unbound, in potential Unburdened, in attachment Simple, in function Humble, in beginnings In life, in essence Presumed, intrinsically For all, equally? Is life, in essence Tamed, for benefit Harnesses, for power? Is life, in essence Taken, unwillingly For true harmony Life, in essence Humble, in beginnings Limitless, in potential Sovereign, in influence Benevolent, innately Unbiased, in mediation Is Life, in essence Malleable, for shapers Moldable, for purpose Is Life, in essence Connective, fundamentally Enveloping all, in its web Is Life, in essence Humbling to all Graciously given, and taken Life, in essence Humble, in beginning Exotic, in purpose Uncharted, in course Harrowing, in trials Purposeful, to those who give it such Life, A journey, to its eternity Guiding, through the cosmos Tranquil, through the end ~Aidan Lawson~

gs n i n n i eg

Life on the Inside

There I am, in the soil, Hoping, waiting for the right time to blossom. Waiting and wishing that I shall be deemed fit to continue onward. Danger, ever present As my tantalizing tastefulness proves to be my brethrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s downfall. Fodder for the squirrels, Or squished by that rumbling monster that houses the two legs. Fate the cruel mistress has deemed me unfit, To continue upon the arduous journey that is life. Sustenance which my parent had so dutifully gathered for me, Is now bequeathed back to Mother Earth. Willingly I relinquish my hold on this world, And allow my essence to become one with Earth in the soil once again. ~Ryan Mason~

Damaged

I am damaged. I would cry but I have no tears. I would yell out for help, but I have no voice. I would fight back, but I know no violence. I am nature. Ignore me, but I always watch. When I watch, I see ignorance. I see smoke. I see pollutants. More importantly, I feel. I feel pain. They say rain is good for me. They say it helps me grow. But it hurts me. A sheet of clouds crawl across the sky. Darkness embodies the horizon. Moist air fills my pours. Raindrops crash from above me. They crash hard against my leaves bringing pain.

The rain hurts. I used to look forward to the rain. It used to wash away my grievances. It used to bring life to me. When the rain stopped, I would feel fresh and renewed. That was years ago. Now as it begins to rain, it hurts. I feel it burning into my leaves. I feel it destroying me one drop at a time. When the rain subsides and the clouds disappear to reveal clear skies, I wish I could be revealed too. Instead, I am scarred. My leaves arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t vibrant and alive anymore. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t illuminate a spectacular green anymore. I am not the same. I will never be the same. I am nature. And I am damaged. ~Emily Search~

Art Official

Pro

Just imagine yourself sitting in front of a blank canvas, bottles of paint in disarray, and pencils scattered along the edge of your nearby bed. You’re sitting upon a small wooden stool. One that has been worn from its many years of use. After contemplating on what you should create, you pick up your pencil and begin to sketch. You start sketching an unknown figure. Something that is unknown to us but also unknown to you. Soon, your rapid, soft lines begin to take the shape of a bridge. You soon catch yourself adding detail to the water that lay beneath the bridge. Before you know it, you’re spotting the clouds among the black, graphite horizon. You, my friend, are submerged into a creative rage. You grab warm colors such as red, yellow, and orange and begin to add color to your once monotone horizon. You treat every stroke with care, making sure to add as much vivid detail as you can. You use a charcoal black paint and begin to fill in the shadows of the clouds on the bridge and the water. You use a crystal like, soft blue to paint the water and the small ripples accompanying it. To make your piece even more realistic, you take a pine green and a murky brown and begin to strategically place trees into the background of this serene scene. You release a heavy sigh as you paint the last stroke. Your mind is clear and you feel at ease. You’ve just experienced the magic of creativity. A magic that can bleed from your body as fast as it had flown in. Simply put, you’ve experienced magic in one of its rawest forms. ~Taylor Beasley~

