Mirage Stafford High School LIterary Arts Magazine 2015-16
Mirage literary arts magazine
Stafford High School 63 Stafford Indians Lane Falmouth, VA 22405
2015-2016 editor in chief josephine gresko
assistant editors lindsey sullivan arena toro abigail wallace advisor james andrews Assistant advisor Sue gill
table of contents Prose / Poetry Lisp..........Lauren Frye................................................................................6 Cold..........Lauren Frye...............................................................................8 Praise Be It..........Drew Price...................................................................11 Firefighter..........Maddie Halstead.............................................................13 Four Conversations..........Ashlyn Sisson.....................................................14 Clink Clank..........Christy Brooks.............................................................16 Second-Hand Happiness..........Courtney Ortmann......................................18 Picture Perfect..........Elijah Johnson........................................................19 Tweeter and the Monkey Man..........Ward McCallister............................20 Oregon..........Rachel Jett..........................................................................22 Dawn..........Jasmine Elliott.....................................................................22 Limericks..........Ward McCallister............................................................23 Self-Sacrifice..........Danielle Walker........................................................25 The Penny..........Gabby Newcomb............................................................27 My Kind of Love..........Jasmine Elliott.....................................................28 The Mother..........Maddie Halstead...........................................................29 Catch-22 and Shampoo..........Emily Lewis...............................................30
Prose / Poetry, continued Death and the Penny..........Ashlyn Sisson................................................32 Unbelievably Lackluster..........Rachel Jett................................................34 The Sun..........Christy Brooks..................................................................35 With You..........Ward McCallister.............................................................35 Stream of Consciousness..........Courtney Ortmann...................................36 Authors..........Danielle Walker.................................................................37 Depression..........Danielle Walker.............................................................38 Interruptions..........Courtney Ortmann...................................................40 Confessions..........Drew Price..................................................................43
Artwork Alexis Eller..........................................Front Cover, Title Page, Back Cover Kelsey Cook.......................................................7, 18, 28, 29, 37, 38-39, 40 Maddie Counsell.................................................................6, 12, 18, 30, 41 Hunter Hedrick.....................................................................................6, 9 Carver Johnson............................10, 15, 20, 22, 23, 24, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36 Mary Faith Stearns..................................................................................19 Gabe Williamson...................................................................................7, 17 Special thanks to Mr. Nick Candela and his senior art students for most of the artwork.
Lisp
BY Lauren Frye
SLur your crISP arPeggIo wordS If you muSt. I cannot be hurt by thoSe broken ended SyLLabLeS at LeaSt you can SPeak at all. beLt out thoSe hIgh noteS you know you couLd never hIt, Artwork by Maddie Counsell
ItS hIgh tIme you trIed SomethIng
becauSe God knowS that
or anythIng anyhow.
we can Say StupId thIngS but you...
LIke SImpLe jokeS about the weather and frIdayS and mondayS and wedneSdayS
you couLd never Say
and aLL dayS excePt
anythIng to curL paInt
tueSdayS and thurSdayS
and rIp boneS from theIr SocketS the only deStructIon that IS a teStament of your exIStence would be crumpLIng, rIPPLIng skIn hIding between the naILS of crowS feet. So my darLIng Speak.
Artwork by Hunter Hedrick 6
and looSe endS hold StorIeS only Spoken In cracked fingernaIlS and old dreamS. you wILL keep goIng because gravIty ISn’t here to keep you naILed to the ground It’S only here to Show you thIS IS the place you Shouldn’t run from becauSe I haven’t Seen you float away yet. PLeaSe, Artwork by Kelsey Cook
fILL the room with fISh hook
keep taLkIng. If not for the Sake of yourSeLf but for me,
SentenceS and vaSeLIne dIPPed storIeS
becauSe wordS become tIghtrope waLks
of tax refundS and the conStant change of the
with tIme and
Sky
I want to
becauSe
vIsIt the cIrcus with you.
I wILL LISten to every crackLe exhaLed from the membraneS between your lIpS. I wILL hear your Story and even If SILence IS the only Sentence you can muSter It’S okay, becauSe black Is juSt a combInatIon of every color Artwork by Gabe Wiliiamson 7
Cold
by Lauren Frye
My mind encompasses the sound of piano strokes in motion.
Those sounds of sad scales and arpeggios make it hard to see the sunrise.
The ivory spell cast upon my empty head reminds me of days in which the sun shone upon flower buds instead of empty fields of broken grass
Make it hard to open my eyes when covered in frost. Struggling to surface from unending snowflake dreams.
It’s winter.
Your breath touches my face and my eyes crack open against the frostbitten sky.
That time when breath squiggles through air like smoke and colors fade from white to black with every passing hour.
The ghostly warmth melts the ice gaining ground upon my eyelashes.
It is not a sad time though.
Hazel orbs peer into brown.
The crinkle of waterproof jackets and leaves under feet like groaning branches and empty worded wind.
The piano is gone and the sound of mingling exhales are all that I can hear.
The piano still plays. Continuing to construct nonsensical chords all in minor.
I am home.
8
Artwork by Hunter Hedrick 9
Artwork by Carver Johnson 10
Praise Be It
by Drew Price
Break open new pages of yourself. Tell it, “God doesn’t stand by me he stands in me therefore I am god and Come alive like night at the museum. you can’t take down a god.” Become the titanic sink into new depths of yourself and stay there forever. Become the one you were meant to be. Worship the hairy body Learn your skin like Basquiat paintings and Worship the hairless body Praise be to the extra pounds treasure its imperfections the same. Enter new depths of you like a story you can’t Praise be to the “beer belly” whatever that may wait to read, be Like this movie of the old you wasn’t half as Praise be to the short stature good so Praise be to the tall Stature Taste new words from your lips. Praise be to the thin Let puddles of verbs and nouns sit in your m Praise be to the thick outh let it overflow like all you can eat. Praise be to the dark To the one to whom your face wasn’t pretty Praise be to the light enough in the way they preferred, Praise be to the kinky hair the world proTell them, “I’m taking back my smile now.” nounces nappy Hold your hand out with pride like you’re The next time they ask to touch your “nappy” accepting a first place trophy. hair tell them yes Put your happiness in the palm of your hand Your hair is the only infinity tangible enough and watch as your laughter makes it back to for them to reach. the Let them feel the history lesson sprouting from Heart of your ear. Remember the melody in your scalp. your own voice Complement your insecurities How that voice makes even God laugh. Remind yourself that they stand out as a reTake long trips back into yourself minder of how different you are. Learn your body and praise its beauty marks So smile at your crooked teeth the world pronounces blemishes. Smile at your long arms I don’t know why the world pronounces it Smile at your short arms blemishes Become one with your scars But praise be to the scoliosis And when that trip is over arrive at your mirall hail the acne scars ror naked Praise be to the bald head created by the villain Not to be sexy arrive as a newborn and tell named cancer, yourself you have arrived But laugh at its failed attempt to take down a And praise be to it warrior. Praise be to you. 11
Artwork by Maddie Counsell 12
Firefighter
By MadDie Halstead
The smoke engulfed my lungs in the instant between seeing the fire and gaining sense enough to not run into it. People assume it’s easy for us. We signed up for this job and so instantly we have no fear when we’re met with the roar of evil that runs through every heated flame. Maybe it isn’t the fire that scares me the most; it’s the responsibility that I feel in the sound of every crying family member I pass on my way in. They expect I have the ability to save the people they love, but not even the uniform I wear can shield them from the tragedy they’ve already seen. With every step into the building the roar grows louder, the smoke thickens and my heart speeds. I knew I might never make it out of this building but if I did, I wouldn’t be leaving alone. I continued into the darkness and heard the cry of what sounded like a woman she was calling for help. From a distance I instructed her to keep making noise, following the sound until I was met with a collapsed ceiling. I knew I’d gotten close, as the sound appeared to be coming from underneath. It was in that moment I realized the voice I’d been following belonged to a body buried under debris, and this realization terrified me. What if I couldn’t save the body attached to the cry. I knew that I couldn’t stop looking for fear of failure; I’d never forgive myself. I had to find her, I had to try. It was a couple hundred more feet where she lay, barely hanging on to the life she had left in her. I saw her head first, as some dry wall had left her legs stuck and she was struggling to breathe. I introduced myself. The first thing I noticed was the fear in her eyes; she was so confused and afraid. In training they tell us never to make promises to the injured but in that moment training was the last thing on my mind. I looked into her helpless blue eyes and I swore I wouldn’t leave her behind, no matter what. I positioned my arms under the drywall that had pinned her to the burning building and with all the strength of my mind and body I lifted it just as she found enough in her to slide herself from under it. I knew then that whether I was going to
save one person or ten, I would have to start searching for an exit. Looking back the way I had come, I could see that fire now took the place of my footsteps. I knew there had to be another way. Guiding the girl along behind me, I rushed furiously through the remnants of the building as the smoke made confusion of the path ahead. It was getting harder to see and I could tell the girl was having trouble keeping up. I stopped to ask her if she was ok, but before I could fathom the sentence, I had found my answer. She wasn’t. I slung her over my shoulder and reminded her of the promise I had made. It was just then that I saw it. About thirty feet in the distance I could see the shape of a door, a way out. I picked up my pace as I continued to speak to the girl. Her responses began to weaken and I knew she needed medical attention, and fast. If I could just make it to that door. Everything after that moment is a bit of a blur. I remember being relieved at the sight of sunlight and hearing applause as the onlookers saw us make it out. I can slightly recall placing the girl in the arms of a paramedic as I collapsed to the floor. The shock of the event had left me struggling to function. Years later the girl found out who I was and came to see me at work. I can still picture her face the moment she recognized who I was and the tears began to stream. I had never had anyone work so hard to thank me before. I didn’t think it was necessary; it’s just my job. She told me I was her hero, which of course isn’t accurate. Heroes do heroic things. I just did what I had to do. That day is one that I’ll never forget. I’ll never understand what could possess a person to do such a terrible thing, to take their own life just so they could take thousands of others. It makes no sense to me. It makes me sick. However, I’m thankful I’ve been given a second chance at life. God could have taken me that day but he didn’t, so now I must live for all those who had that right taken away from them. May they rest in peace. 13
Four Conversations By Ashlyn Sisson
1. “The umbrella isn’t working. It won’t close.” “You’re probably are doing it wrong. Let me see.” “I doubt you can you can do it any bet—oh okay then thanks.” 2. “Yeah, so I was like mom I can’t do everything and get my homework done! Do you know how much stuff I have to do?” “My mom is the same.” “Literally I have three projects due and I know I am going to have to take the math exam so I have to study for that.” “Yeah I probably have to take my uh history exam. I didn’t learn in that class.” 3. “Gracie take your sister to the bathroom while Mom and I go get a seat.” “I don’t know where it is!” “Where is your bathroom?” “Under the exit sign,” I said. “Thank you. Gracie, it’s over there.”
4. “I can’t believe she picked him over the dentist.” “I was so shocked. Like isn’t she trying to get married to the right guy?” “Ugh this is why I hate the Bachelorette; the girls always pick the wrong guy and then complain that they will never find love.” “I’ve noticed that too.” 14
Artwork by Carver Johnson
15
Clink Clank “You know that this is crazy, right?” “Yup.” “You know we could probably die, right?” I nonchalantly nod my head without saying a word. “There’s nothing I could do to change your mind is there?” “Nope.” I sighed and stared at the old Victorian house. It stood alone on the hill, a gaunt and creaky relic it was. A gloomy grey, with its paint peeled and neglected, its window panes smeary with grime, and its brickwork crumbling away. The path to the door was littered with brambles whose thorns reached out to capture the unwary. I looked up at the moon that shone bright white in the cloudless sky; it was the only source of light that could be seen for miles. The air around me was cold and numb; with every breath I drew, a misty, chilly exhalation followed. It seemed like I would occasionally hear fluttering overhead, with silhouettes passing over the grass. Guess it’s not my imagination. “Fantastic.” The cobblestone ground led the way to the wooden door, standing ajar, which looked like it would fall at any given moment. I looked back at the brown-haired teen who was bent down on his heels, digging between the uneven stones. “What are you doing?” I ask. With a grin on his face, Mason holds up a small rusted penny. “Kyle look, it’s dated back in the 1920s— that was like 100 years ago.” I slowly shook my head back and forth while walking up the stairs to the entrance. Pushing on the wooden door, Mason first no16
By Christy Brooks
ticed the strong scent of rot all around him. “God, what is that smell?” he said as he scrunched up his nose in disgust. He followed me in toe as we moved deeper within the house. The hallway was dreary and smelled of dust mixed with death. Paintings of what looked to be important people were hung up along the walls, with their eyes following my every move. I could only recognize a few out of the set that was there. To the right was an old wooden staircase leading up to the second floor—though each step looked so delicate and worn that if you were to walk up them you might step right through them. Straight ahead of us we saw what looked to be a kitchen. Carefully moving toward the room, Mason poked his head in, taking in his surroundings. “Well this is just nasty,” he said. Plates lay across the floor surface, cold and broken and stained with an unknown substance. The brass faucet was corroded and layered in dirt, still leaking water into the sink. And every time a drop of water fell, an echo passed around the quiet house. A lone rat crawled over the littered rotten food, not even fazed by the two humans in the room. “I fail to see how this is any different from your room Mason,” I smile. “Cause it’s pretty nasty too.” “Hardy har har, someone’s a comedian.” Mason starts to casually flip the copper coin with his fingers. “My room is nowhere near this gross and you can’t prove it. When was the last time I had a rat in my room?” Before I was given the chance to answer, a booming sound echoed throughout the still house. It was a full minute before either one of us spoke. Our eyes were glued to the doorway
through which the sound came. “Kyle, please tell me that I closed that door when we walked in.” Mason’s voice was uneven as he slowly turned to me. Just barely noticing the small shake of my head, Mason asked another question. “Was it windy when we walked in?” Getting the same response, I cautiously walked back out toward the large wooden door, leaving my friend alone in the kitchen. The once-opened wooden door was now closed, not like it was when we first found it barely hanging on to its hinges. I reached out and pulled the door open, peeking outside to see if anyone had accidently closed the door. There wasn’t a soul was in sight. The air was still as eerie as when we had first arrived at the aged house. Closing the door, I glanced around one last time before walked back to where I had left Mason. “Well I didn’t find anything, but maybe it was just a sudden gust of wind. Why don’t we—“
I stopped when I realized I was now talking to myself. Mason was no longer in the room. The chair where he was once sitting in was now bare. “Mason? C’mon this isn’t really funny you know?” Silence. “Answer me.” I walk back out the foyer still calling the missing friend’s name. “Mason, if you don’t answer me in the next five seconds I’m leaving your ass here.” From behind me, I could hear the faint clinking of something falling. As much as I knew it was a bad idea, curiosity got the better of me. A single object tumbled down the stairs, one step at a time, until it reached the main floor, rolling its way over to me, where it spun until it finally stopped and fell still. Reaching down, I picked up the object and held it in my hand. It was a single 1920s penny smeared with blood. Artwork by Gabe Williamson 17
Second-hand Happiness By Courtney Ortmann It’s a strange feeling. The storms have been violent. Roads were blocked. Where to go? The sky is once again showing its light, which I thought would never arrive. The road is clearing, dissipating the mess of our lives. A hopeful sense has come over me. I’m happy you found your sunshine, As its rays are casting reflections off my moon of a soul. It’s secondhand sunshine, but it’s still a light I’m willing to avail So please my dear, don’t smother your light. One day you may end our fright.