Am I Dreaming? Waking up every day is like being in a dream. Nothing ever seems real-like I’m in one of those stories where a knight has to slay a dragon and save a princess. Everything feels like an illusion; if I touch it it’ll disappear. Hallucinations that never end only begin. Am I dreaming? I’m moving toward something that feels real but is only a trick of the mind-a reality that isn’t real. Is it only beginning? Will it ever end? There is no sense of time. I feel trapped. Shut out. Confined. Caged. Will I ever be freed? I scream for help knowing there is none. I’m alone. I’m secluded from the outside world not knowing anything. Useless. Pointless. Worthless. Am I dreaming? My limbs feel heavy. I try to move, but it is to no avail. My body feels like a hunk of lead. I look up to sky wanting there to be hope, but there is none. The sky is black like ink. Depressing. If this is a dream, please allow me to wake from it! This world torments my mind to the brink of insanity. Am I dreaming? I feel so insane that I should be in rehab. This world is torture like a guillotine during an execution. There’s no hope, just pain. Suffering. Fear. Anguish. My insanity has taken over, and I laugh hysterically from being so lonely. There’s no point to living. If the grim reaper came to take me away, I’d go willingly. I am a stain that needs to be removed. I’ve become numb. My sadness is so great; I’m no longer able to feel. Am I dreaming? Numb. Alone. Purposeless. Why am I here? Why can’t I leave? Have I committed some sin that’s trapped me here? I look around to try and find some clue as to why I’m here. As I take in my surroundings I realize where I am. I’m in hell. I’m with Satan. The earth is the color of blood and is a barren wasteland. Why do I feel no fear? Is it because I’ve lost all feeling due to my loneliness? Am I dreaming? I walk to the edge of a cliff. I look down and see only darkness with no end in sight. Do I really want to die? I turn around and take in my surroundings one last time before I let myself fall backwards off the cliff. I close my eyes and accept the fact that I’m about to die when all of a sudden I’m back in my room. I guess I was dreaming. ~ Anonymous~

A Time To Shine Fourteen-year-old Karen sat all alone in her bedroom staring at a piece of paper. To most people, the paper would not so much as peak their interest, but to Karen, it meant the world. On the paper, right across the top, it read: Alexander High Annual Talent Show: Monday, October 1st.Karen looked at the calendar. The date was Friday, September 28th. Karen had always loved music; it was something that she could always rely on when everything else failed her. Karen’s parents had never really shown much interest in her. Sure they bought her whatever she wanted and let her do what she wanted, but those things were never very appealing to her. Karen was much more interested in gaining her parents’ love, but that opportunity never seemed to present itself. One thing that Karen had appreciated from her parents was the piano they had bought her for her eleventh birthday. Ever since that birthday Karen sat at the piano and composed song after song for no one but herself to hear. None of Karen’s friends knew that she could sing or write songs for that matter. Music was always something that she liked to keep to herself and never wanted to share it with the rest of the world. She wanted to, but she just never had the courage to show everyone what she could do. The talent show would be the way to finally show everyone her abilities. All Karen had to do was sign up on the school website, and she would be in, once and for all. After several minutes of contemplating, Karen finally inserted her name into the virtual signup sheet. Now it was done. Karen had a song to play, a slot in the show to play it, but no parents to support her. Even if Karen asked them to go, they probably would have denied. Both her parents were busy with work most of their lives and it had taken up a great deal of both of their time.

The realization that her parents would not be able to watch her shine hit Karen like a punch to the stomach, but nonetheless, Karen had to finally share her talent with the world. She knew that her friends would support her even if her parents did not. On the following Monday, Karen walked into school ready for her debut at the talent show. The show would take up first and second period, and all students were required to go to the gym and watch. Karen stared at the doors sadly as she observed all of the parents filing into the gym to cheer on their children. If only she could be one of those children, able to look into the stands and get encouragement from the proud looks of her parents. However, Karen knew that wishing for these things was more than unrealistic. As the acts went on, Karen grew more and more nervous. Then, her name was called by the stage director and Karen’s nerves nearly exploded. She had made a mistake. She wasn’t ready for this. These thoughts flooded through her head as the director ushered her out onto the stage. It was too late to turn back now. Karen sat down on the bench at the piano and was about to start playing when she heard two people cheer her name. Her heart almost skipped a beat. Karen looked up into the stands and saw both of her parents looking down at her proudly. A sudden surge of confidence swept over Karen as well as confusion. How had her parents known about the show? Did they really care? These questions could be answered later. For now she had to perform. This was Karen’s time to shine. ~David Roy~

Somewhere Only I Know I walk through the gloomy forest, searching for a place to call my own. I crave finding a house to call my home. Tearing through branch after branch, I am filled with disappointment. What if I never find my own secluded spot? I give up on my search and sit on a run-down, moldy tree trunk. I rest my head upon a fallen branch, and hear a sudden click. I stumble through a brand new opening in the tree I was resting on. It is too dark to see what is behind it. What is this place? The light finally shines through, and I see the most beautiful nook I have ever seen. Willow trees surround the colossal, hidden area, rose bushes form a circle of allure. The tallest trees form a golden arch above me; the picturesque flowers give the scenery an extra glimpse of beauty and hope. Amethyst, sapphire, turquoise, and emerald petals create a blanket of flowers that I immediately leap into. I feel at comfort, at ease. I feel as if I could take to the sky. That I could fly away from all of my problems. I am at peace with my surroundings; this is my new home. I take a deep breath and step out of my happy place. I am back in the real world. Every day brings a sudden sadness, an unexplained void in my chest. I can hear myself speaking, but I do not understand why I am saying what I am saying. Society restricts what I have to reveal. What is really inside is unheard of, something I would be ashamed to tell. Tears brim in my eyes for no reason at all. What has happened to me?

On the outside, I am a ray of sunshine. I talk of hope and happiness. Although on the inside, there is a black pit. There is an abundance of darkness, of despair. There is a certain longing for something better, an escape from the day-to-day tragedy I have become. What would you do if you found a secret place filled with exactly what you need? Would you keep it to yourself, or would you share it with the world? Would you visit every day, to the point where you rely on it? Or would you come only when you feel you need it? I call it Harmony Kingdom: where all of my fears, insecurities, and troubles vanish. No one would ever find me here. I am hidden from the anger, guilt, and frustration. I am finally free. Everything here seems to be created just for me. There is a garden that creates music. The waterfall sings a pleasant lullaby for when I rest on the bed I made of various flower petals. Beside my bed is a bouquet of dandelions, there for me to make a wish, every wish I make comes true. Every corner shares something I have a passion for. There is a corner for music, writing, animals, and peace. This is my heaven. The best part: this is somewhere only I know. ~Jaclyn Gehrsitz~

And So Our Eyes Wrote The church was packed, and I honestly didn’t want to sit by that guy. Sure, he was my cousin, but we hadn’t talked and we hadn’t hung out; he was just another cousin I had failed to get to know. So it was awkward, but eventually we had to say something. We had a lot in common really: we were both quiet and shy, misunderstood, had weird secret talents, and looked alike. On that day in church, after being forced to converse, my 12-year-old callused self and Grant, a shady 15-year-old boy, confided in each other. Since that day, we’ve never needed words to speak how we felt. People always said we had beautiful eyes, but it was more like we were hiding things, and our eyes screamed to tell our story. Somehow we could understand each other without ever needing to open our mouths. We read each other’s eyes with the same ease used in reading a Dr. Seuss book. What I didn’t know was that Grant Murphy Ensley would ignite my eyes with a story they would always scream. The story of his death. I had heard gun shots before—small towns mean everyone hunts their own deer—but this one was different. For one thing, it was in the middle of the town, secondly it sounded way to close, but most importantly my cousin was there to ensure nothing was wrong. I heard it ring out and instinctively looked to him and wrote, “Uhm, should we run for our lives?” He looked back though and read the urgency and simply spoke, “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anything happen to my baby cousin.” In this moment I believed him, but what he failed to protect me from turned out to hurt me worse than any gun ever could.

Grant was the boy whom no one saw, or heard, or spoke to. He blended into the walls and into the movement of the people surrounding him. Although he was never noticed, he was always there, in the background. He heard every word and saw every action. He had these dark illuminating eyes and brown scruffy hair, olive skin and perfect teeth, his nose was straight but slightly uneven with his ears. He always sat very still, and when he spoke it was as if he was singing. Sometimes I would look at him and there would be a look of anger, but once he noticed I was watching, he quickly changed to a smile. I never understood how the eyes I knew so well could become a different language to me and make him seem like a stranger. The stranger always went away though, and in his place was my cousin. Where is he? I haven’t seen him in months. Why haven’t I heard from him? Is he okay? Did something happen? After what felt like years of this, I finally got an answer. I can’t remember a time that I was ever angrier at my family. I spoke to no one, looked at no one, and silently cried while we sat in the funeral. Right now you probably think Grant died, but he didn’t, not yet. No, this funeral was his father’s, my Uncle Lynn. Grant sat in a jail cell as this happened, so no one was there to read my eyes, and they were screaming. They needed to tell someone who would understand how I felt, to believe what I believed so that everyone would stop looking at me like I was crazy. Everyone was telling me that my cousin had killed his father. That Grant—protective, quiet, insecure, instinctive Grant—had killed his very own dad. I refused to believe it. I had read his eyes. How could I have skimmed over that part and marked it as unimportant? Just months earlier he had told me that he would never let anything happen to me, but if that were true, then he wouldn’t have hurt me or our family this way.