Artwork by Maddie Counsell
Artwork by Kelsey Cook 18
Artwork by Mary Faith Stearns
Picture Perfect By Elijah Johnson I see these plastic people, Barbie dolls. With their dream houses and expensive cars. And their plastic friends, at their plastic malls. Getting “whitegirl wasted” at plastic bars. Plastic masks are completely transparent. Such a hollow frame, there’s nothing inside. They need plastic Kens for plastic marriage. They only love money, such plastic wives. But I’m plastic too, since I love these girls. In their plastic party, life’s a child’s game. We’re just plastic kids in a plastic world. I love plastic ones because we’re the same. We worship plastic idols, live or fake. But it’s trivial because plastic breaks. 19
Tweeter And the Monkey Man By Ward McCallister Lieutenant Niles of Manhattan’s SWAT team was pointing at his fire team, the elite SWAT members of thumbing through the day’s newspaper while eating the department. “The rest of you be on standby in a bag of pork rinds. At one-seventeen in the morning case he’s not the only one.” Niles thought the rest of his shift would be uneventNiles and his team left the department and headful. The cop took a handful of pork rinds and minded down the concrete stairwell to the armory on their lessly ate them in a daze. way down to the underground garage several floors “Niles!” The captain of the SWAT team said from below. The team was quiet as they suited in their his office just ballistic armor and behind Niles’ grabbed their asdesk, “Get sault rifles. They left the rest of the the armory in single team ready. file, their guns slung We’ve got over their shoulders. a hostage The SWAT team’s situation on Bearcat armored the GW.” He vehicle was already handed Niles running. a file. “The Niles opened suspect is one the case file as he already under got into the pasinvestigasenger seat of the tion for drug Bearcat. The rest trafficking of the team filed and currently into the rear, and a wanted for driver was waiting assaulting an in his seat. As the undercover armored vehicle Artwork by Carver Johnson officer. He’s rumbled out of the considered very dangerous. He’s holding a woman garage Niles spoke up. hostage with a gun.” “Alright everyone! Listen up. Intel says the suspect “The GW? Is Jersey City going to help with this?” is a single assailant, possibly a terrorist, we dunno Niles asked as he took the file and read through it. for sure. He’s holding a woman hostage just short of The captain shook his head, “The guy’s too far halfway across the GW Bridge. inside our district for Jersey to do anything. There’s Jersey won’t provide any assistance so it’s just us already officers on the scene trying to get the fellow and Vasquez and Price in the sky. Orders are to free to stand down. You’re going in as a rescue force.” the hostage and minimalize casualties. If the tango Niles bolted upright, crumpled his bag of pork goes down without needing to, it’ll be bad for the rinds and tossed it into the trash bin beside his desk. Captain. So let’s keep it clean, alright?” “Yessir!” Niles said standing up from his desk. An affirmative was heard from the rest of the “Alright everybody, we’ve got a 171 on the George team. Niles turned to the driver, rubbing the sleep Washington. Vasquez, you and Price get to the helo out of his eyes. It had been a long day. and provide air coverage. The rest of you get to the “What’s our ETA?” SRV. I want us rolled out in under five,” Niles said “Five minutes out.” The driver responded, “Please 20
let me concentrate.” The vehicle was barreling through the busy New York City streets, the siren blaring. The fellow NYPD chopper not far behind. Minutes later the Bearcat pulled up to a line of police cars near the beginning of the George Washington Bridge. A bunch of civilians stood behind a line of police barricades, most looking more curious than anything. The half-filled vehicle emptied, with the officers spilling into a tight formation behind Niles. Niles walked up to a group of officers, his weapon slung over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Niles, Manhattan SWAT,” the man introduced himself. A man in a brown tweed jacket and slacks responded to Niles. “Lieutenant, I’m Sergeant Nielson. I’ll be the negotiator.” “We’re negotiating now?” Niles asked. “Minimization of casualties is our goal, since SWAT is relatively new.” Nielson replied. “The city of New York needs to show that SWAT works just as well as in Los Angeles. I try and defuse the situation, but you and your men are here for support.” The police chopper flew overhead and went into a holding pattern about fifty yards across the bridge. “Alright Sarge, what you say goes.” Niles said, “Stay behind us until we’re sure you’re in a good position.” The sergeant nodded and fell behind Niles’ crew. Niles led the team between the parked police cruisers and snaked through the abandoned vehicles. Niles looked up at the chopper. Its spotlight had been turned on and was focused at a point no more than half a football field away. Following the beam, the team slowed near an empty RV. “Mayes,” Niles said to his sniper, “On that RV, try and get a good vantage point.” “Yessir.” The man said, climbing the rear ladder of the vehicle. Once atop the vehicle the man spoke. “I see the hostile, thirty yards out.” “Okay,” Niles said “Hold your fire unless he looks like he’s about to fire.” “Sir.” He responded affirmative. The rest of the team continued across the bridge, the dark cars like tombs cold and uninviting. A few with left-open doors as people had abandoned their vehicles to escape the man who intended to cross the state line. The officers were quiet as they neared the man and his hostage. “Hey, hey c’mon just lemme go.” A raspy voice pleaded.