The funeral ended, and I walked out with the rest of my family as the guests stood in our “honor.” It felt wrong that we were here to say goodbye to my uncle, but all I could think about was whether Grant was okay. Was this the language I saw in his eyes? There was a part of him that I never understood, but was it really this extreme? We all gathered on the hill top and laid my uncle beside all our other deceased loved ones, and we had the moment I imagine every family has. As we stood on that hill, we remembered those around us, and our eyes wrote yet another story. A year went by and nothing significant had changed; everyone was mad. Our family had spilt right down the middle, sisters fighting, grandchildren taking sides, mothers betraying sons. I was on a side of my own, the side that just wanted to read Grant’s eyes one more time. When the trial started, the whole town was in a frenzy, mainly because everyone in the town was related to us. It had grasped the attention of us all: a case in which a young boy was said to kill his loving father. The trial lasted for two weeks, and I skipped school to be there for every second. By the end, Grant Murphy Ensley was charged, tried, and found guilty of the murder of his father, Lynn Ensley. He was sentenced to life in prison. What no one understood was that Lynn’s death was Grant’s also. But because Grant’s death seemed deserved, no one cared. No one but me. I don’t believe that anyone will ever understand what caused Grant to murder his dad. The only reason I can think of is the stranger. The one part of him that will never make any sense to anyone. His father was not a bad man, controlling maybe, but he was a good dad. I think Grant never felt appreciated or important enough for his dad’s lifestyle. They were like fire and ice, those two: they never could agree on a thing, but it never seemed that extreme. I guess no one really knows what’s said behind closed doors, or maybe what’s not said.

The last moment I remember seeing Grant, he had just been promised a life in hell, and I didn’t really know how he was taking it. It seems reasonable to think he was scared, or mad, or miserable, but none of those words seemed right. His eyes had lost their light, and his hair was combed over in an unnatural way. While he sat through the trial, he seemed cold and unaware of his surroundings, that is, until he saw me. Once he saw me walk into the room it’s like he finally realized what had happened. He was nervous and fidgety. He would lean over and whisper to his attorney and glance towards me. I never took my eyes off him; I analyzed his every movement, trying to understand. There were moments when we locked eyes and I wrote, “Why?” but an answer never came. I watched his heart break. All I could think about was the time he promised never to let anyone hurt me, or that he didn’t like his hotdogs with any black spots, or how he hated his truck, or how I had never understood why he dated Katy. In those two weeks I hadn’t spoken to him at all. I remember walking right up to the back of his chair, and the second before I called his name, my mother called mine, and I was forced to step back. In that moment, our eyes latched and wrote with a fervency I had never experienced. This was it, our final goodbye, and we knew the things we wrote would be the last story we’d ever share. As my eyes scrambled for the words, Grant’s were calm and collected. Urgently he wrote, “Don’t forget me.” Grant died that day to the world, and I haven’t spoken to him since. I like to think that he lives in my eyes, him and his story, because I can’t forget, and I never will. ~Anonymous~