“No can do Tweetie. I let you go then I go down. There’s no way that’s gonna happen,” a man’s voice responded. “What happened to keeping me safe, huh?” “That was Nam, queer.” “I trusted you, monkey.” The first voice choked out, obviously upset. Niles ducked behind a car not far from the man and his hostage. He signaled for the rest of the team to spread out. They did so quietly and Neilson sidled up beside Niles. “Alright, here’s what going to happen.” Neilson whispered, “I’ll make myself known and try to get him to release the woman. If I go down or he refuses to comply, you’ll have to take him out.” “Got it Sarge.” Niles replied. “Hey, tell me. You ever done anything like this before?” Neilson shook his head. “No, but someone’s got to do this,” he said as he stood. “NYPD!” Neilson yelled at the man. “Let her go!” Suddenly the flashlight beams from multiple guns appeared over the hoods of various cars. Niles had done the same, as his light illuminated the pair, the man and the woman. The man was shaggy with an untrimmed goatee and several days of stubble on his face. His long trench coat was frayed and his jeans were stained with blood and grease. He held a snubnosed revolver to the head of the woman he held to his chest. The woman too wore a trench coat and jeans. She had a mannish face surrounded by long wavy red hair. Her face was pale, tears streaming down. “I ain’t going to jail!” the man yelled. He began stepping back, holding the woman closer. “I ain’t.” “No one needs to get hurt.” Neilson said “Let’s just talk. Why don’t you put down your gun and we can be reasonable about this.” “Not after what I’ve done!” the man yelled as he continued to retreat, nearing the edge of the bridge. His eyes were wide, and he whispered something to the woman. “What’d he say?” Neilson asked. “He,” the woman sniffed. “He said he was sorry.” A loud bang and the woman lay dead on the ground, and another bang from further off. The man fell to his knees and collapsed, as the police sniper had done his job too late. The next day the NYPD issued a statement saying that the death of the man with the alias “the Monkey Man” and the recently-female ‘Tweeter’ were unavoidable due to the Monkey Man’s position at the time of the incident. “We’re sorry.” 21
Oregon
Dawn
By Rachel Jett
By Jasmine Elliott
A ragged, rich blanket of emerald Tree tops. Wildflowers and sunshine. Subtle scents of Mother Nature; Pine and hickory. Mountains And rushing crystal springs. Pacific Northwest Air swells within Eager lungs; Musky, Sweet.
Mornings are daunting As the sky still appears as night. Chirping birds singing loudly. Dawn awakes. Sky full of light. Evenings fly by with ease; Flying birds scatter over the sky Gulping down every emotion.
Artwork by Carver Johnson 22
Limericks
By Ward McAllister
Pyromania I liked to start pretty large fires, They put me in charge of the pyres. My favored material was birch, There was plenty at the church. That night the special was fried friars.
Rules Rules aren’t meant to be broken, Or at least that’s what’s spoken. So I said “Screw the law!” But when the cop saw, I said “I was only jokin’.”
Frogger There once was a fairly large toad, And it started to cross a road. Then came along a car, The toad was flung far. And that’s why it sucks to be a toad. Artwork by Carver Johnson 23
Artwork by Carver Johnson 24
Self Sacrifice You blame yourself Even though it’s not always your fault. But it seems to be working out and Everyone seems happy anyway. Afraid of the ripple of change. “Just spill it” Is harder to do when the darkness is calling you home A home that the light has shunted you to. Yet you make it work Because you don’t want to piss off the light too. Nothing seems to be working out for you, As you’re just Alone With only Fear and Misery As company. People try to help you out but the darkness won’t let them in. You’re unable to reach out because you’re bound by the chains of fear Within.
By Danielle Walker
All the fear, And all the hate build up inside, And there’s nowhere to hide. The darkness is taunting you. “Are you okay?” “Why won’t you talk to me?” “I’m always here to help you.” “But you never were there and I’ve already felt the pain. Now I just feel numb as these feelings never go away. They keep me from sleep. I’m already in head deep. There’s no need to rescue me now. I’ve detached myself from the world So no one but me can feel the pain. I don’t blame you for making me this way. I wear this mask because I’m afraid of your judgement. Because deep down inside I torture myself instead. You won’t understand what I keep hidden within. I’m alone. 25
Artwork by Maddie Counsell 26
The Penny
By Gabby Newcomb
A penny. The simplest form of currency, but it was all it took to bring two people together. Would they have met any other way? It’s possible, but the connection that it brought them was beyond words. Sophia was a young college girl of simple taste. She was not flashy like her friends and most of the time kept to herself. She took life as it came to her and did not hold very many things with high importance, but one thing that was important to her was a good luck charm, a dented penny. This was no ordinary penny, as it was the penny that saved her grandfather’s life when he was fighting in WWII. Sophia’s grandparents Linda and Tom were married before we went to war. As superstitious women, Linda found a penny on the street the day before Tom had to leave for war. Mumbling through her tears trying to say her goodbyes, she held out her hand and said, “Tom please keep this with you. It will bring you luck and keep you safe.” He took the penny and put it in his jacket pocket and kissed her before getting on the bus. Tom kept his word to his wife and always kept the penny with him, even while he slept, but he would have never expected how lucky it would really be. Five months into the war, in the most brutal fighting so far, he was hiding behind a huge boulder while explosions were all around him. Though some of his fellow soldiers lay dead just next to him, he took a deep breath and stood up to start firing his gun. But just as he did, a bullet hit him in his chest. Badly injured and barely conscious, Tom knew that he might not make it back home as he lay there in a hospital bed, head and chest wrapped, surrounded by many other soldiers with grave injuries. Confused and in pain, he thought he would have died, so he stopped a nurse walking by and asked, “Excuse me, can you tell me what my injuries are?” The nurse’s eyes widened and she ran to get a doctor, who explained that he is alive only by a miracle. The only injuries he sustained were minor cuts and a deep bruise because when the bullet that hit him should have shot straight through his heart, but was stopped by a penny found in his uniform pocket. Tom was able to come back home to Linda and start a family. For the rest of his life, he carried that penny until he gave it to his beloved granddaughter. Sophia knew the significance of that penny and
cherished it. However, one day when Sophia went to take a math exam, she accidently left her wallet which happened to hold the penny in her dorm room. Sophia only realized she didn’t have her token with her when she received her test, but it was too late to retrieve it. After the test, she immediately rushed back to her dorm to find that when she looked inside her wallet her penny was gone. She was in a complete panic, tearing apart her room to try find it. Sophia’s roommate Alex came back in the midst of the commotion in the room. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “My grandfather’s penny! Where is it? I had it just today in my wallet!” Sophia explained frantically. “Oh I took some change from your wallet for my sandwich today, but I’ll pay you back,” Alex explained. Sophia broke down in tears and told her roommate why this penny was so important to her. They ran as fast as they could to the dining hall where Alex bought the sandwich and asked the cashier to look for the dented penny in the cash register. Only regular flat ones were found and they proceeded to make their way around, so they went to any campus store that had a cash register. But they had no luck in finding it. Alex even widened the search by putting a picture of Sophia’s penny in the school newspaper and telling her story. “Don’t worry. We’ll find it,” Alex said, trying to comfort her friend. A month had passed and there was no word of the penny. Sophia had almost lost hope when she received an email from a guy named Mason who was also in college but living in England. He told her he was pretty sure the penny he had was hers. Sophia excitedly flew right over to England to personally thank Mason for finding her grandfather’s penny. When the two finally met and introduced each other, something happeded between them as Mason held out his hand and presented her with the dented penny that had saved her grandfather’s life. “You don’t know how important this penny is to me, thank you so much,” Sophia said to him. “Actually I do,” Mason replied with a smile, and showed her his own grandfather’s military dog tag that had a dent similar to the one on her penny. Sophia’s eyes lit up as she realized that Grandfather’s penny would be lucky for her as well. 27
My Kind of Love By Jasmine Elliott
Art by Kelsey Cook
But now it’s bittersweet and my feelings are constantly in a repetitive war. The ending is always the same. Disappointment as a permanent emotion. After each stab to the heart you would think I would have come to my senses, but it sits at the tip of my tongue and many others who have the need to say I’m done. First love is capturing, but first love doesn’t always stay. Love is… love. It’s undefined, but what is real love? How do I know when love is received or if I’m just blinded? Or simply cold blooded? I cover up scars and slap bandages over them multiple times as if the healing process would speed up. I give it chance after chance but it’s never lasts. I know what the love feels like when I receive it daily from family, but outside it’s tough around the edges. The hugs and kisses don’t seem to last, but it’s something I have accepted. We are dysfunctional. So is love dysfunctional? Dysfunctional is just a word, but somehow defines every aspect in my life. Each direction of my life runs laps round one word. There are about 80,000 words that I would be use to describe my life, but I know just one that seems to summarize every event that has occured in my life. True love, Teen love, young love, or first love all have different meanings, but all have one thing in common, the word love. A word that I can’t seem to understand. Is it a result from a sculpted heart? What happens when it’s been sculpted so much that it’s no longer presentable? When there are no longer bandages that can hold the pieces together, what will be outcome?