~Haley Buice~

Awkward

No O ne E ver A nsw ered …

I’d call numerous times a day, but no one would ever answer. Had I done something wrong? All I wanted was someone to talk to about my problems. I kept hoping he’d pick up even once, but he never did. Why is it he never wanted to talk to me? Did I say something wrong? Did I do something bad? I’d sit around my house all day thinking about this issue. He was, after all, my son. Wouldn’t he want to talk to me? I’d wrap my arms around me, thinking there’ll be some comfort, but there’s none there. I’d think, Maybe he’s just busy all the time? I mean he is always working. I’d shake my head trying to clear it, feeling my short grey curls swing from side to side like a pendulum. My blue eyes would focus on anything they came across: the bed in the center of the room, the curtains blocking out the comforting rays of the sun. I’d continue to hug myself as I’d try think of a reason why they wouldn’t want to talk to me. I’d release my body and look at the ceiling. I’d close my eyes and sigh. All I could come up with is that he hated me for some unknown reason. My anxiety level would begin to rise rapidly as I thought about this more and more: My son hates me. He doesn’t want to talk to me. Why? Why? Is it because we never see each other or hang out? Never getting to talk to each other hasn’t helped our relationship over the years. Maybe if he’d picked the phone once then things would be different, but no one ever answered. One final time, I ran over all the possibilities in my head before I was jolted out of thoughts by the ringing of the phone. I ran the phone, hoping it was him. I was so relieved I nearly cried. “Hello my son.”

It wasn’t hard to tell he was awkward. He wore a heavy jacket when it wasn’t needed. He read every day at lunch and I couldn’t help but notice how into his book he was. I would watch him grin while he read. I could tell when something really good was happening in his book because he would move it closer and closer to his face and was eager to turn the page before he was through reading it. He wasn’t unattractive; he had acne all over his forehead but very nice big white teeth and a pretty smile. When I wasn’t interested with what my friends were talking about, I would look over at him and ask him about his book, but he was always short with me. He had a raspy, but quiet voice when he spoke. I would have thought it would have been deeper. His eyes wandered when anyone would speak directly to him; it was easy to see he was nervous. And even though he had chosen his seat at our table, I could tell he was uncomfortable sitting at the end of a table with all these people he didn’t know. I assumed he didn’t have anywhere or anyone else to sit with. I noticed he didn’t just eat alone, but he walked alone in the hallway too. He kept to himself. Some days I could tell he had a little too much cologne on, and I could smell him from the end of the lunch table; other days he had too much gel in his hair, and people would laugh, while he pretended not to notice. I knew he did though, he looked back down at his book, but he wasn’t really reading. His long eye lashes pointed down to the page, and I could see he looked sadder than usual. I walked up to him, looked at him and asked if he was okay; he looked up at me and nodded. Then he looked back down at his book. He was unsociable and avoided as much conversation as possible. He was odd, and dressed different, and acted different than most. He opened his lunchbox, pulled out uncooked ramen noodles and ate them. It was weird, but he didn’t seem to think so. He was his own person. He definitely marched to the beat of his own drum. He just stood out from the rest of the crowd. He didn’t care to dress like everyone else. Sometimes I think he must have known people would make fun of him if he wore pants that were above his ankles every single day. Instead of getting his glasses fixed, he wrapped masking tape around them to hold them together on the sides. For some reason, I found myself wondering if he ever enjoyed summer and being outside in the sun. If he did it would surely burn his very pale freckled skin. ~Mikenna Hughes~

Airplanes

He was your typical nerd. Highly intelligent, yet inexplicably unsocial. He was so focused on his studies that the rest of the world just seemed to pass away. His outfit consisted of comfortable clothes, no day was important enough to get dressed up. Just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. His glasses perched, as if pinned in, at the tip of his nose. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, the tangle of metal and rubber that, like ivy, covered the entirety of his mouth occasionally peeked out. His hair was a light brown, with lighter streaks of blonde. But it’s not like he kept it in order anyways. It was a constant mess, like a dog with matted fur. If only I could stress how brilliant this boy really was. If someone stumbled upon the right topic, he could go hours on end. Star Wars gets brought up, and all of sudden we have to know that Boba Fett actually married Anakin Skywalker. But that’s his thing, and by then, his day has been made. Home was a different story. He dreaded every second there, and worried about returning all the time. His father was a mean a drunk. Everything about the boy was a nuisance to him. The way he walked, talked, every detail put him at nerve. The mother was almost nonexistent. At work all day, and the few she spent at home were spent napping. She was his rock though. No matter what, she made sure that lunch was made for him. Always with a short, but loving, note inside. “I love you,” or “Have a great day at school honey.” Those got him through the day. Today was different. It would be the moment that would rip up the roots that were his path in life, and plant one that, simply put, would change the world as we know it. It was like any other day. He woke up, threw on some jeans, a tee, and an old pair of sneakers. The bus to school was as gruelingly filled with bullies as it was every other day. School, just as normal as any other day. His father picked him up from school, and like every other day, as soon as he closed the door, it was an opera of screaming. He just muted his dad out like usual, put in some headphones, and closed his eyes as the comfort of the notes poured in. When he got home, he took the trail right to his room, no stops. Laying his backpack on the bed, he went over to his desk, to continue the painting of his model airplanes. He always wished he could fly, to be able to soar through the air. Flying, he could be free to go anywhere, no restrictions. As he painstakingly laid the last stripe of white, his dad burst through the door, like a battering ram through the entrance of a castle. He was drunk, and screaming. The boy stood in shock, scared of being hit. But the father had different plans this time. He eyed the freshly painted plane closely guarded by the boys back. “GIVE IT NOW,” he screamed. “Dad, please,” the boy pleaded. “Anything else!” The father swiped it out of his hands, raised it in the air, and proceeded to heave it at the floor.

They say, in moments of extreme stress or danger, the body does the necessary things to keep itself safe. This was different. All the years of being screamed at, hit, put down, and not being accepted came out. Every ounce of pent up anger pumped through the boys veins, boiling his blood like water. Hurling through the air, the plane was inches away from the wood floor when it stopped, dead in its tracks. It just stopped. Hovering like a leaf caught in a spider’s web. Softly, the plane crawled towards the ground. Dad stood in shock, eyes almost wider than his mouth, just before he was blown backward. It was such a shock, completely unexpected. The father didn’t even have enough time to take a breath. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as his lungs were emptied of all oxygen in one moment. The boy stood there, in awe of his newfound powers. He grabbed his bag and hurriedly picked through his drawer to fill the bag with an extra pair of clothes and some money he had been saving. Then just as he was about to leave, he thought about it and brought the airplane too. ~ Francisco Gonzalez~

A View from the Shadows The darkness is overwhelming. It penetrates my eyes and seeps into my soul. I look for an escape, but I see no light. His all-encompassing shadow spans the length of my life. As I mentally command my body to move, the darkness grabs hold of me, never wanting me to leave. Then I think of its owner. He never meant for his shadow to expand to such a magnitude or to trap me within it. His focused eyes never trailed back for even a moment to glimpse what darkness he created; he only saw the light of victory ahead of him. Walking has never been an option. As he tears forth on the timeline of his life, he only sees blurs of success pass him in his peripheral vision: distortions of smiles and awards, hugs and certificates, tears of joy and inaugurationsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a beautiful mess of triumphs. Never is he wrong. Never is he complacent. His awkward gait and his innate talent to always have slightly too many hairs out of place increase his imperfect beauty. Loved by all, he is the quintessential leader and dreamer. A blaze of passion burning through goals one by one, he meets each and then conquers it. But as the pile of ash grows from his success, I feel the heat of the flame suffocating my soul. In each of his crowning moments, I am appropriately and perfectly elated by pride. I feel honored to be his sister. I truly do admire his drive, perseverance, and stubbornness that create tunnel vision towards his dreams. Then the curtain closes on each crowning moment; the honor remains, but feelings of insignificance writhe their ways inside. My attempt at stepping outside the bleak confines of his shadow comes through creating my own. But it seems as if each time I inch closer and closer to a success of my own, the darkness snatches it away, leaving me, once again, alone in the misery of his colossal footsteps. ~Anonymous~

Is This What Love is?

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What have I just witnessed? I believe I have either just died a little on the inside or experienced trauma I will never be able to overcome. I try to look away from their two gawkily tangled bodies, but I just can’t. It is almost as if they are asking to be watched, sitting there, unaware of the world around them, licking each other’s faces without concern for their hygiene. Touching each other’s hair without wondering when the last time the touchers had washed their hands. Is this really what love is? Committing bizarre P.D.A without caring? Practically fornicating in public without being aware of other people surrounding you? If so, I’m never going to fall in love. I don’t want anyone to fall victim to anything similar to what I just saw. ~Cara Wallace~