After giving so much away, it almost feels as though that person has not only taken advantage, but has claimed possession. What will be left for me? It’s a joyful feeling but the hurt builds. I whisper “Let go. Be free,” but my heart will never truly let it. That’s why when the doorbell rings I get a rush. It always feels like a new adventure, but I seem to take the same right turn that leads me down the same journey. It’s never a new experience. The same song singing the same tunes. A lullaby that plays smoothly. Somehow I still smile. My heart stopped hiding a long time ago, as it realized the outcome is still the same whether it’s in hiding or not. It now sits on the outside and stands proudly on my bare chest. But having a heart that is deceitful is worse. Soon the bandages will get old and peel off. Maybe then the process would be over, but only if I put two words into action… I’m done. But then will I be giving up a piece of me that makes me so unique? A smile and warming heart that God planted inside me? Would it be wrong to give up, or would I be going against God’s trust? God’s love is everlasting. Would I then be excluded from being chosen? What if my heart wants to give up? End its path and stop soul searching to find its match. I guess the real question would be whether I would soon become heartless? God is trustworthy. Now his love I understand. He never disappoints me. Maybe I should search for love through him. A man who can love as genuinely as him. A godly man I should say. A man much like my father. 28
The Mother I can still feel the way my hands trembled as I looked down at the phone, clinging to its edges with white knuckles as salt slowly betrayed my eyes, watching the tears settle upon my skin before I felt them escape. The way the room seemed to smother my every breath as I tried to recall how to speak. Struggling to remember enough syllables to make out goodbye, to tell him I loved him. I can still hear the shudder in his every word as he attempted to make sense of what was happening, the crack of his voice as he just barely made noise enough to ask why? My mind stays haunted by the memory of his last words coated by his lack of understanding, his fear. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine the moment I last heard my son’s voice. I’ve memorized the way his words formed as he told me to never doubt that the life I had given him was good. It was in that moment I first truly understood the art of tragedy, the way it stuns our hearts, confounds our minds, and weakens our capacity to hope. But something weakened is far from something broken. Remaining hopeful is a quality that strengthens us as humans from the moment we’re born, as we’re raised, as we live and we learn to desire.
By MadDie Halstead
We never cease to hope. We hope to watch others live, to fall in love, to create, to raise our own, to watch them grow. I’ve been running short on hope for the last thirteen years, but I’ve never run out. Every year around this time things get a little harder. Most days I can just hide behind my job and the housework, as the normal, routine activities shield me from the pain. I’m able to fulfill my wifely duties and be a mother to my other children, but I never forget him. I just find a way to move on, to smile and be happy in spite of what happened to him. Well most of the time I am. But once a year I’m confronted with the reality of evil and my mind loses hold of its security. September 11, 2001 8:50 A.M. my oldest son, Robert Sean Kipling was taken from this world as a result of a kind of hate I’ll never understand. I’m not sure that I’ll ever meet the day that I can’t vividly recall the feelings that came at the end of the phone call my son made to me just before his time ran out. I see it as a blessing though I can’t change what happened to him. I can’t rationalize the insanity, but one thing that can’t be taken from me is the gift my son gave me in the simple word: “Goodbye.”
Artwork by Kelsey Cook 29
catch 22 & shampoo By Emily Lewis While reading Catch22 last night I realized that life is a contradiction. It’s weird because we live to die later and then we buy stuff to help us live, and even work to live, but then that job takes away from stuff that matters most and then you realize that stuff matters most and then poof… its gone, just like that. How can a philosopher do his job? Contemplating life and death and the afterlife and the meaning and the symbolism and stuff, imagine sitting there day after day after day and thinking what this means? Then they start questioning themselves, like what do I mean and the thought spirals out of control until their brain is a pile of goop on the floor because they do not understand what the meaning of meaning is and that if they were all gone, who would discover this meaning and why are they even discovering the meaning of meaning to find the meaning of something else in the first place. I’m 99% sure none of that had no meaning. My head is already starting to spin because next a person argues up is down and right can be wrong and justifies things that would normally be wrong, but for this instance are right and that we are living to die again. Like war. Killing is wrong unless it’s for that country to protect their people from being killed by killing. And these soldiers aren’t the ones who even have the problem with the “enemy” in the first place. Both sides believe this is the best way to get things done, to stop the enemy, to protect others, their homes, their friends, their families, rights, heritages, and ironically their beliefs and and values, for example of not killing people. They kill to stop killing. Contradictions are neat though. They reveal the truth in a way that straight out hearing the truth can’t actually tell the truth. Now there’s a contradiction. Take that Joseph Heller. But if we mention this truth of the world then maybe we can’t really see it. Ha, that’s another one. I’m on a roll. Looking too close at something tends to take away the beauty of it.
Sometimes the bigger picture as they say looks nicer than the up close one. That big picture has always annoyed me. Especially since I’m going off to college and have no idea what will take place or what will happen or anything that I’m meant to do and that scaresme to the core. Because what if we spend our whole lives looking for something but only finding the mediocrity of it? Like what if I’ve worked so hard in school only to get some crappy desk job at a company. All these what-if’s make people go crazy and this is what I mean by a big picture. College sounds great until you realize all you have to do, and what you have to do to accomplish that. How does one achieve greatness and how does one achieve meaning in their lives? Too many things to think about and not enough
Artwork by Maddie Counsell 30
and then again you are left with that same damnquestion. By the way this seems cynical but then sometimes you need cynical moments to think. I promise I am really an optimistic person but I’m thinking so it can drift every now and then. Another thing that concerns me and yet by a pure stroke of luck and hope that any of this is actually coherent, is my generation and their stupid idea of love. I hate that every time something goes on in a relationship they break up. Like maybe just try to work it out instead of screaming the dramatic “I HATE YOU” and then literally getting back together two days later. This is a contradiction because everyone seems to want someone without actually giving the effort to have that someone, because they all feel the other should give the effort if they really wanted them. And here is a Catch22. Whatever happened to the good ole’ 80’s movies with Patrick Dempsey? Where you ride off on a lawn mower together? Or on your birthday that hot guy comes and notices you and whisks you away in his hot car. And what if wanting this and having it is the only reason we are let down by them. No expectations means taking what comes and you can’t be let down. But then how does that give us meaning in life in relation to love? Love, to me at least, is the real answer to all the philosopher’s questions. What’s the point of living to die? Love. To be around people who care about you has more meaning than anything else in the world. Yet, my generation continues to try to act heartless and push others away. It’s not desirable and it’s just unreasonable to do that. Here’s the Big Picture: you live to die. From the time you are born and the time you die you are dying. That sucks, but oh well, that’s the big picture. You can strive for greatness even with the risk of mediocrity. And you can still love with the idea that you will get hurt by having expectations. The world is big and complicated and to find anything else or to look too close will just ruin it. I love contradictions because they show that. They show the complicated side to everything, and that it won’t all be black and white or a happy 80’s romcom and that it’s ok. I will in fact be happy to live to die and to risk mediocrity and to love all in between. That is the secret no one gets yet. Now I just have to rinse this shampoo out of my hair.