Sitting in the cafeteria during 5th lunch, I can smell the burnt chicken tenders and instant potatoes circulating around my nostrils. The smell is distinct, something that I sit and analyze for a few moments before redirecting my attention to something else. Is that…..macaroni? I think to myself as I observe the tray that my friend had just retrieved from the never ending lunch line. Is her hair…purple? I ponder as I stare off into the depths of the female students who are crowded around the back right corner of the room. As I look around for other interesting concoctions and people with whom to entertain myself, I begin to glare at the most flamboyant thing in the room. An overly affectionate couple. Sitting directly in front of me, these two people are grabbing on to each other as if they were magnets, each person an opposite pole. Through their awkwardly tangled bodies, I decipher that the one in the pink shirt is the female, the North Pole, and the one in the green is the male, the South Pole. They give each other Eskimo kisses with their red noses and twist their fingers nauseatingly through their partners’ oily hair. It’s amazing that not one of the lunch monitoring teachers is commanding them to stop on the account that they are making everybody bilious. Then again, they are probably too nauseated themselves to even approach the couple. The pink shirt wearing, obviously extremely touchy, female picks up the chocolate pudding she has brought in her tin lunch box. Somehow, I know what is about to happen. PLEASE, DON’T DO IT... I think to myself. PLEASE, DON’T DO... She reaches inside the pudding cup with her finger. PLEASE, DON’T… She brings her finger up, so that it points towards her happy, expectant boyfriend. PLEASE… She smears the pudding on her boyfriend’s nose, playfully. …and then she licks it off.

Carl Who is Eight

My name is Carl and I am eight. I live with my aunt and uncle kind of like Spiderman but not really because that means I would have spider powers and I don’t-- I’ve tried. I have lived with them since I was so little I didn’t even know who Santa was and that is little. I don’t believe in Santa now of course because that would make me a baby, but I used to. My aunt and uncle have a kid too; his name is Jackson and he is three and he is a very big pain. I have to share a room with him and he always gets his slobber all over my new Lego Deathstar Ship that I got for Christmas last year. Every morning my aunt comes in and tells me in a not-so-nice voice to get up and then goes over to Jackson’s crib (I told her once that he is too old to have a crib but she didn’t listen) and tells him in a very-very-nice voice that it is time to “rise and shine.” Yuck. For breakfast I like to have those purple pop-tarts with green sprinkles on them but my aunt says those are too expensive, so me and Jackson usually have instant oatmeal. Sometimes for a special treat she gets my favorite kind of oatmeal, which is the kind with dinosaur eggs, just to show she loves me, she says. My uncle doesn’t usually eat breakfast with us because he has already gone to work. If I wake up early enough I get to tell him goodbye and we have a secret message that we tell each other every morning, but I can’t tell you what it is because it’s a secret. The car my aunt drives us in is a nice red color kind of like Superman’s cape but a little darker and the fabric ceiling in it is falling down. I like to scrunch down in my seat really far and kick the baggy fabric with my feet but my aunt doesn’t like that. We pass thirteen houses on the right and sixteen on the left on the way to school but I’m not sure how many there are on the way to Jackson’s day care or to my aunt’s work because I always get dropped off first. There’s probably a lot though. I go to school every day at Sycamore Falls Elementary and my teacher’s name is Mrs. Deville, like Cruella Deville. She is nice though so I don’t call her Cruella very often and she even has cool bean bags we get to sit in during reading time. My aunt always packs my lunch and sometimes if there is something cold in it she puts the cool green swordfish ice pack in too. On Fridays she puts two Oreos in my lunch but sometimes if they are all gone she puts in a piece of candy—that’s the best.

Every afternoon I have to ride a school bus that smells like stinky girls and mine is the last stop so by the time I get off I smell like a stinky girl too. Rosa Jane is the stinkiest of all. I think she likes me. On the bus I sit next to my best friend Leroy and we try to make the bus driver laugh by making faces at her in the mirror. Leroy always wins because he is better at making silly faces than me. When I get home I am by myself for half an hour while I watch TV and then my stupid babysitter gets there and talks on the phone to her dumb boyfriend while I pretend do to homework. Her name is Cassidy but I call her Big Butt because it makes her mad. At eight o’clock every day my aunt gets home after picking up Jackson at day care and Cassidy Big Butt leaves while my Aunt cooks dinner. My favorite thing that she makes is dinosaur chicken nuggets with SpongeBob Mac’n’Cheese but usually she just makes gross grown-up food like broccoli casserole. Then my uncle gets home at nine or ten and goes on and on saying how his boss is a jerk and a bunch of other things I’m not supposed to say while my aunt just rolls her eyes. I have to go to bed at eight thirty but it’s not fair because all my friend’s parents let them stay up until midnight watching TV (I know because they told me so). If my uncle is home by then and is done talking about his boss then he reads me a story. We have been working on Narnia for a couple months now and we are already up to the third book. Then he turns on my Buzz Light-year night light and tells me good night. After that they think I go to sleep but I really get my flashlight from under my pillow and go on secret cave explorations. I have a really big married-people-size bed because someone gave it to us so after my dad goes back downstairs I make a bunch of tunnels in the blankets and set up army men in different places along the tunnels and pretend I am Indiana Jones trying to crawl through a cave to find the secret treasure without getting shot. I usually end up falling asleep like that and when I wake up in the morning sometimes I have an army man squished into my face. ~Sable Newton~