Artwork by Carver Johnson time, because time is being slowly taken up by us dying and trying to live. The big picture is college, which equals the beauty of being on my own and freedom and the concepts of basically everything above. I suppose I could have put that in those words originally, but it was too late for that. Mediocrity is scary though, especially with dealing with something you love. Imagine thinking you are super good at something and then all of a sudden realize you actually suck, but then again the big picture, right? Because maybe that thing is not what really matters and then you are back again wondering what really matters in the first place because that is the endless cycle we seem to live in where meaning changes all the time and hey maybe that is why humans have not figured out the question. Maybe change is the worst enemy of all man. Change causes so many problems, whether it’s the change in people or in place and time. Because sometimes you can be so happy in that time but then things change, people change, and then you are left trying to hold onto something, wondering if the reason why things changed had to do with mediocrity. And then if things change you are asking why they change and what is that meaning 31
death and the penny By Ashlyn Sisson “Call it,” I said hesitantly. “Time of death, 9:23” Dr. Perkins announced. I took a deep breath and set down my scalpel and clamps on the operating table. I walked out of the OR and turned the corner, stripped off my bloody latex gloves and threw them in the disposal bag and washed my hands. Then I walked over to the observing window and looked through into the room. I knew what was next. I had to tell the wife, the daughter, the son-in-law, the grandkids, that their loved one has passed. I had to look them in the eye and tell them that I took someone important away from them. I completely altered their lives and it will never be changed back, because he isn’t coming back. Ever. How could I possibly do that? This was the hardest task I have had to do since becoming a doctor. Including that time I had to remove a piece of glass that was millimeters away from cutting her neck from a patient’s throat. I have never been in this place before. This was my first time I was responsible for a death. Not that there was anything I could’ve done, as the bleeding would not stop. However I will never let that justify the fact that someone died on my surgery table. I made a quick stop in the bathroom on my way out to the waiting room. I splashed some water on my face to wake myself up. I looked in the mirror, leaning my hands on the sink. I practiced over and over again how I was going to tell the news to the waiting relatives. I exited the bathroom and walked down to the hallway, turned the corner, and opened up the doors that stood between me and the innocent family whose hearts were about to be broken. As I walked in, all eyes turned to me. Everyone was waiting in there, waiting for the news about their loved one. Some were waiting to hear if they had a boy or a girl; others were waiting for test results. Then there were those whom I sympathized with the most, those who were waiting to hear if a
loved one made it out of surgery, and if they were going to be okay. This news was always black or white, good or bad. There was never a silver lining. As soon as I opened that door, I immediately made eye contact with Mr. Grib’s daughter. She looked at me with such fear, and I returned with a knowing look. She had mascara smeared under her eyes where she had been crying, and her nose was red and puffy. I looked down at the little boy next to her, holding her hand. He looked at me in a different way than his mother did; he looked at me with hope. He made me want to give them good news, but I didn’t have any to give. Like a homeless man at a donation box, I felt useless. As I walked toward his daughter and his grandson, his daughter shot out of her seat. Oh how I wish I had good news for them. I looked her in the eye and began recite the script that I had been given during my training. “Mrs. Robinson, I’m afraid….” That was it; the rest of what I said didn’t matter to her. It doesn’t matter how I finished that sentence. She knew that it wasn’t good news. That one word “afraid” ruined any hope I saw in the grandson’s eyes. “…I’m afraid that we have some bad news regarding your father.” “Just say it. Don’t sugar-coat it for my sake, doctor; don’t act like he is okay.” “Due to complications in surgery, your father has passed.” I spit those words out, each one tasting like sour vinegar. She fell to her seat and tears began to fall again, as she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Her son was tugging on her shirt, begging his mom to talk to him, to explain to him what has happened to his grandpa. She took a deep, wet breath to get herself together for the next couple of minutes before she could go home and fall apart again. “Wh-what complications exactly?” She asked. 32
“We weren’t expecting him to bleed as much as he did, and by the time we could get enough blood to the room it was too late. There are no words to describe how sorry I am. We do have counseling available if needed, and I am available to answer any questions you may have. I’ll give you a minute with your family if you’d like.” I said, sincerely. She nodded. I walked back through the doors, knowing I had other patients to care for, so I couldn’t let this distract me for long. I did my rounds, and everyone was fine except for Mrs. Jinx, who accidentally swallowed a penny. I’m not sure how someone goes about doing that, but she did. The problem is that the penny is no longer in her throat, and has appeared to have moved down to her stomach, so we will have to do an x-ray to see how much longer until it passes. She was the only one of my patients who complained about any discomfort, which made the rest of day a little lighter. As I was headed to the break room, my RN approached me. “Dr. Green, Mrs. Robinson is asking to speak to you.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, tell her I’ll be right out,” I said, and she turned back to the waiting room. I went to the front desk and requested all documentation I had on Mr. Grib. I knew she would want to know as much as possible, and if that made her rest easier then I would tell her every possible detail that I could. As soon as I had all the paper work, I once again went out into the waiting room and called Mrs. Robinson back to the consulting room. We entered the room, and my RN accompanied me, just to have a second person witness what I was telling her and verifying that it was true. We all sat down in complete silence. as I placed the documents on the table and waited for her to start asking questions. “I know this won’t help anything, but do you mind starting from the beginning? I just want to know as much as possible.” “Of course.” “Were you his doctor from the beginning? Since we checkeed him in last night?” “Yes ma’am.” “Okay, so how was he when you first saw him?” “As soon as I heard his symptoms, of pain, and swelling in his thigh, I definitely had a suspicion
that it was internal bleeding. After seeing the purple bruising around his leg, I was pretty confident. However, I of course still ran some tests and they also backed up my theory that the fall caused bleeding in the femur.” “So when you got into the operating room and opened up the leg, it was still clear to you that it was internal bleeding?” “Yes ma’am. I was sure.” “Okay, how did you not know how much blood you needed?” She asked. “When I starting to repair the bone, I discovered a small tumor, and I didn’t know ahead of time it was there. Otherwise I would’ve requested more blood.” “How did the tumor make him bleed more?” “The tumor pressed down on the blood clot in the femur and when I opened up and discovered the tumor, I tried to remove it. However, removing it caused the clot to change from a slow bleeding to a rapid bleeding.” “So you killed him by trying to save him?” She asked, a little louder. “I tried to prevent future complications. And it did not work in my favor. However, removing the tumor was the only way that I could get rid of the bleeding.” “I understand,” she said, backing her chair up away from the table and standing up. She thanked me and left the room. I never heard from them again. Two days later in the break room I was reading the paper and something urged me to turn to the obituaries. There was a picture of Mr. Grib, and below the picture were a few details on his death: “He was admitted to Gregory Wood Hospital at 5:19 p.m. on April 29, 2016 under the care of Vincent Green. Born November 15th 1938, he died at Gregory Wood Hospital at 9:30 p.m on April 30th 2016. Gregory was and still is loved by many.” “Dr. Green, it’s Mrs. Jinx. She passed the penny.”
Artwork by Carver Johnson 33
Unbelievably Lackluster By Rachel Jett It was that time of day when everything moved slowly and suddenly. Everything was clear, peaceful. In times like these, you notice more. The white paint peeling on your 6-year-old mail box, and the font of its numbers. The way grass grows randomly and in all directions, its color dried and overgrown by suburban standards. The sky is more beautiful than ever before. You can swear you see a sparkle - not a plane - move across the sky. It’s not slow, but it’s not quick. You can almost swear it’s not a plane. The sky, the land- everything - turns dark very quickly. In a matter of seconds, in fact. The clouds gray against the gradually lighter-blue horizon ahead of you. Above, a white dragon head and whole flowers share the sky with the stars. You look at the sky above the cul-de-sac. There’s the sparkle again. At the speed it was moving, you
know it should be gone by now, but it’s not. It’s moving faster again, over the neighbor’s house, disappearing for a fraction of a second before appearing again. Silver and small. You look back up above you, at the near-black sky. The flower is now a fetus. Are the stars moving? Are those stars? Maybe it’s just the clouds moving, but you don’t realize that until later. From the driveway, everything glows with a subtle purple hue; the warm yellow street lamp mixed with the twilight sky make it so. You look back into the lighter-blue distance. The sparkle is gone. It’s almost black now. It’s time to go back indoors. Where the sky has holes for lights that eat chemicals and boxes for heat built into the walls. Disks on the ceiling blink a small green light because accidents happen and sparks aren’t always something brought on by sleep deprivation.
Artwork by Carver Johnson 34
The Sun By Christy Brooks The sky was on fire Red and orange hues danced behind the white clouds It was beautiful Like I could just reach out and not get burned. I wanted to feel the sun To feel its radiant heat It’s what I desire But down below where the sun doesn’t reach That’s where I am, Living in eternal darkness Forever and always. I wish I could go to that world above. The world were the sun shines all day, With no cares, No worries, And no darkness.
WITH YOU By Ward McCallister I try to think but my mind encircles Back to you, it wanders lightly. Never mind the tedium of the day to day, When I’m with you. My heart swells in waves of hope and peace. Mind in circles, lost in your face. I try to find a form of expression To no avail. Words fail me When I’m with you. An equal like no other, surpassing friend Your mind full of intricacies and wonder. To incomprehensibilities Mine turns when you are near When I’m with you. By you I stand, Troubles to the wayside. There’s nowhere I’d rather be When I’m with you. 35
Stream of Consciousness By Courtney Ortmann Writing about my mind would be a series of various tones andconnotations of screaming. A jumbled mess of emotions only music could translate. If I could map out my head I’d write excerpts of every song that seemed even partially relatable. So may the fine arts vent my frustration I have not yet figured out how this all plays in this massive game of moves and counter moves. I look around at all their faces. Everyone has their own stories, some more extravagant than others. Some have their life handed to them on a silver platter; some have to pull their own weight to survive. So at what point was the teenage generation generalized so bleakly as “lazy.” I’d also like to admit that the whole “real world” phrase is thrown around by school faculty way too often. As if the first 18 years was a free trial. Is your ”real world” when we’re no longer dependent on our parents because if so specify that. I could carry a bingo card of phrases I hear from teachers and faculty and fill the whole card every day. So look at their eyes. I try to spread the word that assumptions kill, assumptions are what make people ignorant. The arts are my lifeline. I wish they were appreciated more.
Artwork by Carver Johnson 36
Authors
By Danielle Walker
Artwork by Kelsey Cook I lay here, Stupefied By authors’ words And characters’ stories. Hoping That I could be As great as them. Stories Of reality Wrapped up in paper Made of fiction. We hide ourselves Behind our well Decorated covers. Authors. We kill our/your Favorite characters Only because they Are the part of us That died in real life. When a book is finished I hear their ghosts Whisper Their good-byes to me. I dream of them. They smile knowingly. Knowing that I
Cried For them Knowing that I Hurt For them And after that dream They leave me to Suffer In the agonizing Pain of my Sorrow Darkness Defeat. Authors. We submit Our final chapters Knowing the world Will be broken-hearted. It’s only because we Want you to Suffer With us. Hear Our stories. Hear Us Scream. 37
Depression Cool breath blows out my bright candle light. The caverns of my mind fill with darkness. It knows your deepest darkest fears and claws At your chest and rattles your mind; tearing apart What you’ve known to be true; simplifying Everything into one single thought: No one cares about how you feel. Salty tears roll down heated Cheeks. You feel yourself Get out of control And you start to Unwind. And Think Too Much: Wake up. Be perfect. Sleep. Repeat. My life is a never-ending cycle. I wake up to expectations floating above me. And there’s no room for error. When you use your engine for seventeen plus years, You tend to get tired: tired of all the responsibilities, tired of the many breaths heating your neck, and tired of seeing the eyes of your peers looking up at you. Because they don’t see the pain. They don’t see what you’re going through. They don’t understand what it’s like to be me; to attempt to juggle everything when they’re bound to fall on me. I have a loose string and they’re pulling on it. As they want more from me, I only give and do not receive. I cannot stop. I only obey like the robot I’m supposed to be. 38
By Danielle Walker
I’m unraveling inside. Under the perfect porcelain exterior are cracks. Hidden beneath all of the layers of lies plastered to my skin is a bomb ticking slowly. It waits for the perfect time to explode. Because everything has to be perfect. Even my downfall must be a fall of grace. Layer by layer I am stripped away until I bare nothing but my regret. They rip at my everything. They suck me dry until I bleed no more. And when they’re finished they cast me aside to be forever alone in my darkness, Soaking in my despair until I am tainted with it. There’s no one like me Who will give up everything, their happiness, their Opinions, Their Freedom, just to make a brighter light. Always Agreeing. Never opposing the flame in fear of getting burned. Fearing Failure and the sting I’d endure afterwards. Always Observing The fire. Always thinking about The Darkness surrounding it. Haunting it. And unraveling until I am nothing Artwork by Kelsey Cook 39
Interruptions by Courtney Ortmann When above all else the sun had taken its spot on the sky, it was half past four when I arrived. The blistering heat added to my exhaustion. I climbed through the fields with a bouquet of white roses
searching for my brother’s name. Each stone placed carefully in order to have three feet of lush green well-kept grass in between them. I found his head stone that was inscribed . . .