The End

As Sweet As an Angel

Eyes of blue crystal gazing into the heart of any living creature, mid-back length hair swaying in the breeze like golden wheat in the middle of summer, and hands only the size of my palm are as gentle as a bunny. All of these are just simple little characteristics of a child, a child that at the age of four already has made a difference in the world. With his smile, he cures any injured heart. With his laugh, he makes any bad day seem like it was written out by the most innocent angels. With his hugs, all pain evaporates like droplets of water in the middle of July. He is my guardian angel, sent from the heavens straight to my mother’s womb. When I first laid eyes upon this child, he was no bigger than a pomegranate as he swam around inside Mother’s womb, wiggling his tiny fingers and smiling mischievously as if to say, “your life is about to change completely.” I can hardly help giggling as I think about how innocent he looked later on, wrapped inside his baby blanket cocoon, sleeping with one eye cracked open, giving everyone the look of “Yeah, I know it looks like I’m sleeping, but in reality I am plotting to make your day harder. You think you’re going to get a full night of sleep; well, I have a different plan. At 4 am, when you finally drift off to sleep, I will start screaming and pulling my hair while pretending I don’t know who is pulling it. Then I will keep you up until 5am even though I know you have to get up at 6 for work.” But behind this mischievous look is another look, a perfectly innocent look, which says, “Thank you for always being there for me. Thank you for always loving me no matter how much I mess with your mind.” It is a characteristic he has kept through the years: his innocent appearance with a hint of mischief, when in reality on the inside he only has a heart, a heart that grows faster than his physical body. His toddler intelligence also displays his innocence. His four-year-old philosophy? “Matt needs to learn to share, and I want the toy NOW!” With this philosophy, he often starts his tantrums. Fits of anger are ever present in this angelic child: he throws himself to the ground and yells at the top of his lungs with tears streaming down his checks for whatever he is trying to achieve. “I want the toy! I want it now-w! He is my witle buther, so he has to wet me ave it!” He screams during most of his frenzies.

With a Hint of Innocent Mischief However, after a few minutes his tears slow, and with a hug, he apologizes for the fit. “ I sowwy Kate. I pomise to be good now,” he mummbles as he waddles over to me with “apology” written in his eyes. That is how he always is: apologizing for every little thing he does wrong. Even when he accidentally drops one of his beloved Cheerios, he apologizes automatically as he picks it back up and throws it in the trash. Right now, he is only four years old, with his entire life in front of him, so who knows if he will be a doctor who cures his patients by simply making them smile, or if he will be a teacher who makes kids giggle through his classes while teaching them even the most boring subjects? I know he will be great at whatever he sets his heart on, and I know he will make the lives of anyone he meets shine like stars in the night sky. ~Katarina Kocsis~

Thank You To All Of Our 2012-2013 editors Prose EditorsHaley Buice Joshua Curl Katie Dickerson Jaclyn Gehrsiz Mackenzie Leaich Cara Wallace

Chief EditorKatarina Kocsis

Poetry EditorsHeather Burgess Mallory Knowles Victoria Williams

Art EditorsLillian Brown Francisco Gonzalez Mikenna Hughes Minta Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hart Jessica Ricks

Copy EditorsLlandess Owens Olivia Williams General EditorJacob Stewart

Graphic DesignersTaylor Beasley Sable Newton Kristina Perezchica

And Thank You To Dr. Murphy For All Her Help and Support!!! 51