“Brigadier General Howard Hughes Killed in Action” “It’s Marie. Happy birthday, bro.” I knelt down and left the gift of flowers in front of the cold pale stone. I touched my knuckles to his engraved name like those hilarious fist bumps we used to give each other. The memory made me smile but tears overcame my eyes. “You know, every year it doesn’t get any easier.” My legs folded beneath me and I took a seat in front of him. A miniscule golden finch swooped down and revealed its little feet to perch on Howard’s grave. It twisted its head in a few sudden jerks and looked me directly in the eye. For a moment I felt like I was looking at him in a surreal indirect manner. A warm gust of air rushed past us and with it the bird disappears. After I was done catching up with my brother, I made the long trek back through the field of dead soldiers’ graves. Denny was waiting for me back at the car. When I came into sight he stumbled out of the car and rushed around to open the passenger side door of the black Honda. He didn’t say a word when we both buckled up inside the car. He knows by now why I weep after visiting Howard, so he sits silently until I’m done. I inattentively roll the window down when the vicarious breeze rushes inside. I gaze out like a music video almost completely ignoring Denny in my faded consciousness. The car gradually comes to a stop at a red light and he pats my arm, kindheartedly offering tissues. After the intersection a little way forward, an eighteen-wheeler dirt truck engulfs the right lane, dwarfing our little commuter car. Denny steers the car to hug the left white line. The truck continues to
advance into the left lane, forcing us off the road. Denny pulls over to the shoulder, cursing at the driver even though they are nowhere near earshot. He merges back into the left lane, trailing the truck two cars behind. He made a note of how the dirt truck was all over the road and figured the driver had to be inebriated or under some other influence. Approaching the next red light, the truck swerves, slamming into a small car in the right lane and then veering back across the left lane, rolling over and dumping its load into the median. A dust cloud shrouded the area in thick muddy clay fog. The van behind the crash rammed into the dirt pile-up. Denny parked and rushed out, instructing me to stay in the car. I called an ambulance for the drivers. I’m half-convinced Denny tries to be superman with his first responder instincts. Seven minutes later the sirens roar and grow in intensity upon arrival at the crash. Denny had already removed the truck driver from the interior when the EMTs took over first aid on the hot scorched pavement. Denny wandered back over to me trembling slightly. He climbed into the driver’s seat, gazing out into the smoke. Then he started the car and put it in reverse and drove around the accident. “The driver was shot. He was fighting against the attacker while on the road. “ Then Denny stared through the road, not at the road. “He died in my arms.” Now Denny understood, as he saw a soul pass over, as I mourned the loss of my brother. 40
Artwork by Kelsey Cook 41
Artwork by Maddie Counsell 42
Confessions by Drew Price I actually have to walk past him. Not only him but this large group of people. Why on God’s green earth? Whatever... It’s fine. Who cares? Why is she looking at me? Is there something on the back of my pants? I literally hate when people walk behind me. Why are they laughing? Are they talking about me? Thank God my class. He’s looking at me and no he’s not ok. Cool that’s not embarrassing at all. Whatever I don’t actually care. Stop lying! You do care. Whatever. I have so much homework and I know Mr. Miller is going to have a lot to say considering I had a whole two weeks off to complete it... I mean I don’t understand. Am I wearing like an invisible cloak or something? Can’t be he did say excuse me...after he bumped into me that is. What the hell...Wow maybe you are wearing an invisible cloak, but hell even that thing is super visible. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have the lion in me to speak up anyway. Cool the minute. I’m told to just think and write. I can’t think... You were enough for me. Holding you close was pleasure enough, suffocating myself in the crease of your neck. Inhaling the scent of your chest was sensation enough for me, but you never failed to remind me to treasure it because this is nothing, we are nothing, there’s more like me so I shouldn’t feel special. You said,“ you weren’t the first to fall in love with my scent and you won’t be the last.” You reminded me that I mean nothing though you mean everything so I gave you myself, flaws and all. You molded them into false gratification and I loved it so much. I was dressed in my insecurities, my fears, my trust issues, and my self-hate, so what made you think my clothing was the first thing I wanted you to take off? What made you believe my physical was the first thing I wanted you to please? We were held together by jokes and arguments, false truth conversations and tight hugs. We bonded over old spice and women’s Axe. The smell of sweat and soft kisses...your mask was cunning, young man. One I’d never seen before, as young and dumb was easy for me so you had no problem grabbing onto this foolish heart. To the boy to whom my face wasn’t pretty enough in the way he preferred, how does
my heart feel? You were like a surgeon slicing your way though it, armed with scalpel and salt for the deep cuts with deep pain, and uncontrollable burn you caused me. Did I mean I don’t understand? Am I wearing an invisible cloak or something? Can it be he did say excuse me....after he bumped into me, that you ever apologized to my occipital gland? Because you lied you convinced me to see you in a new way, a fresh heart it was through your outside and signals were sent to the rest of my body to open up to you. This boy, with nails for teeth yet with this sunset of a smile, your mask was perfectly crafted. All Picasso and Angelo you were a masterpiece, a male Mona Lisa and even if I was alone in my views of you, you were still that and much more. But I wasn’t. I was the girl the silly one with the open heart. The kind of girl you never dare speak to in public no matter how much I’d love a smile simply just to see your face. You turned me into a was. As in I was someone special and maybe even someone worth it, but somewhere between meeting you and losing you I became the horror film I never wanted to wake up in. I became 5 AM Monday morning and I hated myself for that, but somehow I still found time to love you. 43
COLOPHON MIRAGE is in its tenth year of publication. It is published during the summer. The magazine was produced using Adobe PhotoShop CS6 and Adobe InDesign CS6. It was published at Stafford High School using 20-pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The Myriad Pro font was used for the text of the prose pieces. The Minion Pro font was used for poetry. The Castellar font was used for the titles of each piece and the title pages. The Font Ar Blanca was used for the artwork credits and the table of contents. PURPOSE MIRAGE is the literary arts magazine for Stafford Senior High School in Falmouth, Virginia. The purpose of the magazine is to showcase students’ thoughts and expressions through both writing and art. As with any publication, the views expressed are not necessarily the views of Stafford High School, the editorial staff, the advisors, or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who are not enrolled in Creative Writing or Art classes are invited to submit their work to be considered for the magazine. SUBMISSION Submissions should be dropped by room A211. All work completed in Stafford High School’s Creative Writing classes is considered for publication. MIRAGE embraces every opportunity to post the work of any student’s submission, regardless of format or length. RIGHTS All writing and art submissions are considered by an editorial staff which chooses submissions based on quality, appropriateness, relevance and overall impact. THe editorial staff reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted works.
LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE STAFF: Working in Sue Gill’s kitchen, the literary magazine staff pulls art work and stories and poems by creative writing classes as well as submissions from students at Stafford High. Days of reading, editing, collaborating, and eating pizza resulted in the Literary Arts Magazine, Mirage, being finished for submission. Second from left, Mirage Editor in Chief Josphine Gresko works with assistant editors Lindsey Sullivan, Mr. Jim Andrews, adviser, Arena Toro and Abigail Wallace. Photo by Sue Gill. 44
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